The telephone rang at around ten thirty the next morning just as Charlotte was turning the page to start chapter twenty of The Rat-Chewed Rope. Preston answered and immediately called Charlotte to the phone, saying it was Mr Oakham. 

Charlotte took a deep breath as she picked up the telephone, placing the earpiece against her left ear. "Hullo?"

"Miss Wynthorpe? Robert Oakham. I have the names and addresses of the owners of 10 automobiles with the beginning registration number of A-51. I'll have a message boy deliver the list to you today, along with my bill."

"Could I trouble you to tell me the names now, if you please?" Charlotte said, her nerves getting the better of her. She simply couldn't bear another moment not knowing. Would she recognise one of the names or would they all be complete strangers? The back of her neck prickled with excitement, or fear, she couldn't tell which. 

There was a rustling on the other end of the line before Mr Oakham began to read.

"A-510, Jeremy Williams. A-511, Andrew T. McCullen. A-512, Emma Pecking. A-513, Bramwell Tarkington. A-514, Peter Far-"

Oakham continued to read, but Charlotte heard none of the rest of the names.

Bramwell Tarkington.

That's who had been sitting in the motor outside of Celia's house waiting for a servant who had just collected her stolen diamonds from Arthur.  

Charlotte noticed the silence on the line after a few moments. Oakham was probably waiting for her to say something.

"And you have addresses for all of them?"

"That's correct."

"Thank you, Mr Oakham. I will expect your messenger by six o'clock today as I am engaged to go out this evening. Good day." Charlotte said, and rung off. 

For several minutes, Charlotte stood in her entrance hall observing the black and white checkerboard flooring tiles and the light coming through the window above the front door, but not really seeing them.    

Linny had said Bramwell had an automobile and was renting a house in a fashionable street in Mayfair. Or rather, a strange young man who had come to town to rub elbows with the real aristocracy and who nobody knew very much about, had an automobile and was renting a house in a fashionable street in Mayfair. 

For the last fifteen years or more, The Tarkingtons had been absent from London society. And Bramwell had never really been involved that much in the first place. They'd left too early for him to have made it through all the necessary hurdles to be accepted by his peers. 

Why they'd left, she couldn't recall. All she knew was that they'd gone to live permanently at their residence in the country. Or at least, that's what the word was. Nobody in her set, or even in older sets she sometimes had contact with, had mentioned them in donkey's years. 

Charlotte went back into the sitting room, lowering herself into her wing chair by the window.  

Bramwell. Celia. Old diamond jewellery. Blackmail. A love letter to a man several years dead. A woman servant. I don't know him, but he certainly knows me. 

Charlotte turned images, words, memories and ideas over in her mind, creating combinations and seeing if they made sense, exactly like Inspector Bump advised. After a while she had a theory she felt was as sound as a ceg of thirty-year old whisky.  And packed just as much of a wallop. 

Bramwell wanted back into society. If he was asking for one hundred and thirty pounds a month, he certainly didn't have the cash he needed to accomplish that. There were those who did, however, and so he'd targeted them like so many squirrels simply waiting to be shot out of their trees. Not wanting to get his hands dirty, he'd made use of the only bit of leverage he'd had: an old, compromising letter. 

That all made sense. But how the devil did Bramwell get his hands on that letter and how did he know about the individual pieces of heirloom jewellery? 

Charlotte tapped a finger against her lips. 

The Tarkingtons had not been in town since before the war. Well before. Anything new anyone had purchased after, 1910?, they wouldn't know anything about. Theoretically. But heirloom pieces! Those Bramwell, no, think. ..Bramwell's mother, most surely would have known about. Is that where Bram had attached names to diamonds? 

Charlotte imagined Victoria Tarkington, wrapped in a thick blanket, sitting in a cold, country drawing room reminiscing  about the wonderful old days in London and all the beautiful gems the women had before the war, as Bramwell rolled his eyes and played with some sticks and cabbage leaves at her feet. That is, until he realised what a goldmine that information was. 

Yes, that was as sound a theory as any. Logical and likely, just as Bump preferred them to be.

That only left the letter. 

Which she didn't know toadstools about. 

And perhaps, neither did Arthur. He seemed perplexed as to where the blackmailer could have unearthed it from, too. She would have to ask if the name Tarkington meant anything to him. And if not?  

Charlotte realised that as much as she attempted to copy Inspector Bump, she was decidedly not Inspector Bump. She might never know all the pieces of the puzzle and she would simply have to accept it, like one accepted that an unflattering colour was all the rage for a season. 

Fine. Bramwell had got his paws on the letter somehow. Fact. What now? 

The police were interested in the case. Perhaps that was a good thing after all. If she could get the letter away from Bramwell, then she could leave an anonymous tip for the police and let the rest take its course.

Or no! Better yet, give the information to Oakham! Hadn't he said the  Metropolitan's bloodhounds were sniffing around him looking for just that? Hadn't he been contracted to find the thief and the diamonds? 

