The Hummingbird was a popular restaurant with a generous dance floor and stained glass lamps that bathed the well-heeled diners in gentle, flattering tones of pink, green and blue. Charlotte and Carlton sat at a table for two along one dark-wood panelled wall, two red leather menus laying unregarded on the table between them. 

They were only on their second drink and Charlotte was regretting having broached the subject of the robberies with Carlton. She could already tell he was going to be utterly useless.

Devilishly handsome, of course, but still utterly useless.

"What's there to remember?" he said, smiling at Charlotte as he swirled his whisky glass in one hand, making the liquid revolve in hypnotic waves. His blue eyes, so perfectly matched by the blue of his jacket and tie under the starched collar, twinkled in the electric light. "It was a party like hundreds of others we've been to. Nothing special."

"Anne's collier was stolen. That's not special?"

Carlton shrugged. "We only found that out at breakfast. The mere smell of those bloody sausages! Thought I was going to be sick right into the ferns, quite honestly. What sadist serves up a full banquet after a night like that? That's all I recall, really. And besides, I only have eyes for you, darling, you know that. Everything else is secondary."

On any other day, Charlotte would have enjoyed and encouraged Carlton's flirting, perhaps participating herself if she was in the mood. Now, however, after having those juicy details she'd overheard at the charity society sloshing around in her brain all afternoon, Carlton's well-intentioned compliments were like tiny pebbles caught in her shoe. Nothing earnest, but it would annoy her until she slipped it off and beat the damned thing out against some brickwork. 

"Carlton, I'm asking a serious question. Let's start with something basic that perhaps you can remember. Who all was there? Not at breakfast, during the night, is what I'm asking."  

"Oh, not again." Carlton put his drink down with a firm clack and reached into his jacket for his cigarette case. He took a cigarette out, lit a match and took a few puffs before saying anything more. Charlotte watched him, wondering what show he was going to put on next. She wasn't disappointed.

"Is this a test?" he asked, finally, through puffs. "Like the Celia debacle? What do you want to hear? That I'd hidden one of my  former lady friends in a cupboard somewhere while you were looking the other way? Sorry to disappoint, darling. No lady friends in cupboards. Or under the kitchen sink or perched on the roof like a pigeon. I promise. You are the only woman on my mind, then, now and forever. Happy?"  He reached for his whisky.

"That wasn't my question and don't want to hear a word about wretched Celia Paggett or any of your other former lady friends. If I did, I'd simply ask you straight out and take the answer on the chin. Look." Charlotte leaned forward and fixed Carlton with as piercing of a gaze as she could muster after two dirty martinis. "I don't remember much about the party, and it's rather important that someone remember something. So do me the favour and remember something, Carlton, be a dear."

"Why? What's so important about who was there? If you'd tell me, maybe I could help."

"Because Anne's necklace was stolen!"

"I'm still not seeing the point. We didn't take it and neither of us saw who did. We were too busy having a smashing time of it downstairs and in the garden to even think of crawling up the stairs and causing havoc in unoccupied rooms... or at least not that kind of havoc." Carlton winked as he took another sip of his drink. 

Charlotte ignored the wink. She rather enjoyed causing havoc in unoccupied bedrooms during parties, but she'd only tempted Carlton into it once, and he'd been so nervous about being caught going at it that it hadn't been any fun. The man hadn't understood that getting caught by other partiers, or even the host, with your naked bum bouncing in the air was exactly what made creeping upstairs so exciting and the reason simply everybody did it. Another point in favour of giving him the old heave-ho. 

"I doubt if even Rutland or Anne could come up with a definitive guest list, so it's pointless asking me to," Carlton said, holding his cigarette away from himself while he gave it a through examining before putting it back in his wide, kissable mouth. "You know how these things work, friends bring friends who bring friends. If someone really did steal Anne's necklace, and she didn't simply misplace it like a silly goose, then it's Anne business to find it, not ours. That's not important for us. What is important is that we choose a jeweller for our engagement rings soon."

"Oh, not now, Carlton, please." Charlotte reached for her martini and took a large sip. 

Somehow, Carlton had got it in his head that marriage was looming in their near future and had been making statements about rings and suitable addresses for a few months. 

More troubling, so had his mother. 

They seemed to believe she was playing it cool and would come round if he kept up the emotional bombardment for long enough. She knew she'd have to burst his bubble one day, and that when she did, then it would be over between them. He'd not be able to accept the rejection, and he was still too much fun to be around. 

Carlton was a splendid dancer, his jokes were genuinely funny, he never kept her away from the punch bowl, like some other men did their girls, and even if he wasn't as adventurous as she was in the bedroom, he left no complaints open. 

No, she didn't want to let go of him . . . just yet. A point against giving him the old heave-ho.

Carlton stared into his glass. "Alright. But I still don't see why you're so keen on squeezing me about what happened at Rutland and Anne's party. It was probably a servant. It normally is."

Charlotte considered whether she should tell him everything, and decided it would probably be the only way to gain his cooperation. 

"No, it couldn't have been a servant, because it hasn't been the only diamond theft recently. It was only one in a series. