"Here's the plan," Charlotte said, addressing the small, attentive cluster of people assembled in the front salon in hasty, breathless words. The bash at which she hoped to catch the thief was due to start in a few hours, and the entire house was engaged in a mad rush of activity.
"Clara, Jenny and Brooks, you will serve the drinks and change the records on the phonograph while keeping an eye on the guests. Mr Morris will man the door and take coats, keeping an eye on who comes in and goes out, as well as if anyone goes upstairs. Don't stop them if they do, Mr Morris, simply make note.
Olivia and James, you will circulate amongst the guests, both inside and in the garden, listening for any pertinent information and monitoring to see if anyone is scaling the side of the house. I seriously doubt that, but we can't leave anything to chance.
That leaves Preston, Mr McCrory and myself, who will be upstairs waiting for the thief in my rooms. And hopefully apprehend him. That should be all, I think. Any questions?"
"Won't the guests notice you aren't here?" Olivia said. "It's your party after all."
"The robberies have been taking place much later in the evening, so I shall go up at around ten thirty. Say I've gone to sample the booze supply should anyone ask after me."
"Shall we also be going upstairs with you at ten thirty, ma'am?" Preston asked, throwing a sidelong glance at the tall, handsome Australian standing at attention next to him.
McCrory was one of Olivia's veterans, and, as she had informed Charlotte, their most experienced animal wrangler down at the Cloud Hill estate. If anyone would be able to physically overwhelm a thief, it was him. Charlotte had no idea what was wrong with the man that he'd ended up as one of the Field Rabbits, but it certainly couldn't have been a physical injury. McCrory looked as if he could rip trees out by their roots with his bare hands.
"Yes, I think that would be best. Possibly a bit earlier, just to make sure we're all in position." Charlotte looked at everyone in turn. "No more questions? Good. Then the staff should now return to setting up and if Mr Morris and Mr McCrory would lend a hand there, we would be most appreciative."
Yes ma'ams from Charlotte's staff mixed with two yes, misses from Olivia's veterans. Preston was engaged in conversation with Morris about wine and champagne crates before they were even out the door.
"What about me?" Brooks, Olivia's elderly manservant asked, his eyes twinkling. "Where can I make myself useful?" He'd been a bundle of excitement upon arrival and positively shot Charlotte through with questions concerning the burglaries. They'd exchanged opinions on Bloody Murder in the Fens, which Brooks returned to her after having devoured it at home, and were in avid agreement that Inspector Bump was indeed a giant among detectives.
Charlotte told him he could familiarise himself with the phonograph records and the arrangement of the rooms. Brooks seemed disappointed not to be given something more important to do. He shuffled out the door, hands shoved deeply into his grey woollen cardigan.
Charlotte turned to Olivia and James. "How are you both? Haven't seen you in a long while, James. Thank you for coming up."
"Quite well, thank you. And no, I have no intentions of asking Olivia to marry me or us having children. Just to put your mind at rest."
Olivia threw him a glance and he raised his eyebrows at her, a dazzling smile almost obscuring his deep set eyes. "Well, isn't that what she most wants to know? Isn't that what you most want to know, Charlotte?" he asked, turning to her. "If Olivia won't be coming up here to London so often because she's too busy playing dollhouses with me?"
"James, really," Olivia said, not knowing where to look.
Charlotte was once again impressed by the insightfulness of Olivia's long-term gentleman friend.
"To be completely honest, I had been fearing just that. Especially since all of this bother with Carlton. Both of us are over thirty now, unmarried, and without children to 'occupy us'. It may sound terribly selfish, and it probably is, but I'm bloody glad to have such a good chum who isn't constantly presenting her drooling, gurgling offspring to me to praise while nattering on about how blissful marriage is. Of all the stomach-turning notions."
James gave a loud laugh. "I believe Olivia feels the same way. Although I doubt she'd ever admit it. She's not what anyone would call typical, but don't tell her I said that."
"Are you finished gossiping about me?"
"Not quite," James said, with a wink. "I'm good boyfriend material, but I can't say what figure I'd cut as a husband, so I'm not even contemplating a ring. Even if I am contemplating a stack of years more with this one."
Olivia shook her head, but the corners of her mouth twitched in amusement. "Watch yourself, Davis. I could throw you out next week."
Charlotte couldn't help but smile. They were perfect together and the affection they felt for each other was plainly written all over them.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Shall we get to it? We've only got a few more hours before the first guests start arriving."
By eight, the ground floor of Charlotte's home was carpeted in guests, lively dance music blared from the phonograph and the champagne and gin flowed copiously.
Charlotte had chosen her black-beaded dress with matching headpiece that seemed to jiggle on its own, and she was wearing her real diamond necklace and bracelets, upon Preston's most urgent advice. He felt they were safer on her body than anywhere else in the house. With the possible exception of hidden under his own mattress.
Charlotte swam though the crowd that had begun to swell early, kissing cheeks and exchanging news and gossip. She'd invited everyone who had been at both Anne and Lydia's bashes --with the exception of Bloomers Cunningham and Bramwell Tarkington. She didn't want to risk the latter showing up with Celia in tow, as much as she doubted the hippopotamus would deign to come, and the former was a headache best avoided.
Ditto for Carlton.
He'd certainly be sore when he found out that she'd thrown a party without him, but she'd not let it ruffle her. Olivia was most likely correct. She was growing bored of him and was already drifting away to new shores. She hadn't spoken to him since Phillipa's party the previous week and he'd not rung either.
