Charlotte couldn't sleep. She turned from one side onto the other, her mind jumping from idea to idea like a children's spring toy gone mad. Every now and then, she'd fall into a troubled sleep, tumbling into another round of the talking potato dream.

The bloody little thing. She felt like squashing it, and decided she would the next time it showed its lumpy face. . . but then she dosed off to be terrorised further, completely unable to get the tiny miscreant to behave.  

At ten, Charlotte descended the stairs, bleary-eyed and in need of sustenance.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to start the day after all the revelations the night before, but there was no way to avoid it. The sun would always rise, bringing on a new day, and there was precious little she could do about it. So she decided to get up, slip on her bright yellow day dress, comb her hair and go down to see what would come crashing into her life, knowing full well she'd sent it a hand-written invitation and jolly well deserved all she got.

In the dining room, breakfast was being served to the few guests who had passed out during the wee hours of the morning and been left lying for later collection. 

Deidre Horning was staring blankly into her coffee like a freshly reanimated Frankenstein; The Lanning twins looked as if they'd been run over backwards with a delivery van; Baxter Clarke had a deep red imprint of rug fringe on the side of his face, which he wasn't making any better by constantly rubbing at it, and Mabel and Stanley Finch-Reeding were digging into their breakfast while chattering like sparrows, as if they just popped back in from a healthy three-mile walk.

No Arthur Ricking.

Preston had been vehement that Arthur stay the night to prevent him from 'doing anything rash.' Charlotte had not interfered. Preston would certainly know far better than she how best to handle his friend. But how best to handle a blackmailer? Inspector Bump had yet to come up against one of those. He seemed to work exclusively with murderers, and as of yet, Charlotte hadn't been presented with any of those. Thank God. 

The door to the dining room opened and Olivia came in, a maid's apron tied around her middle and a fresh pot of coffee in one hand. 

"Good morning, Charlotte. Coffee?"

"Oh yes, please. Where is Preston?"

"Not come down yet. The lads have been put to work helping Clara with the straightening up. I'm afraid a vase was knocked over and broken and a few records scratched, but otherwise no great damage. I'll get you a plate of breakfast." Olivia poured Charlotte a cup of black coffee, patted her arm and disappeared out the door again.

Charlotte looked around for the sugar bowl, but didn't see it and decided to brave an unsweetened cup. The bitterness made her wince. Was this how the men down at Cloud Hill were used to taking their morning coffee? Frightful. 

What to do? Her nightly ponderings hadn't brought her much closer to an answer. 

She had no intention of turning Arthur over to the police, but she couldn't allow the thefts to continue. And they certainly would continue until he ran out of money, or someone far less understanding of his situation caught him, as she'd done. 

Poor Preston. She couldn't imagine how he felt. The memory of him and Arthur in such a tender embrace appeared in her mind. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had held her like that when she'd needed comforting, nor she anyone else. Relationships for her were like parties. There to enjoy yourself in, never meant to last past the final bottle of champagne. 

Carlton crossed her mind briefly, and she realised with a jolt of surprise that she wouldn't want to be comforted by him in such a situation. In fact, she would feel not even a scrap of interest in hearing any of his opinions nor his ham-handed advice on the matter. And she had absolutely no intention of telling him anything about this. Ever. 

The last bottle of champagne had been drained at that party, and all that was left was to say her goodbyes and get her coat.  

Olivia set a plate of eggs, rashers and toast down in front of Charlotte. "Everything alright?" she asked, concern creasing her forehead.

"I believe I've just been conked on the head by the world's heaviest sunbeam, that's all." Charlotte smiled, then smacked open the serviette and draped it across her lap before turning her full attention onto her breakfast.

An hour later, the guests had toddled off home and Charlotte was in her wing chair by the window, The Rat-Chewed Rope opened to chapter one in front of her face. Inspector Bump had yet to be called, but as Miss Emily had disappeared from her room -- the only thing out of place being her mirror with a nasty new crack in it, as if it had been punched. 

The door to the sitting room opened and Preston coughed discreetly. "May we interrupt, ma'am?" 

Charlotte put down the book and gestured for Preston to come in. Arthur Ricking followed on his heels. He was pale, his hair unruly and he was wearing the same set of clothes as the evening before. He looked as if he'd got just as little sleep as Charlotte.

"I've been speaking with Arthur and I believe I may have a way to discover the identity of the man blackmailing him. Or, at least gain a hot lead, as I believe the phrase is."

