Charlotte Wynthorpe and the Case of the Disappearing Diamonds

14. Cherchez la femme

Charlotte couldn't sleep. She turned from one side onto the other, her mind jumping from idea to idea like a children's spring toy gone mad. Every now and then, she'd fall into a troubled sleep, tumbling into another round of the talking potato dream.

The bloody little thing. She felt like squashing it, and decided she would the next time it showed its lumpy face. . . but then she dosed off to be terrorised further, completely unable to get the tiny miscreant to behave.  

At ten, Charlotte descended the stairs, bleary-eyed and in need of sustenance.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to start the day after all the revelations the night before, but there was no way to avoid it. The sun would always rise, bringing on a new day, and there was precious little she could do about it. So she decided to get up, slip on her bright yellow day dress, comb her hair and go down to see what would come crashing into her life, knowing full well she'd sent it a hand-written invitation and jolly well deserved all she got.

In the dining room, breakfast was being served to the few guests who had passed out during the wee hours of the morning and been left lying for later collection. 

Deidre Horning was staring blankly into her coffee like a freshly reanimated Frankenstein; The Lanning twins looked as if they'd been run over backwards with a delivery van; Baxter Clarke had a deep red imprint of rug fringe on the side of his face, which he wasn't making any better by constantly rubbing at it, and Mabel and Stanley Finch-Reeding were digging into their breakfast while chattering like sparrows, as if they just popped back in from a healthy three-mile walk.

No Arthur Ricking.

Preston had been vehement that Arthur stay the night to prevent him from 'doing anything rash.' Charlotte had not interfered. Preston would certainly know far better than she how best to handle his friend. But how best to handle a blackmailer? Inspector Bump had yet to come up against one of those. He seemed to work exclusively with murderers, and as of yet, Charlotte hadn't been presented with any of those. Thank God. 

The door to the dining room opened and Olivia came in, a maid's apron tied around her middle and a fresh pot of coffee in one hand. 

"Good morning, Charlotte. Coffee?"

"Oh yes, please. Where is Preston?"

"Not come down yet. The lads have been put to work helping Clara with the straightening up. I'm afraid a vase was knocked over and broken and a few records scratched, but otherwise no great damage. I'll get you a plate of breakfast." Olivia poured Charlotte a cup of black coffee, patted her arm and disappeared out the door again.

Charlotte looked around for the sugar bowl, but didn't see it and decided to brave an unsweetened cup. The bitterness made her wince. Was this how the men down at Cloud Hill were used to taking their morning coffee? Frightful. 

What to do? Her nightly ponderings hadn't brought her much closer to an answer. 

She had no intention of turning Arthur over to the police, but she couldn't allow the thefts to continue. And they certainly would continue until he ran out of money, or someone far less understanding of his situation caught him, as she'd done. 

Poor Preston. She couldn't imagine how he felt. The memory of him and Arthur in such a tender embrace appeared in her mind. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had held her like that when she'd needed comforting, nor she anyone else. Relationships for her were like parties. There to enjoy yourself in, never meant to last past the final bottle of champagne. 

Carlton crossed her mind briefly, and she realised with a jolt of surprise that she wouldn't want to be comforted by him in such a situation. In fact, she would feel not even a scrap of interest in hearing any of his opinions nor his ham-handed advice on the matter. And she had absolutely no intention of telling him anything about this. Ever.