At ten-thirty Charlotte gave the signal to Olivia, and left the party to go upstairs. Mr Morris, in the cutaway they'd organised for him, the sleeve of one arm pinned up, stood guard by the coat racks out in the hallway. His full attention seemed to be focused on the party -- he was even swaying a little in time to the music -- but he gave her a conspiratorial shake of his head as she passed and whispered, "nothing to report".
As she jogged up the stairs, Charlotte's stomach turned back-flips. Would the thief appear, or would they be sitting in the dark for hours feeling like fools as everyone else enjoyed themselves downstairs? It was possible that she would have to spend several parties in the same fashion, all the while wringing her hands and chewing her lower lip raw right along with Preston and the others.
These possibilities hadn't tortured Inspector Bump as he'd waited in the dark for Farmer Jenkins. He'd merely held his pocket watch in one hand and enjoyed the silvery strands of moonlight as they wandered across the floor. He'd also been damnably calm when unmasking the poisoning butler to the assembled family and staff of Warburton House in The Corpse in the Kitchen. But then, he'd been sure of himself and the culprit, whereas she still had no clue who she was waiting to unmask.
Preston was already in her rooms and Mr McCrory joined them a few minutes later. "Mr McCrory," Charlotte said, "this is your area of expertise. How would you suggest we arrange ourselves most effectively? The diamonds are in cases in there." Charlotte pointed towards the open door to her dressing room.
The Australian surveyed Charlotte's bedroom for a minute, taking in the large bed, the vanity table, the chaise longue, wardrobes, the hearth, writing desk and the location of the windows. "I'd say you by the lamp there, but more out of sight behind the backrest." He pointed towards the chaise longue. "Mr Preston behind the door and myself in that alcove there." He pointed to a place by the writing desk.
They took up their assigned positions, Charlotte doused the lights and they began to wait.
The sounds of music and laughter rose from below. The clock on the mantlepiece ticked the minutes away. Slowly, Charlotte's eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could make out both Preston's and McCrory's silhouettes.
"Anybody else so nervous they could vomit?" she asked. From across the room, by the slightly open bedroom door, she heard Preston sigh and then a low chuckle from McCrory coming from her left.
"She'll be apples, Miss. Never you worry," McCrory said. "In the war, we spent most of our time like this. Waiting. Often in the dark. It either happens, or it doesn't. Not much you can change. It all works out in the end."
Charlotte felt a little ashamed of herself. Mr McCrory had been through so terribly much worse, and her mountain of suspense was most assuredly his molehill. She resolved to keep her silly mouth shut.
The minutes ticked by.
There was noise on the stairs. Someone was coming up rather quickly, but attempting to make as little noise as possible.
Charlotte reached out and put her hand on the lamp, ready to pull the chain the moment the thief pushed open the door and crept through to her dressing room.
Someone giggled and a murmur followed, then a door somewhere opened and was shut again. Preston waited a few moments, then opened the bedroom door enough to slip out. He returned after a few moments and took up his position again.
"Well?"
"False alarm."
A minute or so later, the sounds of moaning and the hollow, rhythmic echo of a headboard tapping against an inside wall reached them.
Charlotte couldn't stop herself from letting out a suppressed laugh. Who of the guests was getting it on in one of the bedrooms on the first floor? She mentally ran through candidates, of which there a surprising number. She considered going down and opening the door on them, but then thought better of it. She'd only stumble in the dark on her way back up and perhaps bungle the entire operation.
McCrory chuckled a bit, too, and Charlotte could see Preston shaking his head in the half-light. Presently, the tapping ceased and the sound of opening and shutting doors were followed by footsteps descending the stairs.
The upper floors of the house fell back into silence.
The minutes continued to tick by.
Charlotte drifted off into her own thoughts. She'd had that damned talking potato dream again. They'd been at the zoo and the potato wouldn't be stopped from jumping into the tiger cage, growling and rolling around in the dirt, refusing to see sense no matter how much she yelled at it.
She was so caught up in her thoughts about the meaning of the dreams that she missed the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and only realised there was someone outside her bedroom when the light from an electric torch clicked on and the door was slowly pushed open.
The thief held a hand over the torch, dampening the light to a faint pink glow as he stealthily moved towards the dressing room.
Charlotte's hand slowly crept up towards the lamp's chain, her heart galloping in her chest. Once inside the dressing room, the thief allowed the beam to flare to full power as he pulled open drawers. The fake diamonds had been left only partially hidden, as if carelessly put away. After what seemed like an eternity, the beam was covered again, and the thief emerged.
Charlotte yanked the lamp chain, and the light flashed on.
The thief paused for a split second, then bolted for the door.
McCrory moved forward. Preston slammed the door shut and stepped out of his hiding place to block the exit.
"Arthur!" he cried.
"Sorry, George," the thief said, lowering the torch he'd lifted to defend himself. At that moment, McCrory reached out and ripped the torch out of his hand, swinging it in such a way that made clear it would be landing on the thief's own head if he weren't careful.
"What the devil are you doing here?" Preston said.
"Do you two know each other?" Charlotte said, coming out from behind the chaise longue. The thief jerked around, first to McCrory and then to Charlotte, visibly startled to hear more voices.
"I should say we do," Preston answered, his tone somewhere between stern and hurt. "Say good evening to Miss Wynthorpe, Arthur."
Charlotte's mouth fell open.
Arthur Ricking stood in front of her, his shoulders sagging in his fine suit, looking for all the world like a cat that had just dragged itself in from the rain.