The battered door of Oakham Enquires was standing wide open when Charlotte arrived for her appointment. Peeking in, she saw a young man in a white shirt and grey waistcoat with his sleeves rolled up, writing in a ledger. The window of the small office was opened all the way, allowing a breeze to blow through which carried with it all the noise and grit from the busy street outside.

"Knock, knock," Charlotte said, stepping over the threshold. The young man looked up and smiled.

"Hello. Looking for Oakham Enquires?" he said, a charming smile broadening his face.

"I am. Charlotte Wynthorpe. I have an appointment with Mr Oakham."

The young man pulled a smaller, open ledger towards himself and ran his finger over the paper. "Ah, yes, Wynthorpe, Miss. 10 am. Please have a seat. I shall just inform Mr Oakham of your arrival." He gestured towards the two chairs that had been positioned in front of the desk the last time Charlotte had visited, but were now pushed up against the wall. Then the man rose and walked with an awkward gait towards the door to Oakham's personal office. He knocked twice and then put his head in. 

"Miss Wynthorpe. 10 am appointment, sir."

There was a mumbled response and the young man closed the door before hobbling back to his chair. "Mr Oakham will be with you in a few moments." He picked up his pen and made movements to go back to writing.

Charlotte was about to ask after Mr Morris when the detective pulled open his door and gestured for Charlotte to come in. He waited until she was inside, then shut the door.

"I see you now have front office help, Mr Oakham. How very convenient." 

"A one-armed employment agent showed up out of the blue last week. Seemed to know exactly what I needed and talked my ear off until I said I'd try out one of his cripples for a week. And then he showed up the next day," Oakham gestured towards the closed door. "Was here even before I was. I suppose you noticed the walk. He's missing half his leg."

"I did. He seems rather competent," Charlotte said, a decidedly firm tone in her voice. One of Olivia's men had found employ and she wanted to do as much as possible for him to keep it. Although, she wasn't sure she would go so far as to congratulate him on his new employer. "I imagine you'll be wanting to keep him. Now that he's here and of obvious use."

"Don't have time to find anybody myself, do I? Which that damned employment agent also seemed to know. Anyway, your case." 

Oakham reached for a file and opened it.

"Right," he said after a few moments skimming the paper inside. "'Penelope' is Penelope Arsdale. A diamond brooch belonging to her deceased grandmother was stolen during a private party in her home in Belgravia about three months ago. She filed a report with the Metropolitan Police but the case was only briefly investigated. A servant in her employ disappeared at around the same time and the investigators on the case believe that's who pocketed the brooch. The whereabouts of the servant are currently unknown. Nothing about it appeared in the newspapers and the Arsdales seem to have forgotten about the incident entirely. There have been no follow up inquires."

"A disappearing servant?"

"The kitchen boy, apparently," Oakham said, after consulting his notes.

The kitchen boy? Hadn't Inspector Bump ruled out the kitchen boy? He had insufficient access to the wine cellar to have prepared the poisoned wine, or to have helped whoever did. 

Charlotte made a mental note to reread the salient passage before continuing on with her reading of The Corpse in the Kitchen. She was only at chapter fifteen, but Bump was already making lightning progress. 

"And the other victim?" she asked. "The mystery one?"

Oakham scratched the side of his face as he shook his head. "Haven't been able to turn up a monkey's arse about another diamond theft. I'll continue asking, of course, but if you want my opinion. . . Oakham leaned back in his chair and closed the file with one finger. "I'd say it's bogus. There was no fourth robbery."

"No fourth robbery?" Charlotte frowned. "You're saying the woman I overheard at the charity society invented that part? She seemed well informed on the others."

"Exactly. She knew quite a bit about the circumstances of the Arsdale robbery, but you didn't hear what she said beyond that, did you? At least that you've told me. Who's to say that isn't all she really knew, and inflated the rest to impress listeners. Make herself sound more in the know. Or," Oakham shrugged, "she paid someone for the information. For the same reason."

"Someone. As in, another detective you mean. What you thought I was doing the first time I came here."

Oakham nodded. "Perhaps the Arsdales contracted one of my colleagues and the woman got her information from him."

Charlotte thought for a longer moment. This was all fascinating information, but didn't further her own investigation by a badger's nose. It merely confirmed what she already knew. "How are you coming with the Barning-Thornton case? Any clues as to the identity of the thief?'

"As I've told you, Miss Wynthorpe, my investigations are private."

"But hasn't my case given you valuable insight to ruminate on while you smoke your pipe and gaze out over the lights of London in the evenings?"

Oakham gave a small laugh. "For one, I don't smoke a pipe, and the only lights of London I see is the street lamp that shines in my window all night keeping me awake. I'm not the police. I only investigate what I'm paid to investigate, and not one whit more. "

Charlotte smiled to herself. Hadn't Anne said Oakham had been contracted to identify and catch the thief, circumstances permitting?  She now fully believed that he kept silent as the grave about his investigations, if he didn't even want her knowing he was hot after the thief himself.  

On the other hand, Preston had information that he did, at times, give his old mates on the force tips. Contradictory information. The bane of all detectives. 

Time to change tack just slightly. 

