Night Over Water - Ken Follett [24]
Lady Monkford did not have good taste. She was a pretty woman who had struck Harry as rather ineffectual, and she—or her husband—chose showy, rather cheap jewelry. Her pearls were ill-matched, her brooches big and ugly, her earrings clumsy and her bracelets flashy. He was disappointed.
He was hesitating over an almost attractive pendant when he heard the bedroom door open.
He froze, stomach in a knot, thinking fast.
The only door out of the dressing room led to the bedroom.
There was a small window, but it was firmly closed and he probably could not open it quickly or silently enough. He wondered if he had time to hide in the wardrobe.
From where he stood, he could not quite see the bedroom door. He heard it close again; then there were a feminine cough and light footsteps on the carpet. He leaned toward the mirror and found he could see into the bedroom. Lady Monkford had come in, and she was heading for the dressing room. There was not even time to close the drawers.
His breath came fast. He was taut with fear, but he had been in spots like this before. He paused for one more moment, forcing himself to breathe evenly, calming his mind. Then he moved.
He stood up, stepped quickly through the door into the bedroom, and said: “I say!”
Lady Monkford was brought up short in the middle of the room. She put her hand to her mouth and let out a tiny scream.
A flowered curtain flapped in the breeze from the open window, and Harry was inspired.
“I say,” he repeated, deliberately sounding a bit stupefied. “I’ve just seen someone jump out of your window.”
She found her voice. “What on earth do you mean?” she said. “And what are you doing in my bedroom?”
Acting the part, Harry strode to the window and looked out. “Gone already!” he said.
“Please explain yourself!”
Harry took a deep breath, as if marshaling his thoughts. Lady Monkford was about forty, a fluttery woman in a green silk dress. If he kept his nerve, he could deal with her. He smiled winningly, assumed the persona of a hearty, rugby-playing, overgrown schoolboy—a type that must be familiar to her—and began to pull the wool over her eyes.
“It’s the oddest thing I ever saw,” he said. “I was in the corridor when a strange-looking cove peeped out of this room. He caught my eye and ducked back in again. I knew it was your bedroom, because I had looked in here myself when I was hunting for the bathroom. I wondered what the chap was up to—he didn’t look like one of your servants and he certainly wasn’t a guest. So I came along to ask him. When I opened the door he jumped out of the window.” Then, to account for the still-open drawers of the dressing table, he added: “I’ve just looked into your dressing room, and I’m afraid there’s no doubt he was after your jewelry.”
That was brilliant, he said admiringly to himself. I should be on the bleedin’ wireless.
She put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, what a dreadful thing,” she said weakly.
“You’d better sit down,” Harry said solicitously. He helped her to a small pink chair.
“To think!” she said. “If you hadn’t chased him off, he would have been here when I walked in! I’m afraid I shall faint.” She grasped Harry’s hand and held it tightly. “I’m so grateful to you.”
Harry smothered a grin. He had got away with it again.
He thought ahead for a moment. He did not want her to make too much fuss. Ideally he would like her to keep the whole thing to herself. “Look, don’t tell Rebecca what’s happened, will you?” he said as a first step. “She’s got a nervous disposition and something like this could lay her low for weeks.”
“Me, too,” said Lady Monkford. “Weeks!” She was too upset to reflect that the muscular, hearty Rebecca was hardly the type to have a nervous disposition.
“You’ll probably have to call the police, and so on, but it will spoil the party,” he went on.
“Oh, dear—that would be too dreadful. Do we have to call them?”
“Well ...” Harry