Once they'd said their goodbyes to each other and Olivia's taxi had pulled away from the taxi rank outside the cinema, Charlotte had returned home to spend the evening telephoning with friends and wading through what had fluttered in with the second post.
The ever-churning riptide of parties, lunches, afternoons-at-home and other societal obligations expected of her had to be talked about, invitations accepted or rejected. Her seamstress had to be consulted and the tattle column of the papers memorised to avoid sticking her foot in her mouth at the wrong moment.
Being in society was a chore. At times a roaringly fun chore, Charlotte had to admit, but not always.
On a sunny, pleasant afternoon only a few days after Olivia's visit, Charlotte found herself in Mayfair at one such "not always" obligation, a Ladies' Charity Society event, trapped between two duelling women. The more-than-robust one to her left had a voice like a foghorn, and the one to her right resembled a pinch-nosed terrier in an ancient fur-trimmed jacket. And just like a terrier, she simply would not let the matter lie.
"And I say, extending the vote to all women is a dire mistake! What's wrong with the law as it is?"
"What's wrong with it?" bellowed the robust woman, causing Charlotte to raise a hand and cover her ear. "What's wrong with it? It's elitist and old-fashioned, that's what! When only wealthy and highly-educated women are allowed to the polls--"
"Then only considered and competent votes will be cast!"
"Then only conservative and backwards-looking men will be elected and much needed reforms will never be put through! The country will stagnate."
"Balderdash! Come clean, you can't sleep at night for fear of what the likes of your scullery maid would do if given the vote, exactly like the rest of us. The mere thought of illiterate women, for whom their own street is the entire world, having a say in how the entire British Empire is governed is absurd."
"I would encourage all of my female servants to vote, I'll have you know! Equality between the genders begins with-"
"Vote for whom? The man with the most attractive moustache? Or the one their fathers and husbands tell them to vote for? Because that's exactly what they will do. What do you think you are actually encouraging, other than tripling the vote for socialism? These women do not have a shred of political understanding. Are you so very keen to see an October Revolution in the streets of England?"
"Excuse me, sorry. If I could just get past," Charlotte said, moving forward out of the corner where she'd stood, neck tickled by a palm frond for the last five minutes, waiting for a pause in the cannon fire.
There had been none, and she had to get some air or she would scream.
The two warring parties cast irritated glances in her direction, but neither one of them seemed willing to part with more than a foot's worth of the floorboards. They confined themselves to glaring at each other as Charlotte gently pushed her way between them, holding their tongues until she had cleared the battle field before they let loose again.
Once free, Charlotte snaked her way through the clusters of chatting women to the drinks table, where she requested a cold lemonade from the sleepy-eyed attendant.
Charlotte despised these charity society meetings. Not because she despised being charitable, she'd gladly loosen her purse strings for a soup kitchen in some slum or other, or for missionaries dying of malaria in the darkest reaches of Africa, if asked. But these all-female gatherings were nothing but moaning sessions about the catastrophic state of the world and extended political debating of the self-same topics month after month.
It was like rumours one heard about what went on in the Smoking Room of gentlemen's clubs. Only probably worse, she surmised, glancing back through the sea of large-brimmed hats at the two women still locked in fierce ideological combat. Probably much worse.
She wasn't there for herself, though, was she? Or, alright, she was there for herself. But only for the teeniest, tiniest specks of reasons.
She couldn't deny that it did look dashedly good to be a supporter of some charity or another. And it always gave her a satisfactory answer when a countess or wife of a wealthy shipping baron peered over the rim of her wine glass at a dinner party and inquired, "and what charities do you support, Miss Wynthorpe?" and she could simply rattle off the names of the ones on the Club roster for that month.
Her membership in the club also seemed to please Carlton's outrageous mother.
"A woman of our class should be engaged in Good Works," she never tired of saying on the catatonia-inducing Sunday afternoon visits Charlotte had been required to make to their home in Knightsbridge to soothe Carlton. "Husband and children come first, of course, but Good Works are an Englishwoman's Christian duty. I am pleased to see you take that duty seriously, Charlotte. As seriously as you will take your duties to Carlton when you marry, I'm sure."
Even Olivia had shaken her head at such a cringingly Victorian sentiment, and Olivia was the main reason Charlotte was standing where she was, bored off her pumpkin and with a growing headache, instead of out shopping or lounging in a tea room. Every last woman there -- no matter how aged or deaf -- had heard of Olivia Altringham and the Field Rabbit Veteran's Programme. It was held up in certain circles as an example of a single woman doing not Good Works, but Sterling Work.
Charlotte didn't know how many times she'd been wrung for information – and at times even tattle -- about her friend. It was the least she could do to come to these things and talk up Olivia's project. It was one of the few ways she could help Olivia shoulder the burden she was still labouring under, namely attempting to get as many crippled or crazed veterans paying employment, and back out into society, as possible.