If the jewels were still in Bramwell's house in Mayfair, then that would be evidence enough. Nobody knew Arthur was the thief except her. And without the letter, he'd not be able to take Arthur down with him out of spite.

Not bad for a plan. Perhaps a little wobbly on the details, but bridges and coming to them and so forth and so on. 

That just left horrid Celia. 

How was she involved? Or was she not. The Paggetts were not fabulously wealthy, but they called several properties and a flourishing business in textiles their own. That's how she and Carlton had met. Their families did business with each other. Why would she get involved with something like this? Boredom? An adventure? 

Charlotte sighed and picked up The Rat-Chewed Rope to look at the cover. A horse stable at night with a figure crouching in the bushes, a rope snaking out from its hand. 

Until chapter sixteen, Bump had been at as much of a loss as Charlotte had been, spending his time wandering around Lower Manning taking the air and looking for clues in shrubs and daisy patches. He only made significant progress when he met a retired ostler who happened to know a bookmaker, who happened to have heard from a jockey about a horse stolen from one of the more wealthy visitors to the racing grounds. A horse which strongly resembled Mr Dooley's brown mare. 

And Mr Dooley was now dead. 

"Someone who knows someone who knows someone who heard a rumour. That does seem like stretching it a bit even for you, Mr K. Huntley," Charlotte said as she flipped to chapter twenty.  "And where the devil is Miss Emily? That girl should have shown back up by now. Unless you mean to make her Dooley's killer, which I simply can't see."

But then, she hadn't seen Arthur Ricking as a cold-blooded diamond thief either, had she?  

Charlotte lowered the book.  

Arthur had been put up in one of the guest rooms. She'd never had much opportunity to talk with him before, but he'd proven to be more than pleasant company at dinner. She could easily see why Preston had stayed with him for so long, even if they didn't see each other for longer stretches of time, as well as why Linny said Sylvia was lucky to have got that one on her hook. 

Arthur was a delightful man. A delightful man pushed to extremes. 

They had to get that letter away from Bramwell somehow. 

"Over to you, Bump. Impress me," Charlotte said, as she raised the book again and began to read. "I'm all ears." 

Just before tea time, the doorbell rang and Preston came into the sitting room to deliver the letter from Oakham Enquires. As he turned to leave, Charlotte stopped him.

"How is Arthur doing?" 

"As well as can be expected, ma'am. Considering that we know the police have now taken an interest."

Charlotte held up the letter. "Bramwell Tarkington. That's our blackmailer." 

Preston's eyes narrowed to slits. If it was possible, his gaze would have set fire to the envelope. After a few moments, he said, "I. .  .believe I've heard the name mentioned before, ma'am. Is this . . . perchance. . .Miss Paggett's new friend?"

"Yes, he is. How did you know that?"

"You mentioned to Miss Altringham that he was a guest at a party hosted by Mrs Beauchamp, if memory serves."

Charlotte handed him the thin, brown envelope.

"And your memory serves like a jewel-spangled elephant. I believe I did mention it to Olivia when she was up a while back, didn't I? Tarkington's address is in there." Charlotte nodded to the envelope. "So we now know where to find the little wretch. And possibly the diamonds if he hasn't fenced them already. Is fenced the correct word?"

"I believe so, ma'am." Preston slipped the envelope carefully into the inner pocket of his cut-away and resumed his professional demeanour, clasping his hands behind his back and looking the epitome of service and efficiency. 

Charlotte rubbed her chin. "I say, you don't by any chance happen to know anyone who knows anyone who knows anyone who . . ." Charlotte slapped the armrest of her chair. "The Butler's Telegraph of course!" 

She grabbed the The Rat-Chewed Rope from her lap and gave it a kiss. "You've done it again Mr Huntley! That's the answer."   

"Has Inspector Bump saved the day again, ma'am?"

"He has indeed. Preston! A noble house must have servants, correct?" 

"Correct, ma'am."

"Then Tarkington must have servants. But he chose to use one of Celia's as the go-between.  Why do you think that might have been?"

Preston thought for a moment. "If his own knew him to be a criminal, that could become quite problematic. It would invite gossip, or even theft or blackmail in extreme cases. However, no professional staff would continue to work for someone they knew not to be above board. Too risky." 

"Indeed. But what would a servant do, exactly do, if they discovered such a thing?"

"They'd served notice and spread the word round to other professional staff to avoid taking a position in that particular house," Preston said, his countenance taking on a thoughtful cast.

"Exactly. Preston, get tapping on the Butler's Telegraph and find out who Bramwell's servants are. If he has any. And as much as you can about Celia's little helper. She's got to know what Bramwell's up to, and maybe others do as well, but haven't been able to get away yet. That's the answer. That's how we're going to bring all of this to a close, Preston. We're going to go through the servant's entrance."