Charlotte Wynthorpe and the Case of the Disappearing Diamonds

17. Never Anger Servants

"May I disturb, ma'am?" 

Charlotte dropped The Rat-Chewed Rope into her lap mid-sentence and arched an eyebrow at her butler. "What have you got?"

She'd heard Preston on the telephone on and off all morning, and he'd been strangely absent when she came back from her luncheon and afternoon social calls, reappearing only in time to serve tea. 

"Mary Burke, ma'am. She would appear to be the mystery woman meeting Arthur in the pubs. She is also the Paggett's cook's assistant. Word is, she has gambling debts. Or, rather her husband does. There seems to be a difference of opinion on that matter."

"Ah, ha. So she's turned to being Bramwell's long arm for some relief there. But then. . ." Charlotte squinted in thought, "how would Bramwell have known about that? And what contact would he have to a cook's assistant? Unless it's her husband who owes him? But then, Bramwell's in need of cash himself. Oh, but that's probably not important, is it? Good work, Preston."

"If I may be so bold, ma'am, I have a theory as to how Mr Tarkington came into contact with Mary Burke. But as of yet, I'm lacking a few necessary pieces of information."

"Really, what's the theory? Out with it, even if it's half-baked. I'm all springs and bumble bees."

"Well, ma'am, you mentioned Mr Tarkington is new in London. Assuming he, or his family, were already acquainted with the Paggetts, they may have loaned him a few of their servants until he hired his own. Mary Burke, to be more specific."

Charlotte picked up The Rat-Chewed Rope lying in her lap and, addressing the cover, said, "What do you think of that, Mr Huntley? Talk about someone who knows someone who knows someone. And who is as packed full of sound theories as a crate full of mechanical violins."

Preston suppressed a smile. "Will you be taking supper in the dining room this evening, ma'am, or do you have plans to eat out of house?"

"Here, I think. Mr Wheatley hasn't rung, has he?"

"Not that I'm aware of, ma'am."

"Hm. And Arthur?"

"Upstairs, ma'am."

"Fine. Then tell Jenny it'll be two for dinner again."

"Very good, ma'am."

Charlotte picked up the novel and found the sentence she'd left off at. Preston left the sitting room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

Inspector Bump had just spoken to the old ostler again and was now considering how to unmask thieving Mr Dooley's murderer.

Charlotte was stumped herself. Once again, she had no clue who the guilty party was. It could have been Mr Farthingworth, the owner of the stables. Or Mr Wrex, the carriage carpenter. Or even young Bob, the stable boy, who harboured aspirations of being a jockey. 

Bump knew, of course, damn him. But how?

Charlotte flipped back and re-read the conversation between the Inspector and Bob. That seemed to be the one that had dropped the penny with Bump. No, she wasn't seeing it. He'd asked about Mr Farthingworth's wife and Mr Oxdale's grey stallion, which was also under Bob's charge. Then he'd ask how often the men visited the Hoof and Nail public house and discovered it was almost every night. 

What was there in that? She was missing something. A pout formed on her lips and she shook her head, feeling as if she were as thick as Christmas plum cake. She flipped back to the right page and read on. 

By supper time she was none the wiser, but Bump had paid off one of the stable hands a few pennies to ask the publican of the Hoof and Nail some questions that Bump himself couldn't, not being a local.