Charlotte Wynthorpe and the Case of the Disappearing Diamonds

7. Oakham Enquires, Camden Town

"Chalk Farm Road you said?" she asked Preston, who was waiting by the sideboard to serve breakfast.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Fancy a jaunt over to Camden Town later? I don't believe I've ever been in that particular corner of our fair metropolis and some company would be just the thing. Out of uniform, you understand." She gave his butler's black and white cut-away with the white bow tie a top-to-toe glance. 

There was an uncustomary pause before Preston answered. "It would be a pleasure, ma'am. Shall I serve the eggs?"

"What's this? Not keen?"

Another pause, this time longer. "Of course I am, ma'am. I promised I would assist you in your detecting -- I assume this trip is connected with the thefts? -- and I stand by my word."

Charlotte squinted at her butler. "Out with it, Preston. What's the catch?"

Preston drew in a deep breath. "Mr Oakham still maintains friends in the police department, so I've heard. While investigations are meant to be private affairs, he has been known to, I believe the term is 'leak information', to the active constabulary. The results have not always been pleasant." 

"Ended up with somebody he was investigating on the peg, did it?  Well, we'll just have to be on our guard and make damn sure he has nothing to dribble to the beetle crushers, won't we?"

Two hours later, Charlotte stepped out of a hackney cab and onto the pavement of Chalk Farm Road. She looked up and down the row of two-story, sooty brown brick buildings, not sure she'd ever been somewhere quite so working class before. She'd put on the most causal dress she owned, a spring green ensemble from Chanel with cream cuffs that she'd matched with an unassuming cloche hat, hoping to blend in with the background. Now, observing the dull, restitched clothing of passersby, she saw she stuck out like a peacock on parade.

Preston climbed out of the cab behind her. She rarely saw him out of uniform and had to admit, he cut a rather fine figure in his tweed cap and belted jacket. His tan trousers were at least ten years out of date and far more suitable for a day at the boat races, but still more fitting than what she'd chosen. 

Charlotte ignored the stares and turned her attention to finding number twenty-seven, where Mr Oakham's office, or Oakham Enquires as the small brass plate announced, was to be found. 

Inside, dusty light filtered in from the window on the landing, rendering the stairwell dim and shadowy. From above, the muffled sounds of a child laughing could be heard. Outside the clopping of horses hooves on their way to or from  Camden Lock resounded on the cobblestones.  

The entire place smelled vaguely of boiled onions. 

Preston rapped on Oakham Enquires door which looked as if it had been kicked violently at some point and never properly repaired. When there was no reaction to the knocking, Charlotte tried the door knob. It turned and the door swung open, revealing a smallish room with dark green walls. 

The office, if indeed it was an office, was almost devoid of furniture. One lone desk with a telephone standing at attention like a bobby on the beat held vigil, two chairs having been placed before it. A print of the Battle of Trafalgar graced one wall. 

"Looks as if he's stepped out," Preston said. 

Charlotte raised her nose in the air and sniffed. "No. . .I don't think so."

She took a few steps into the room and sniffed again. Yes, she knew that smell. Following her nose across the room, she opened the inexpertly lacquered door on the far side and walked through.