Charlotte Wynthorpe and the Case of the Disappearing Diamonds

15. A-51

"PAGGETT? The name on the letter box was Paggett?" Charlotte cried, her eyes round as a frog on a lilly pad. She blinked a few times rapidly, which only increased the similarity. 

"Yes, Miss," Morris nodded. "P-A-double G-E-double T. Nice house, too. Fine neighbourhood."

"I don't bloody believe it."

Morris, Charlotte and Preston stood in the dim front salon, the sky through the windows a solid sheet of grey like the underside of a baking tin. It wasn't even quite seven in the morning, but Preston had roused her the moment Mr Morris had rung the doorbell. She'd thrown on her dressing gown and hurtled down the stairs to meet him. 

"That's not all, Miss. The woman we followed from the pub went into the Paggett house. That we're sure of.  But before she did, she talked to a man what was sitting in a motor outside." 

"Did she still have the bag when she went in?"

Morris lifted and dropped his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. "Too dark to see. She didn't go in the front door, though. Nipped round the side and through the carriage drive. Aiming for the back of the house, I'd say."

"The servant's entrance," said Preston, nodding. "What did the man in the automobile do?"

"Turned on the head lamps and motored off soon as she was gone." 

Charlotte bit her lip. The woman making the exchanges for the blackmailer was, with almost one hundred percent certainty, one of Celia's servants. Did Celia have her hand directly in this, too? First her scheming to claw Carlton into her lair, and now this. 

Charlotte prided herself on being someone who had adopted laissez faire principles whole-heartedly into her own life and dealings with others, but if there was one person in the whole entire world she wished bizarre and painful misfortune on, it was Celia Paggett. Attacked by mad badgers. Trampled by a herd of rioting newspaper boys. Stalked by too keen door-to-door brush salesmen. A horrifying outbreak potato blight in her vegetable garden. Celia deserved all of them and more.

"But, one of the men did see the first few numbers of the registration plate," Morris went on, "Or, at least he thinks he did. As I say, it was quite dark. I've written it down along with the address of the Paggett place." Morris pulled out a scrap of paper and held it out to Charlotte.

It was Celia's street, alright. The number A-51 with the word "motor" was written neatly next to it.

"Thank you, Mr Morris. We are greatly indebted," said Preston, handing him an envelope Charlotte was sure contained money. 

"It's mutual, Mr Preston," Morris said, acknowledging the envelope with a nod as he took it. "Thanks to your tip, one of our lads found employ with that detective. That's an opportunity we'd not had otherwise. And besides, it was good for us to get out and enjoy ourselves a little. Ring any time. Good day, Miss."  

"Good day, Mr Morris, and thank you," Charlotte said.

Preston saw Morris out then returned to the front salon.  

"What do you make of that, ma'am? Preston nodded toward the paper in Charlotte's hand. She handed it to him to read for himself. 

"What I make of it is that I'd really and truly like to punch Celia Paggett right in the beak. If I only knew how. Perhaps I should ask Olivia to show me next time she's up. I've heard her right hook is quite the menace."  

"A is the London registration. He's a local."  

"Whoever he is."

Charlotte went back up to bed, but couldn't find sleep again. What would Inspector Bump do now? He'd certainly be over the moon with the success of Preston's idea to set Morris onto the trail of the servant. Charlotte certainly was. She'd never have thought of it herself, but then she'd not had that exact information.