Preston held out his hand. "Well, empty your pockets."

Arthur reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out the glass and paste bracelet. He handed it to Preston, who raised his eyebrows. 

Arthur shook his head. That was all he'd taken. 

"Do sit down, Mr Ricking. We need to have a little chat," Charlotte said, copying what Inspector Bump had said to Mr Harris, the butler in The Corpse in the Kitchen when he confronted him in the drawing room after catching him tipping arsenic into the tea.  

She still couldn't believe it. Arthur Ricking? Impeccably mannered Arthur Ricking? Did Sylvia know? 

Arthur sighed and sat in the chair she pointed to. Charlotte opened her mouth to ask about Sylvia, but Preston took the reigns. 

"What's all this nonsense about, Arthur? Thieving diamond jewellery like some common criminal. If you need money so badly, you simply could have said."  Arthur didn't seem to be able to meet Preston's eyes. His harried gaze wandered all over the carpet.

"Well?" Preston continued to press when he received no answer. "The police will have to be rung, you do realise that, don't you?  And I shall have to tell them everything I know about this whole affair because I'm a witness. I shall be the one to help them put you in gaol! Tell me you realise what a position you've put me in, do me the courtesy, Arthur."

Charlotte stared at her butler in disbelief. She had never heard him speak so directly, nor so harshly, to a member of her own class. She knew Preston as a professional, reserved servant who performed his duties without complaint or discussion. Now, he wasn't a servant; he was a man who felt bitterly betrayed in someone he trusted and was demanding answers beyond even what she would have.  

Arthur Ricking's eyes darted to McCrory, then to Charlotte, and back to Preston. "I'm terribly sorry, George, really I am, but I think you might be able to guess what this is all about," he said quietly.  

"I might be able to guess? Well, quite frankly, no. You aren't a gambler, nor do you speculate in business. What else could it. . ." Preston's voice trailed off. Then he closed his eyes as a expression of agony spread across his face, scrunching his features. 

Arthur nodded. 

Charlotte watched the pair, how they looked at each other, both of them seeming to be drowning in an ocean of despair she didn't comprehend. "Would one of you explain this to me?" she asked into the silence. "I'm afraid I'm lost. What has prompted Mr Ricking to take up thieving?" 

Preston shot a quick glance in her direction and then looked to Ricking, who shook his head almost imperceptibly.  

"I think it's best," Preston said, his tone now mild and forgiving. "Miss Wynthorpe has gone to great lengths to discover the source of these burglaries, and she deserves to know the whole truth." 

Ricking and Preston exchanged a series of glances that Charlotte couldn't read. It was as if they were carrying on a complex, secret conversation without needing to use words. She had the oddest notion that her understanding of the world was tilting in a rather bizarre fashion and there were miles of things going on right under her nose she hadn't the foggiest notion of. 

Ricking's eyes darted to McCrory. Preston nodded. "Ma'am. Perhaps Mr McCrory should wait outside. No offence intended, sir."

"None taken." McCrory nodded to Charlotte, and stepped out of the bedroom, the sounds of the party in full swing below drifting in before he closed the door behind him.

"Now, if one of you will put an end to the suspense?" Charlotte said, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. "How do you know each other, first off?"

"May I speak frankly, ma'am?" Preston said. 

"Please do."

"Arthur is of the same disposition I am. We met during the war. He was in public administration and I was here. We. . ." he looked at Arthur with a soft smile. "became friends. More than friends. And have been, on and off, ever since. Isn't that right, Arthur?" 

Ricking nodded, his eyes gazing blankly at the carpet. 

Preston and Ricking were lovers? Charlotte shook her head a few times. It wasn't merely the nature of the information, Charlotte knew full well about Preston's abnormality and it had never bothered her. She knew of several men in society who only had eyes for other men, who was she to judge?  But it had always been theoretical. Something one knew, but didn't dwell on for very long. 

Now, seeing with her own eyes a man who Preston had slept with, who he had tender feelings for, was like stepping out into the snow without a proper coat. The wind and snowflakes chilled you to the bone in a matter of seconds. Made you see your own comfortable world in a completely different light. Made you unsure of what to say, what to think, how to behave. It was both thrillingly, refreshingly new. . . and terribly uncomfortable.

"Go on," she said. "I'm listening."

"I believe you recall what happened to Oscar Wilde, ma'am? He was jailed on charges of gross indecency when information came to light that he had possibly been carrying on an illegal relationship with a younger man. They couldn't prove sodomy, or his sentence would have been far more severe. As it was, he was sentenced to two years. Hard labour."

Charlotte nodded, recalling how there were people of her parents' generation who still refused to believe Wilde had been guilty. "I've heard about that, yes."

"As difficult as it is to prove sodomy, gross indecency is almost too easy. The law is vague," Preston continued to rest his eyes on Ricking. "So vague, in fact, that it can be applied by mere inference. A private letter, for example. Or the testimony of a neighbour."   

"The Blackmailer's Charter," Arthur Ricking said, his voice barbed with acid. 

"Yes. The Blackmailer's Charter. That's not what we call it, ma'am, that's what the lawyers of the time called it when it was enacted. They saw what it could be used for. What unscrupulous people would use it for and advised heavily against it, but . . . to no avail." 

"He wants two hundred and thirty pounds a month."  Ricking looked up at Preston. "In cash." 

"Who does?" Charlotte asked.

