09:21 Monday, 3rd August 2015
As I rose from my spot in the living-room, Ophelia snarled towards me again, showing her sharp white teeth. A lady in a black, knee-length dress with a white-collar appeared at the doorway. William must have pressed the remote call button for the maid. The housemaid and I both smiled at each other, and she gestured I was to exit the living-room with her.
On my stroll outwards, I turned and nodded my head towards William. He smiled back at me, and Ophelia stood growling in my direction, even as she was being restrained at the collar by her owner.
I followed the maid up the mansion stairway and asked, “May I take your name, please?”
The maid twisted her head. “Of course yes, my name’s Grace Mills.”
“Is it pleasant working for the Dobyfosters?”
“The wealthy millionaires prefer to roll in their prosperity while keeping tabs on every penny.”
“Are you paid an adequate living wage?”
Grace halted her climb and swung to stare me in the eye. “Mine’s barely a living wage, but many of the staff have second and third jobs to buy food and rent a home.” She swivelled back and continued her climb.
By the third floor, we’d reached the top of the staircase onto a landing featuring one unlabelled and another six labelled doorways.
“How does Mr Dobyfoster visit here as he’s in a wheelchair?”
Grace pointed out the unlabelled doorway at the far end of the landing. “There’s a separate lift behind the plane doorway.”
At the door designated ‘Showroom,’ Grace grasped a key from her pocket attached to a black metallic carabina connected to her belt and freed the door.
At the far side of the showroom were two fabric upholstered chairs surrounding a coffee table and fireplace. Towards the opposite end of the room stood a shiny black baby-grand piano and stool.
We approached the baby-grand, where stood an oak veneer wooden cabinet containing five drawers. The top layer lay beneath glass, displaying the contents– a variety of unusual coins from unique countries and time periods. “Which drawer contained the missing Krugerrand coin?”
Grace clutched the carabina from her waist and located another key, inserted it in the side panel and twisted. She reached downwards to open the fourth drawer. A label marked ‘1968 Krugerrand Coin’ beneath an empty rectangular placeholder was visible.
“Why’s it a rectangle when coins are circular?”
“There’s plastic packaging, and it’s displayed in a transparent container with a green label reading South African Krugerrand, using a gold-coloured font.”
So the thief only removed a coin and not any silver pendants, multi-diamond rings or pearl teardrop necklaces. With access to this showroom and drawers, but limiting themselves to a single coin worth about a grand, it may not be the money. Although, it may have been their ability to transfer the untraceable gold coin into cash from a jeweller.
Grace opened more drawers, and the level of wealth in gold, silver and diamond jewels took my breath away. I made notes on the layout and types of jewellery on display. “May we see the cupboard containing the site keys?”
“It’s downstairs in the kitchen.”
“How does Gregory Mathews control the key cupboard?”
“He changes the code to the lock, but don’t worry, as you’ll understand when we arrive at the cupboard.”
A potent aroma of home-made madeleines and coffee hung in the air, reminding me of my past holidays in France. Within the kitchen was a metallic box mounted upon the wall using a number code entry system. It was open when we arrived at the kitchen. “Is this container left open for office hours?” I asked.
“It never remains open, but it’s open at the moment because you’re here and may need to examine inside.”
Opened further, and the metal door could accommodate one-hundred keys. A sheet of paper listing the numbers one to one-hundred stuck to the rear of the door. Twenty-four keys with names written on the paper. It assigned the jewellery cupboard, showroom number sixteen.
“Is the code for this box changed regularly?”
“It’s changed once a month, under Greg’s control.”
“How does he inform the staff and family of its change?”
“He uses e-mails. It’s not printed on paper.”
“That’s interesting,” I said and scribbled in my notebook. “Thank you. Can you direct me back to Naomi?”
Grace showed me back into the office beside the kitchen. But before we entered the room, my escort gestured at a stainless steel tubular structure resembling a seat, and I parked myself. She swung backwards and strode away. The seat felt as uncomfortable as perching on pebble-stone riddled concrete steps.
Justine stepped through the corridor opening to my left side. She dressed casually in a red t-shirt and denim shorts showing bare legs and feet. The underdressed woman offered me a smirk, which developed into a quizzical expression.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a veterinary surgeon, and a cow here requires examination.” My head tilted sidewards. “Maybe.”
“You don’t look like a vet.”
“Thank you, as you can see, we clean up for meetings.”
Justine spoke less than a foot from my face, and I developed a grin, so she returned the smile. She offered me a parting wink and strode from the room.
In the office, a stone floor with a white wooden bookcase lay along one wall; full of bestselling musical composer’s biographies and vinyl twelve inch singles. There were Lever Arch file folders populating the bottom shelf titled for Mr Dobyfoster’s business documents. One corner dark wooden desk, complete with a twenty-five inch iMac and keyboard with a mouse, but no Naomi. My favoured theory was; she was in the living-room, from the sound of Mr Dobyfoster’s forceful voice imparting instructions.
The business assistant exited the living-room and hurried to the desk, unaware of my presence. A pen dropped and bounced on the floor, rolling beneath the desk. Naomi didn’t notice, so I leaned downward and raised my voice. “Excuse me. You’ve dropped your pen, and it’s under the desk,” I said, pointing to the pen’s location.
Naomi stopped and planted a palm over her mouth. “Au oui, suis-je bête, always dropping things. Merci.”
Both of us bent downwards to retrieve the pen and our heads bashed together. Her perfume exuded a marvellous smell, and our eyes met. Offering my apologies, I raised myself aside. “Mr Dobyfoster said you’d give me telephone numbers and addresses of the house staff and the Jewellers, who he phoned concerning the coin.”
In what appeared a shock, she raised her head and gazed in confusion. A few seconds passed, and she relaxed. “Au, oui, I have it in a folder here,” Naomi said. “The Jewellers whom Monsieur Dobyfoster telephoned was Harveys the Jewellers, a Christopher Hall-Brooks, in the Oracle shopping centre, Reading.”
Naomi Lefèvre spoke choppy English, but as an English person myself, I’ve no problem, as my French language abilities are merely simple phrases. Her lengthy brown hair, brown eyes and smooth tanned skin tone provoked a suspicion she’d emigrated from the southern regions of France.
She pressed a key on her keyboard. The black plastic printer came to life and spat out a single sheet of A4 paper with the names, addresses and telephone numbers of the relevant individuals. “The maid will escort you to the main doorway,” said Naomi, and she pressed a brown button embedded upon her desktop.
From outside the office, a voice calling my name was audible, informing me of directions. I exited the office, and Grace stood along the corridor. “How often does Margaret visit?” I asked.
Grace peered at me again and said, “Margaret’s visits are frequent, more frequent than Mr Dobyfoster’s preference. She arrives with Justine, but departs on her own around midnight.”
“What are your own impressions of Margaret?”
“She’s all right, I guess. The daytime workforce doesn’t relate personally with the family, but we recognise those two to be happy. Now they own a building for their new restaurant, and I’m confident they’ll start a business to produce more money.” She rolled her eyes and glared; implying millionaires are dirty and only love money.
“The daytime staff? Which evening or night-time ones interact?”
“That’ll be Richard, the son, and one of the security guards who’s on guard from midnight until eight in the morning.”
I grinned at her and said, “Hmm, Richard’s not here.”
“I think it’s Simon Bridges,” she said, and raised a finger to her chin. “But check on that, won’t you?”
“Thank you for the tour. I’ll return in a day or two.” The financial actions of Justine and Margaret dominated my attention.