"Alright. Then your professional opinion? Is he a criminal or a layman?" Charlotte arched an eyebrow. "Come on, Mr Oakham. I'm a paying client, am I not?" 

Oakham hesitated, his thumb tapping an erratic beat on the desk top. "Who knows for certain? But my gut says he's a professional with a client who knows precisely what he wants. Possibly even naming the victims himself."

"You don't buy the vengeful kitchen boy explanation?"

"No. But I'll not hold that against the original investigators! They lacked knowledge of the other robberies that we have. I'd have come to the same conclusion they did if I'd been in their shoes. If that's all, Miss Wynthorpe? I'll continue to ask around but I don't have much hopes for--"

"There's been another one," Charlotte said, cutting him off.  "Another diamond theft. Two nights ago. A bracelet this time. But not an heirloom, a wedding gift."

Oakham stared across the desk at her for a few moments before abruptly sitting up, reaching for a pen and flipping open her file again. "Details?"

"Now, now, Mr Oakham. Investigations are private, remember? You wouldn't want me doing your work for you for free, wouldn't you?" Charlotte smiled sweetly at him. "But I will tell you this: he was interrupted. A ladies maid happened to enter the bedroom while he was at work. He struck her down with what she thinks was an electric torch and then finished the job, escaping through the window."

Oakham lay down his pen without having written a word, and leaned back in his chair. "May I ask how you know all this?"

"No mystery, I happened to be at the party when it happened. Just like I happened to be at the the Frampton-Sacking do when that one happened."

"I see. In that case, one could almost put you right at the top of the list of suspects." Oakham smiled a wolfish grin. "Just happened to overhear information from a mystery informant. Just happened to be there when two of the robberies occurred. That's a lot of coincidences, Miss Wynthorpe, don't you think?  And now you tell me investigations are private and you don't want to be doing my work for me. I could almost think, no, I could surmise, that you're working for one of my esteemed colleagues. Or that you might just be the thief herself, wanting to know how active the police are on her crimes. Or how active I am."

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She hadn't thought of that. 

"I assure you I am neither of those things. I do, however, comprehend your meaning. It is quite a number of coincidences. Now perhaps you'll understand my keen personal interest in these thefts and their resolution. Good day, Mr Oakham. I'll be in touch." 

Charlotte sat in her reading wing chair, The Corpse in the Kitchen waiting patiently by her elbow to be picked up and continued, but she had other things on her mind than seeing how Inspector Bump was getting on. Mr Oakham had given her more to think about than she'd bargained for. 

She was suspicious, wasn't she? Especially to an outsider. Turning up where she had, overhearing what she had. But then, she spent most of her time in society. She was constantly being invited to parties and events. She knew things, heard things. Especially now that she was parading her false diamonds around London like she was. 

This was exactly why members of her class avoided contacting the police whenever possible. Simply their lifestyle left them open to all sorts of fantastical accusations from those who didn't have the slightest notion of how their world worked. Or were resentful of it. 

But he had been almost correct about her working for, or rather, with, one of his colleagues. 

She gave the novel on the side table an appreciative glance.

Mr Oakham thought it was a professional with a client. Her own feeling wasn't so terribly different. And that meant the twenty-three  guests who had been both at Anne's and Lydia's party were in the clear. Or were they? Could one of them be a professional criminal?

Charlotte scratched her nose. 

She had known most of them for decades. If they were criminals, then this would have happened before now, certainly? They'd have stolen before. The mask would have slipped and the ugliness underneath revealed. 

No, she simply couldn't see the likes of happy-go-lucky Timothy Mercer or Harold Munnington, who was a horrible dancer but knew everything about homing pigeons; the prim Thorne-Saddlers; the Rickings with poor Sylvia's drinking problem; charming Tandy Barlow or even the unlikeable Prett sisters, as possible hardened criminals. 

However, the fact remained: the real thief had to know about the parties, who was throwing them and when, and how to get into the house without being noticed. Perhaps the kitchen boy angle wasn't so far off? Perhaps it was a servant? One who could play the society game for long enough to get onto the upper floors? A driver, perhaps. Or a butler who heard a lot of society gossip? 

Charlotte considered for a moment if Preston would be in a position to do such a thing, and concluded that the ways of the Butler's Telegraph were mysterious. They could know anything about anyone. And probably did. Thank goodness for professional discretion!

The only thing she couldn't imagine Preston doing was shimmying down a tree or toeing his way from a second floor window ledge. He would consider it far beneath his dignity. More likely, he'd simply slip the damn diamonds into his trouser pocket, stroll out the front door, hail a hackney cab and be off. 

And perhaps that's exactly what the thief had done.

Charlotte sighed. She still didn't have any solid facts to go on. She knew what, when, where, and most likely why, but as far as who went, well, she was as lost as Hansel and Gretel.  

Charlotte picked up The Corpse in the Kitchen. 

"Well, Mr K. Huntley," she said, opening the book to chapter sixteen. "Let's see what advice you have for me. Because I'll be straight with you, I have no real clue who I can reasonably rule out. And my party's going to go off, hopefully with a bang, in a just over a fortnight. Top that, if you can."