"May I disturb, ma'am?" 

Charlotte dropped The Rat-Chewed Rope into her lap mid-sentence and arched an eyebrow at her butler. "What have you got?"

She'd heard Preston on the telephone on and off all morning, and he'd been strangely absent when she came back from her luncheon and afternoon social calls, reappearing only in time to serve tea. 

"Mary Burke, ma'am. She would appear to be the mystery woman meeting Arthur in the pubs. She is also the Paggett's cook's assistant. Word is, she has gambling debts. Or, rather her husband does. There seems to be a difference of opinion on that matter."

"Ah, ha. So she's turned to being Bramwell's long arm for some relief there. But then. . ." Charlotte squinted in thought, "how would Bramwell have known about that? And what contact would he have to a cook's assistant? Unless it's her husband who owes him? But then, Bramwell's in need of cash himself. Oh, but that's probably not important, is it? Good work, Preston."

"If I may be so bold, ma'am, I have a theory as to how Mr Tarkington came into contact with Mary Burke. But as of yet, I'm lacking a few necessary pieces of information."

"Really, what's the theory? Out with it, even if it's half-baked. I'm all springs and bumble bees."

"Well, ma'am, you mentioned Mr Tarkington is new in London. Assuming he, or his family, were already acquainted with the Paggetts, they may have loaned him a few of their servants until he hired his own. Mary Burke, to be more specific."

Charlotte picked up The Rat-Chewed Rope lying in her lap and, addressing the cover, said, "What do you think of that, Mr Huntley? Talk about someone who knows someone who knows someone. And who is as packed full of sound theories as a crate full of mechanical violins."

Preston suppressed a smile. "Will you be taking supper in the dining room this evening, ma'am, or do you have plans to eat out of house?"

"Here, I think. Mr Wheatley hasn't rung, has he?"

"Not that I'm aware of, ma'am."

"Hm. And Arthur?"

"Upstairs, ma'am."

"Fine. Then tell Jenny it'll be two for dinner again."

"Very good, ma'am."

Charlotte picked up the novel and found the sentence she'd left off at. Preston left the sitting room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

Inspector Bump had just spoken to the old ostler again and was now considering how to unmask thieving Mr Dooley's murderer.

Charlotte was stumped herself. Once again, she had no clue who the guilty party was. It could have been Mr Farthingworth, the owner of the stables. Or Mr Wrex, the carriage carpenter. Or even young Bob, the stable boy, who harboured aspirations of being a jockey. 

Bump knew, of course, damn him. But how?

Charlotte flipped back and re-read the conversation between the Inspector and Bob. That seemed to be the one that had dropped the penny with Bump. No, she wasn't seeing it. He'd asked about Mr Farthingworth's wife and Mr Oxdale's grey stallion, which was also under Bob's charge. Then he'd ask how often the men visited the Hoof and Nail public house and discovered it was almost every night. 

What was there in that? She was missing something. A pout formed on her lips and she shook her head, feeling as if she were as thick as Christmas plum cake. She flipped back to the right page and read on. 

By supper time she was none the wiser, but Bump had paid off one of the stable hands a few pennies to ask the publican of the Hoof and Nail some questions that Bump himself couldn't, not being a local. 

The bell chimed and Charlotte closed the novel some twenty pages from the end, got up from the wing chair with a groan and a stretch, and toddled her way to the dinning room. Arthur was already there, properly dressed for dinner in suit jacket and tie.  

Jenny served. She wasn't nearly as graceful as Preston, but she managed to set the plates down without too much sloshing or spillage. 

"Where's Preston?" Charlotte asked, looking around.

"A message came for him, didn't it? Donned his coat and hat lickety-split like and said I should do the serving." Jenny shrugged, her round cheeks puffing out in a gesture of ignorance. "And here I am."   

"Thank you, Jenny."

"May I go back to the kitchen now, ma'am? It's just the cake is still in the oven and all, and I can't be in two places at once if it's not to over-bake."

"Of course."

Jenny waddled from the room, leaving Charlotte and Arthur to their meals. 

"George said he'd left a message for someone, a retired butler, who might be able to tell him something. Or not, depending," Arthur said reticently, as if he had no great confidence in what a retired butler might know.

"He'll turn up something, I'm sure. He's already identified the woman who keeps showing up, and that's brought us forward in bounds." 

Arthur nodded politely and unfolded the cloth serviette by his plate, draping it over his lap in graceful flourish. Charlotte followed suit. 

"Tell me again, how did Tarkington contact you the first time?"

"By letter. I don't have it any longer. I burnt it immediately."

"What was in it?" 

"That he knew about my . . . deviation . . . and mentioned the name of my old friend. He said he was in possession of a letter I'd sent to him, which would end up in the hands of the police if I didn't appear at a certain pub at a certain time. Alone, of course."

"Which you did?"

"What other choice did I have? Charlotte, I've seen this happen before, to others. We . . .  all know what happens when blackmailers don't get what they want and all of us fear it, to one degree or another." 

Charlotte was silent. Preston as well? Did he live in fear of being compromised by a note or taking a drink in the wrong establishment at the wrong time?  

