7. Oakham Enquires, Camden Town

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"Preston, would you look up a telephone exchange for me?" Charlotte said as she swept in the front door of her house after having survived the most insufferable evening in ages.

Carlton had been an utter fool and enthused to the Penderhursts that they were to be engaged shortly as the coffee was being served. It took all of the convincing Charlotte was capable of to dissuade Elenor Penderhurst that wedding bells were not immanent, and that she did not need to dash out the very next day to purchase a suitable bridal gift.

In the car, she and Carlton had had a terrible row and Charlotte had slammed the passenger side door with a resounding cheese it, you zounderkite!* when they'd pulled up to the pavement. Carlton had driven off cursing, and pounding the edge of the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. 

Charlotte threw her silver wrap on the entry hall bench in a fury. Preston closed the front door and stood at attention as if nothing were amiss, and Charlotte flung her clothing around constantly. 

"Certainly, ma'am. What's the name?"

"A Mr Oakham, or Oakby. Private detective. He's said to have an office in Camden Town."  

Charlotte impatiently unrolled her black lace glovelets, which reached all the way to her elbows, and threw them on top of the wrap. They were pretty, but terribly scratchy. And she was not currently in the mood for any further irritations. One in the form of a handsome idiot was enough.

Preston was silent for a few moments, then said, "Oakham, not Oakby, ma'am. And that is correct. His office is in Camden Town. Chalk Farm Road, if I'm not mistaken."

Charlotte paused, her anger momentarily forgotten.  "You've heard of him?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's said to be quite competent. Even if the Camden Town location would not directly advertise that fact."

"The Butler's Telegraph?" Charlotte asked, giving Preston a knowing look. London's butlers formed their own fraternity wherein everything from how to deal with over-eager door-to-door salesmen, to known marriage swindlers and the best polish for silver candlesticks was freely traded. That Preston would know the street address and name of a private investigator off the top of his head was no surprise.       

"Something like that. As far as I am aware, Mr Oakham is one of those former policemen who have made themselves independent."

"Really? A former policeman? Hmm, well, that can't be helped, I suppose. To each his own misfortune. I'll need the exchange number first thing in the morning. Send Clara up, will you? She should draw me a hot bath and then you both can retire for the evening."

"Very good, ma'am. Good night."

"Hmmmfff."  Charlotte stomped up the stairs to her bedroom on the second floor. 

Preston neatly folded the silver wrap and glovelets then went back to the staff room to find Clara and warn her that their mistress was in a temper, most assuredly brought on by something unforgivably daft young Mr Wheatley had said.



The next morning, when Charlotte descended the stairs and stumbled her way into the dining room at the crack of ten o'clock, she found the exchange number of Robert Oakham waiting by her plate. It went with her, along with a steaming cup of tea, out into the hall to the telephone.

When Mr Oakham didn't answer after ten rings, Charlotte rung off and went back to the dining room table, chewing on her lip. 

She was still out of sorts over Carlton's behaviour the previous evening and had spent far too long replaying the argument in her head before dropping off to sleep. If she sat around the house all day, she just might work herself up into a state and that wouldn't be berries. No, she would dedicate the day to gaining more ground in her investigation.  

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