James Davis, Olivia's beau, was continuing to do all he could down at Olivia's estate, and for that, Charlotte had embraced him as a friend with open arms. But, he was one of the war damaged himself, with no contacts in London --or at least none that weren't known to the police, as Olivia had phrased it. And that was exactly where Charlotte and her smile could be put to best use.
The London contacts.
Charlotte drained her lemonade and asked the attendant for another, regretting that the closest charity society to her home was a dry one. She'd have to make sure to get some alcohol in her straight away when she met Carlton for dinner at six. If only to wash away the dreadfulness of the entire afternoon.
With second lemonade in hand, Charlotte wandered the crowded hotel parlour, tilting an ear on this or that conversation for a few moments before moving on, hoping to find one she could join without causing her to doze off where she stood.
Dull. Incomprehensible. Predictable. More than dull. Incomprehensible. Dull. Dull. Dull. Oh, predictable and dull, no thank you.
Did women not have interesting conversation anymore? Had they all forgotten there were such things as cinemas and fashion and men and nightclubs. . . and. . . fun, in the world?
Charlotte turned and worked her way back to the drinks table, seriously contemplating ducking out from her Christian duty and making a beeline for the nearest place serving martinis – Olivia would understand -- when a word spoken somewhere off to her left hummed into her ear and caused her to turn.
She paused, moved back a few steps and listened, tuning in on the voice through the static of conversation like one did with the knobs on those wonderful new radio contraptions.
There it was again, floating up out of the waves.
Diamond.
A few moments later, diamond again, and then stolen.
Was someone talking about Anne Frampton-Sacking's missing necklace? Charlotte moved closer until she was standing behind the speaker, as close as she could get without actually touching the woman. There she stopped, sipped her lemonade and eavesdropped as intently as if she was listening to The News At Eight.
". . .not that they were all that expensive, mind, but they were her grandmother's. Family heirloom. One doesn't simply go down to Regent's Street and purchase another pair."
"No, of course not. And there really were no witnesses?" answered an utterly scandalised voice. Charlotte tilted her head in a little more.
"None. And no evidence. Even after a thorough search of the house nothing was found. No broken locks, no jimmied windows. And of course, the staff saw nothing. Penelope said, it was as if her earrings had vanished into thin air!"
"How dreadful for poor Penelope! And this is the third time for such a burglary, you say? And only diamonds? I shall have to have mine locked away somewhere more safe immediately upon returning home. Perhaps Reginald should deposit them at the bank for a while."
"Our diamonds are perfectly safe, my dear," the speaker said in an amused tone. "We aren't the type to throw drunken soirees. I do not approve of theft, of course, no right-thinking individual does, but if it is to happen then I'm pleased when it happens to those who throw caution and good sense to the four winds. Serves them right, I say. Penelope really should have known better, but then she always was a silly thing."
"I completely agree. One cannot approve of theft in any form, but there is a certain justice there, isn't there? And we certainly do not host. . .what did you call them?"
"Drunken soirees."
"No, certainly not. You know how I abhor anything French. Three times, though, and only diamonds? That's quite a lot. And all recently?
"In the last a few months, yes. And it's now been four times, if my information is correct. I am unaware if you know a certain . . ." The speaker lowered her voice and Charlotte could make out nothing more. When they began to speak at normal volume a minute or so later, they'd moved on to the topic of homes for fallen women.
Charlotte stepped away.
There had been four burglaries of diamond jewellery in the last few months? That threw her guess of Anne's misfortune having been the work of a single vengeful servant right out the window with the peas. Four was beyond a mere coincidence. Four was deliberate. Four was a crime spree.
Could there really be a diamond thief on the prowl as Olivia had suggested? Some gentleman cat thief or Oriental acrobat out of a detective novel sneaking their way into ladies boudoirs to nick their jewels, while the ground floor was carpeted with partiers and the hostess and staff had their hands full?
Why hadn't she heard of these burglaries until now? Surely, if anyone in the social circles Charlotte moved in thought they were being targeted, they would say, wouldn't they? Warn the others?
Perhaps not, she surmised. No one fancied admitting they'd been the victim of a crime. It simply didn't look good.
It was scandalous, even.
A thrilling shiver ran down Charlotte's spine.
Like a bloodhound catching the spoor of a fox, Charlotte set herself down on a horsehair couch next to two elderly ladies reminiscing about someone called Grover, and tried to remember everything she could about Anne's party.
It wasn't easy, she'd been frightfully blotto. And Thomas Penning and Lucretia Tynnby had monopolised most of her attention with amusing gossip of what mutual acquaintances had got up to during the last season on Corfu. She'd hardly noticed anything for most of the night.
A few swimmy details did eventually rise to the surface, but not nearly enough. Something had been amiss and she'd not seen it. Something out-of-the-ordinary. Something. . .dangerous.
An idea slowly crystallised in Charlotte's mind. An idea that, if it turned out to be correct, would be the most exciting thing she had ever plunged into headfirst.
And Charlotte was, by yards, no stranger to plunging headfirst into excitement.