Charlotte Wynthorpe and the Case of the Disappearing Diamonds

Cake and Coffee to Round Off the Story

"I'm as nervous as a race horse on market day," Charlotte said, adjusting her headband in the bedroom mirror to make sure the dark blue beads sparkled just right. "Mr Huntley has agreed to come tonight and sign his books for us. Have I mentioned that?'

"About thirty-seven times," answered Olivia Altringham, her hand on the doorknob. "Ready to go down?"

"And have I also mentioned thirty-seven times that I was forced to contact his editorial house and place a direct order with them when those stroppy newsagents at Paddington Station refused to order fifty copies of Bloody Murder in the Fens and The Rat-Chewed Rope? Even though I told them I would pay cash and in advance? Said they lack the storage space. If one chooses to believe that in such a huge station."

"About forty times, I think. And you slyly snuck in a request to the publisher for Mr Huntley to come and sign his books if you placed such a large order."

"And they said he would be delighted."

"And they said he would be delighted, yes." 

Charlotte twirled around, the fringe of her black and gold ensemble swishing. "How do I look? Divvy?"

"If you looked any more divine, Charlotte, we would be forced to erect a temple to you in the back garden. Now, shall we go down to the party, or spend the evening up here while the guests guzzle the champagne and we're left with Seltzer water?"

Charlotte pulled a face, narrowing her eyes playfully to slits. "You are cruel, Olivia. Tempting me with bubbly like that. Alright, let's go." 

On the ground floor, Charlotte's elephant of a bash in celebration of the capture of the diamond thief was in full swing. Most of the guests were unaware of the reason, and had merely shown up in their party clothes, looking to have a frightfully good time. 

But for those in the know -- Preston, Arthur and Sylvia Ricking, Anne and Rutland Frampton-Sacking, Mr Morris, Olivia and James, Brooks (who refused to stay down at Cloud Hill once he'd heard the news) and even for Robert Oakham, private detective -- it was a reason for intense relief and celebration. 

Preston and Mr Rowan, the Paggett's former butler, had found Arthur's letter in a desk drawer sloppily hidden under a Bible, along with a list of diamond jewellery and the names of their owners, the ones already having been stolen struck through with a line. Charlotte's included.

Most of the diamonds -- her glass and paste bracelet, Anne's collier and Victoria's tiara -- were hidden in a hat box in the back of a closet. 

Most, but not all. 

Bramwell had already turned Penelope's earrings into cash and some of the jewels had been removed from Anne's collier. 

They'd left the box where it was and Mr Rowan had locked up the house before going home. Bramwell, he said, would be out all night and only return in the wee hours. 

At nine the next morning, Charlotte had telephoned Mr Oakham, as had been her plan, telling him that the owner of the automobile with the registration A-513 was the thief and the exact location of the diamonds in his house. 

Silence had echoed on the other end of the line. Then Oakham's distant, sleep-furred voice said, "if this information is inaccurate, Miss Wynthorpe--"

"Mr Oakham. Should the police wish to question me in connection with this conversation I shall call you a liar and deny everything. Now, be so good and go apprehend the thief while he's still sleeping off his bender. Chalk the victory up to your extraordinary sleuthing abilities. I'm sure you can make something sound plausible. Good day."