"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.
"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.
There, at a much larger desk, was a dark-haired man in his shirtsleeves. A scrunch of newspapers lay open in front of him, his lunch on display like the golden centre of a flower.
"I thought I smelled fish and chips. Mr Oakham, I presume?"
"Don't happen to have an appointment do you?" the man said, his tone clearly meaning, Did you have to interrupt me while I'm eating?
"As no one answered your telephone when I rang up earlier, I was unable to make one. Charlotte Wynthorpe is my name. Miss. This is my driver," Charlotte gestured over her shoulder at Preston. "I've come to speak to you about the recent robbery of a diamond tiara you are investigating."
"Who says I am?" Mr Oakham plopped a fat greasy chip into his mouth. Clearly, no one had told him it was impolite to eat in front of visitors without asking permission.
"Virginia Barning-Thornton, with whom I am well acquainted." Charlotte sat down in the visitor's chair, even though she'd not been invited to. Preston moved to stand behind her. The sharp scent of vinegar rising from the fried fish was rather potent at this distance. Charlotte did her best to ignore it.
"Investigations are private. Mrs Barning-Thornton should have told you that, if you're so well acquainted with her," Oakham said, scrutinising Charlotte's clothes and hat.
"She did. But also said she did not have the very latest information about the case's progress, nor about similar cases you might have heard about, or be investigating yourself."
Oakham shrugged. "What I am, or am not, investigating is no one's business except the person paying me." Another chip disappeared in his mouth, and he reached for a squat bottle of beer, taking a swig to wash it down.
"Then it wouldn't interest you at all to know that Mrs Barning-Thornton's tiara is not the only piece of diamond jewellery to have been stolen during a party recently?"
Oakham's eyes darted to Preston for a few moments before dropping back down to Charlotte. She could almost see the wheels in his head working. He leaned back in his chair and stared at her for a longer moment before asking, "how much?"
"Excuse me?"
"He's asking how much money you want for the information," Preston said in a rough accent Charlotte had never heard him use. She was about to turn her head and ask him how he knew that, and what on Earth he'd done to his voice, when she realised he also hadn't said ma'am and desisted.
"I'm not here to sell information, Mr Oakham. I'm here to trade. You know about the Barning-Thornton robbery. I know about the Frampton-Sacking robbery and two more besides. I'm sure we can come to an agreement pleasing to both of us."
Oakham's face took on a thoughtful expression. His gaze flicked up to Preston for a few moments, then back to Charlotte, then up to Preston again.
"Let me guess. You're this Frampton-Somebody's ladies maid, aren't you? And that's her butler," he nodded his head towards Preston. "She's sent you here to get all the insider details on Mrs Barning-Thornton's misfortune to whisper to her lady friends during her days-at-home. The really juicy gossip is what she's after, am I right? Something to have the ladies clutching their bosoms and dying to know more."
Oakham sat up and plucked another chip from out of the newsprint. Pointing it at Charlotte, he said, "you can tell your mistress that investigations are private, and she'll not be getting even a scrap of information from Robert Oakham. He's got professional integrity, unlike other detectives she might have bribed in the past. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my lunch."
Charlotte almost laughed. The notion that she was Anne's ladies maid, dressed up in her mistresses cast-offs, and sent to dig up salon gossip was as amusing as a dancing pig in a tutu.
"Do ladies honestly do that, Mr Oakham?" she asked, a smile spreading on her perfectly rouged lips. "Send round their servants to procure gossip from you? If you say it is so, I have no recourse but to believe you.
But no, I'm not Anne Frampton-Sacking's ladies maid nor anyone else's. I happened to be a guest at her party when her diamond collier was stolen. I know all of the details of that robbery as well as the details of the Barning-Thornton robbery. What I want to know is the current state of your investigation. Do you have any leads as to who the burglar might be? And for that, I'm willing to tell you all the juicy gossip as you put it, about both. That's certainly information you don't have and could use."
Charlotte opened her handbag and removed an envelope. "This is a letter from Mrs Frampton-Sacking detailing who I am and confirming what I've just told you." She placed it on Oakham's desk, just out of his reach.
Oakham eyed the envelope, and then Charlotte. "Ah. Your mistress wants my services for free, then? Is that it? Well, sorry, as I've said several times now, investigations are private. There's the door." He broke off a piece of fried fish with a soft ripping sound, placed it in his mouth and began to pointedly read one of the articles on the newsprint wrapping as he chewed.
Charlotte could feel Preston shift angrily behind her. She lifted a hand to indicate he should stay calm, and opened her handbag again, pulling out her cheque book and silver pen.
"If that's the case, then I shall simply have to engage your services myself. Mr Oakham, I wish to know who the other two victims of the recent diamond thefts are and the complete circumstances surrounding the crimes. Will eight pounds be sufficient for the initial enquiry?"
----
* zouderkite is a wonderful Edwardian expression meaning 'idiot'. With "cheese it, you zouderkite" Charlotte is essentially saying "shut up, idiot".