"Sorry, I'm afraid I'm not following," Olivia Altringham said, lowering her spoon. "Are you sure it really was Celia Paggett?

"Of course, I am. I am never mistaken when it comes to anything regarding Celia Paggett, that hippopotamus," Charlotte replied, raising an eyebrow at her oldest and dearest friend seated across from her.

It was Tuesday afternoon and Olivia was visiting for lunch on one of her twice monthly business trips to London. The day was sunny, and the curtains in the dining room of Charlotte's house in Belgravia were drawn back to allow light to play on the thick carpets and colourful paintings decorating the walls. 

"She was wearing one of Madam D'Aube's creations, by the by," Charlotte continued. "Light green with purple and gold highlights. Green headband with the feather drooping unflatteringly to the side. Truth be told, even a D'Aube couldn't make Celia appear elegant. More like a washed-out artichoke on stilts. Frightful. But I digress."

"Hardly," said Olivia. "You know how much vegetables interest me. Do go on."

A smile blossomed on Charlotte's pretty face, which resembled the satisfied, if enigmatic, countenance of a sphinx. A laugh tinkled in her throat.

Olivia made such a wonderful counterbalance to the other women of her set in London who were -- Charlotte might admit if it were late at night and the curtains drawn --  sometimes a little bit too much like herself for comfort. 

"And here I thought your heart belonged exclusively to cabbages," Charlotte teased. "Aren't artichokes a little out of your sphere?"

Olivia had spent much of the Great War learning the best way to grow vegetables in her repurposed flowerbeds in order to feed the wounded soldiers convalescing on her country estate. She'd passed her learning on to Charlotte in a series of excited, but unforgivably dull, letters, all of which had been repurposed as fuel for Charlotte's fireplace. She still teased Olivia about those letters even now, four years after the war had ended.

Boredom was a deadly disease and Charlotte wasn't about to catch it. God forbid.  

"I'm always prepared to expand my horticultural knowledge," Olivia said as she raised her spoon again. "Did The Talking Artichoke perform any tricks of note, or has the event been logged as a mere botanical observation?"

Charlotte held up a hand. "Don't mention talking vegetables! I've been having this reoccurring...never mind. The Paggett creature was attempting to corner Carlton and dribble nonsense all over his waistcoat. And the oaf was letting her."

"She's not still harbouring hopes, is she? What did Carlton say?" 

"What do you think he said? That they were merely exchanging pleasantries, nothing more. Long time, no drivel. Preston, if you would."

"Yes, ma'am." Preston, the butler, who had been waiting in the corner for his cue, removed the soup bowls and replaced them with the main course: steak and kidney pie smothered in thick brown gravy.

Olivia picked up her knife and fork. "Smells delicious. Thank you, Preston." 

"Yes, thank you, Preston," Charlotte said, and fixed her full attention on her lunch as if it were a thrilling new piece of fashion to be admired.  The butler nodded and disappeared out the side door with the bowls.

After a few bites, Charlotte continued her train of thought. "Quite honestly, I've more got the hump with Harriet Beauchamp. Inviting Celia, Carlton and myself to the same event does show a disturbing tendency towards drama, if you want to hear my honest opinion. And Harriet is otherwise quite a sensible woman." 

"She had probably forgot. It has been a while since you and Celia were in each other's hair."

"Oh, you are a chum, Olivia, but I'm sure she hasn't forgotten. Memories are long in London society. I'll bet you a shilling and two stale scones she was paying me back for not inviting her to my last garden party. I'm sorry, but I simply cannot accommodate more than thirty-five guests if there is to be dancing. No, I'm sure she was crouched behind the bushes licking her chops that we'd throw our drinks in each other's faces."

"Which you wisely didn't."

"Which I wisely didn't. But, here, the sudden appearance of Celia wasn't the only surprise that afternoon. You'll never guess who else was rolling around Harriet's lawn: Bramwell Tarkington! Do you remember him?" 

Olivia thought for a moment, brow furrowing in concentration. "Perhaps. Refresh my memory." 

"The Tarkingtons were one of our parents' set decades ago. They were around quite a lot when we were children. Bramwell sulked about at some of the summer parties we attended, kicking at stones and mocking the servants. Grumpy lad, sandy blond hair, not terribly tall, given to pudge."

"That does ring a faint bell, yes."