"Really? Tell me everything immediately. Quicker if you can manage it. Do have a seat Mr Ricking."

As Arthur moved to sit on the edge of one of the other chairs arranged by the window, Preston continued. "The exchange takes place at different pubs. The same woman is always already there. Arthur gives her a bag with the jewellery or money and she gives him a note with the name and address of the next exchange location. He's tried following her --"

"But she doesn't seems to leave. I waited outside until the pub closed, but she didn't appear. Went out the back probably. That's all I can figure," Arthur said. 

Charlotte tapped her cheek. "What does this woman look like?"

"Average. Short brown hair. No make-up. Dark green or brown eyes, hard to tell in the dim light in some of those places. Not corpulent, but also not thin. Cheap, red cloth hat of the kind one finds in department stores. No wedding band. Short fingernails. Clean hands." 

"Age?"

Arthur sighed. "I'm not good at telling women's ages. But I would guess fifty, perhaps? Not the youngest at any rate."

"A servant," said Preston. "Perhaps not in the blackmailer's employ. She could be a relative, but that sounds to me like the description of a house maid."

Charlotte had to agree. That did sound rather like a house servant. Cheap hat, but clean hands with short nails. Not married. She'd not work the scullery or the laundry, in that case. 

"Go on. You had an idea," Charlotte prompted. 

"The woman in question knows what Arthur looks like and is quite certainly mindful of him following her. You and I would be immediately suspicious if we entered these public houses, ma'am. Arthur tells me a few of them are quite rough. Consider how good of an acting job we did at Mr Oakham's office. However, the one man who springs to mind, who would not be suspicious in such an environment, would be Mr. Morris, ma'am. Mr Morris, or indeed any of Miss Altringham's men, would have no difficulties observing the woman in question and following her when she leaves. Even if it's out the kitchen exit. He could then discover the address of the house the woman returns to, and possibly her name."

Charlotte thought for a few moments. Preston was right. Again. Provided Morris and his men didn't lose the woman's trail, it might bring them one step closer to the blackmailer, even directly to the blackmailer. But then what? What would they do with the name? 

Charlotte called herself to order. Inspector Bump never wondered what he'd do with information, did he? He collected it and gave it a good thinking through before planning his next step. 

That he never shared how that thinking through and planning actually occurred - except to say it involved a pipe and a pint of best house ale - wasn't exactly berries, but if the good inspector advised clue-by-clue thinking, that was what she would do.  Arthur Ricking had to be helped out of his predicament at all costs, and Bump had proven the solidness of his advice more than once. 

"Mr Ricking," Charlotte said, "are you willing to cooperate with us on this matter? I have no intention of turning you over to the police, rest assured, but it seems to me your blackmailer must be stripped of the evidence against you before anything else. Without that letter, he has nothing to continue with. Or, does he have anything else he could use in a pinch?"

"Yes, I am willing to work with you. George . . ." Arthur looked to his friend, "George has convinced me I've nothing to fear from your involvement. And as far as I know, that chap's only in possession of the one letter. Nothing more." 

"Then we must find it and that sharpish," Charlotte said, determination lining her voice. "Is Mr Morris still here, Preston?'

"I believe so, ma'am."

"Then fetch him, please and say we have a favour to ask." 

Ten minutes later, Morris was tapping his leg on the sitting room carpet like an excited terrier and grinning from ear-to-ear. 

"Let me get this straight, Miss. I'm to be sat in a pub all evening keeping one eye on this woman, follow her home when she goes, and tell you the name on her letter box? And this all has to do with the diamond burglaries?" 

"And the address. Yes, that's correct. It all ties in. But mind, she might lead you back to a shared house. And then you must watch to make sure you've got the correct name."

"And it may be helpful to take another one or two of your charges with you," Preston added, "to make sure you don't loose her trail should one of you . . . run into difficulties." 

"You mean be pissed to the gills? Not when on a mission, they won't be. Not with me in charge." Morris said. "You can count on us, Miss. Although . . . one thing. Me men, they've all been without employ for a while, you understand. Even an evening in a right cesspool of a pub could empty what little they've got in their pockets. They may not be so keen." 

Arthur Ricking took out his wallet and handed Morris some shilling notes. "That should be enough for drinking money. And you'll be paid for your services when we've got a name." 

Preston pulled a scrap of paper from one of his pockets and gave it to Morris. "That's the public house with the date and time of the exchange."

"Two days from now," Morris said, reading the note. 

"Will that be a problem?" 

"Not at all, Miss," Morris grinned. "For you, none at all."