"I don't know. I don't know who he is, but he certainly knows who I am. He's got a letter I wrote to a . . . friend. Fifteen years ago, if you can believe that." Ricking laughed. A nervous, hopeless laugh. 

"How did he get it? From your friend?"

Ricking shook his head. "Impossible. He fell in the war." 

Preston drew in a quick breath, clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his head to examine the ceiling. Charlotte knew that posture. Preston always took it on when he was thinking through a particularly difficult logistical problem. 

"Where do the diamonds come in, Mr Ricking?" Charlotte asked, finally able to make sense of the situation. "All of them were heirlooms, or at least not modern pieces of jewellery. Why?"

Ricking shrugged. "He gave me a short list. Said that he would graciously overlook two month's payment if I supplied him with any of the pieces on it. I had no idea they were heirlooms. Can't say I know much about women's jewellery, beyond what my wife possesses." He smiled weakly. 

A professional thief with a client who knows what he wants. Perhaps even naming the victims himself. Wasn't that what Mr Oakham had surmised? Charlotte gave the detective in Camden Town a mental round of applause. He'd been a hair's breath away from guessing all of it. 

"Where is your wife now?'

"At home, probably asleep. You may have noticed she . . . She isn't well." 

"Sylvia suffers from intense bouts of melancholy and drinks like a bloody whale to compensate," Preston said, anger swinging once again in his voice. "Arthur has repeatedly attempted to find her treatment, but she stubbornly refuses."   

"That's a bit harsh, George, she--"

"Stubbornly refuses to accept your help! Because like all of us, she's terrified of it coming out, although there are no laws that would damn her to years of hard labour." Preston turned to Charlotte. "Arthur and Sylvia are fond of each other, but Sylvia prefers the company of women, just as Arthur and myself prefer the company of men. Their marriage is one of mutual protection and benefit."

"Does the blackmailer have evidence on her, as well?" Charlotte asked.

Ricking shook his head. "No, just me. But it hardly matters. If he turns me in, both of us will be ruined all the same. The scandal. And Sylvia will have no financial support while I'm . . . serving my sentence. Nor afterward, as I shall certainly lose my post and not be able to find another. Not with a criminal record."

"And if you continue to pay, you'll both be ruined eventually. You know that as well as I do, Arthur. He'll bleed you dry and then go to the police."  

Ricking nodded. "That's why I chose the thefts. And because I just don't have the stomach for the other solution." The last words were spoken almost gently, sorrow woven loosely through them. 

"The other solution?" Charlotte frowned. "What other solution?"

Neither Ricking nor Preston said a word. Preston contemplated his friend and Ricking bit his lip.

"Murder," Preston said, finally. "When you can't pay any longer and you can't afford to be prosecuted, then the only other option to free yourself is murder."

"You forgot suicide, George. There's always that."

Charlotte didn't know what to think. Were those really the only options Arthur Ricking had? Choosing between being financially and socially ruined, or murder and suicide? Did the law of the Empire really leave the door wide open to crimes far, far worse than unusual sexual practices that happened discreetly and behind closed doors? 

She shook her head again to clear it. 

This was turning out to be far more serious than she'd ever dreamt. Her little investigation had been something fun to sink her teeth into in order to escape boredom and possibly avoid thinking about her own relationship with Carlton.  And now look. She'd uncovered a tragedy she honestly would have been happier never knowing about.

But she did know about it. Arthur Ricking was sitting in her bedroom after she'd caught him red-handed stealing her diamonds to pay off a blackmailer he didn't have the stomach to kill. He wasn't some theoretical law, he was a real person. A person she knew, not very well, granted, but she did know him. And his wife, too.  

Vaguely, she realised that meant she must also have been on the blackmailer's list of targets, but that didn't seem to matter very much at the moment. 

There was a rap on the door. 

Arthur Ricking flinched and began to rise from his chair, but Preston gestured for him to stay seated and went to the door. He opened it a crack and spoke to whomever was outside.

"Ma'am, Miss Altringham would like a word with you."

Charlotte got up and crossed the room. Preston held the door open for her and closed it once she was out. 

Olivia was standing a few paces away with Mr McCrory. "I was just coming up to check on you all, but I hear you've caught the thief," she said, smiling from ear to ear. "Congratulations! Your plan worked. Not that I thought it would fail, mind, but we've all been such bundles of nerves downstairs wondering if it would come off tonight or no. Who is it? Do you know him, or is it a stranger? Shall I ring the police?"

"No, no don't ring the police. It's. . .complicated."

Olivia's smile dissolved. "It's someone you know. Someone you trusted, isn't it?'

"Can we talk about this in the morning, please? You can inform the crew downstairs that the thief has been caught. They can relax."

Olivia nodded. "Do you need anything? A drink?"

Charlotte shook her head and opened the bedroom door again. She took one step inside and was confronted with a sight so intimate she knew she would never forget it for the rest of her days. 

Preston had his arms around Arthur, rocking him gently like a small child and stroking his hair.  Arthur sobbed onto his shoulder.  "I'm so sorry, George. I'm so sorry." 

"There now. It's not half as bad as all that. I still love you, Arthur. And I always will. I promise."

Charlotte stepped back and closed the door as quietly as she could. Then she nodded to McCrory before turning and following  Olivia's quickly retreating back down the stairs. 

"Wait for me, Olivia!" she called, softly.  "I think I shall come down for a drink after all."