"Well, he looks exactly the same. Just a little taller and a little less round. Or perhaps not, I  haven't seen him in donkey's years. Here's the suet in the pudding, though, if Bramwell is in town then that means the Tarkingtons have returned from the dead. Oddly, no one has breathed a word and I was too put out to needle Harriet for more information. Honestly, I thought the Tarkingtons had trundled off and died a horrible death in the country. You'd know how that goes."

"Thank you." 

"You're welcome. But that only proves that the country is not nearly as lethal as we Londoners imagine it to be. It actually is possible to return from the dead." Charlotte cocked an eyebrow and pointed a forkful of pie in Olivia's direction. "You do it fortnightly, in fact."  

"Someone should alert the Archbishop of Canterbury. I'm sure he'd be fascinated. Did you have a chance to speak to Bramwell? Or were you afeared that your waistcoat would have nonsense dribbled on it?" 

Charlotte laughed. "I did, but only for a short while. Wasn't able to get much of value out of him, even if he did seem to have grown manners since I last saw him. His attention was somewhat amusingly distracted. The poor man's eyes were glued to Celia like barnacles to the fat rump of a ship, if you can believe that. So were mine, but that was only because she was fondling Carlton's arm. Well, Bramwell is welcome to her, with my best wishes." 

The door to the dining room swung open and Preston returned carrying two plates with cake, which he set on the sideboard before taking up his place again. Charlotte turned her attention to cleaning her plate and Olivia followed suit. 

Only the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece and the distant sounds of a motor rumbling by on the street outside disturbed the gentle click-clacks of cutlery on china.  

"Oh, Charlotte," said Olivia after a minute or so. "You mentioned something about diamonds going missing in your last letter. What happened there exactly?" 

"Oh, that. It was probably nothing. Carlton and I were at one of Anne and Rutland Frampton-Sacking's rollicking benders. You know Anne, always a crate of champagne within grabbing distance and any excuse to throw an elephant of a party. 

Well, at some point during the night, one of her diamond necklaces -- a collier, I believe -- grew legs and jumped out of her second-story dressing room window, night air rushing in, curtains all abillow. Let out a frightful scream when she noticed; I had no idea Anne had quite that powerful of a set of lungs. My ears are still ringing." 

"Really?" Olivia paused, fork half-way to her mouth. "Have they found the culprit?"

"I don't know, I haven't spoken to Anne since. Although, it wouldn't be the first time a disgruntled servant pocketed something valuable and made it look like a theft to cover their own tracks. The house was teeming with guests like a boxful of weasels and all of them heaving drunk. Myself included. Would've been the perfect time to slide upstairs and really knock a bat to the lady of the house, if one were so inclined."

"True. But a diamond collier, Charlotte. That's not just any object of value, is it?" A furrow of concentration appeared again on Olivia's brow. "It's not on the level of a figurine or a few silver spoons. A servant couldn't easily hawk diamonds. Too suspicious."  

"You would know better than I would about that, unfortunately," Charlotte said, stabbing her fork into another bite of pie. She'd heard about the bother at Cloud Hill, Olivia's estate, when a bogus servant had attempted to wheedle her way into Olivia's private rooms for some extra remuneration. "But if it wasn't one of Anne's staff, then it was one of us, one of the guests, which I simply cannot imagine. Who in our set would do such a thing? Other than for a wheeze, perhaps, but they'd come clean at breakfast, certainly."  

"Perhaps it was a jewel thief!" Olivia cried, her eyes lighting up. "If it wasn't something a servant could hawk and all of the guests were seeing treble, then that's the only answer! A professional thief must have climbed up the outside wall on a trellis or a convenient tree, and undone the sash from the outside, then-" 

"Oh, Olivia, don't be ridiculous," Charlotte shook her head. "Professional jewel thief, really! I'm terribly sorry to contradict, but I'm sure it will turn out to have been a servant." 

"Oh, come now. Don't you find the idea just a little exciting, at least? A real diamond thief?  Alright, it is rather like out of a novel, I'll give you that. A party, missing diamonds, no one saw anything. Although someone always has seen something, otherwise the detective-." 

"Olivia dear, you've obviously been spending far too much time with those blasted cabbages of yours and it's turned your mind all leafy. What you need is an afternoon of sophisticated entertainment. Why don't we smash on our hats and take in the two o'clock showing at the Paradiso and then go to Folly's for drinks after? A jewel thief indeed," Charlotte answered sternly, but couldn't keep herself from smiling. "as if this were Baker Street and not Belgravia. Preston, if you would."

Preston picked up the two waiting plates, and served the cake.