"Don't worry, George is very careful. He never writes anything down," Arthur said, as if reading her mind. "And, this might amuse you, he plays the role of my butler, sometimes. Which allows us to be in the same hotel room for longer without any raised eyebrows."

Charlotte nodded, imagining for a few moments how much fun that could be, to trick your environment in such a fashion. She'd think it was screamingly funny. But perhaps they didn't see it in the same light, if it was a necessity and not a choice.

"What happened when you arrived at the pub the first time?" she asked. Arthur's expression darkened a bit.

"Mary Burke was there. I didn't know who she was, of course. She came over, sat down, and showed me a paper upon which an extract from the letter to my friend had been copied."

"You recognised it? The extract?"

Arthur took a bite of his dinner, chewing slowly. Finally he said, "no, not specifically. The date written at the top of the paper said 1908, quite a while ago. I don't remember every word I ever wrote to him, but we did exchange a number of letters. And in that year. I had no reason to believe they weren't my words."

"Hm. So Burke was there from the start. And Tarkington never showed his face?"

"No."

"Does the name Bramwell Tarkington, or even simply the family name jingle any bells with you?"

Arthur shook his head. "Not in the slightest." 

"Then . . . how did you know the person blackmailing you was a man, if you only ever saw Mary Burke? Did you not think it was her?"

"The handwriting. All of the notes she ever gave me were in the same masculine handwriting. She tried to convince me that she was the one orchestrating everything, but she couldn't have been. Or at least, not entirely." Arthur paused to take another bite of his dinner. "And besides, I had the strong impression. . ."

"What?"

"That she's unlettered. We were handed menus in one of the pubs, a chop house attempting to make more out of itself, and the look on her face . . . well, it was as if she had no idea what the marks on the paper were meant to represent. She simply handed it back and asked for another half pint of bitter."  

Charlotte lay down her knife and fork. "I say, but Bramwell is clever. First only old diamonds and now an illiterate accomplice who would have no idea what pieces he requested you steal or from whom. And here I was wondering how he would escape being blackmailed himself." 

Arthur nodded and mumbled his agreement. 

"Look, Arthur. My plan now is to get that letter of yours back somehow and then turn Bramwell over to the police, provided we know he's got some of the diamonds in his house in Mayfair. With no diamonds there, the case falls apart. Which means-"

The sounds of heavy footsteps approached and Jenny appeared with a tray upon which an oven-warm cake was cooling. Dropping it unceremoniously onto the sideboard, she peered at Charlotte's and Arthur's only half-finished plates and stood at attention, managing to show only the slightest bit of being put out over having to stray so far from the kitchen for so long. 

Charlotte switched the conversation to society gossip and they finished off their meal with cake and coffee. 

Five hours later, Charlotte was already in her nightdress and about ready to fall into bed when she heard a cautious knock at her door. It was Preston, still in his coat and hat. She could smell rain and the sharp coal smoke scent of London in the evening rising off of him. 

"I've located him. Tarkington's butler. He's been suspecting something was amiss for a while, but didn't know precisely what. He's willing to help us, but. . ." Preston sniffed and drew out a handkerchief which he dabbed at his nose with.  "But he wants our help in exchange."

"And what is our help?"

"Finding his grandson a position in a suitable household, post haste."

"Can be done, in a pinch." 

"And five hundred pounds." 

Charlotte almost laughed, but stopped herself. Preston looked pale, as if he had eaten something that violently disagreed with him. "We, I mean Arthur and I, can come up with that, I would imagine," he said, slightly short of breath. Charlotte wondered if they could.  

"What's he willing to give us for this help?" she asked.

"The original letter and any diamond jewellery in the house." 

"Complete discretion?"

Preston paused. "He drives a hard bargain, ma'am, but he's willing to let me in and allow me to help in the search, handing over the letter sight unseen and, more importantly, unread. For one hundred pounds. In cash. A mere downpayment, as he put it." Preston gave a snorting laugh.

Charlotte allowed herself a smile. "The scoundrel. I like him already. Done. I'll dash over to the bank first thing in the morning."

"Thank you, ma'am. I shall inform Arthur. Good night." Preston turned to go.

"Oh, wait! How did you find him so quickly? This butler?"

"Didn't I say, ma'am? He's the Paggett's former head of house. Retired now. They asked him to assist Mr Tarkington until he found servants of his own. Which he apparently hasn't lifted a finger thus far to do and Mr Rowan is rather at the end of his tether. He has weak knees and climbing the stairs is labour he'd rather not have to take on so frequently. Seventy-two years old, the good man. "

Charlotte shook her head at so much ignorance. "It never pays to anger servants, does it?"

"No, ma'am." Preston smiled. "Oh, and apparently he's always thought Celia an irritating little thing. Doesn't think she would have anything to do with serious crime, however. Wouldn't have the brains nor the stomach for it, apparently. 'All wiggle, no boom', as he put it. I thought that might amuse you. Good night, ma'am."

"Good night, Preston," Charlotte said, just managing to close the door before collapsing into peals of laughter.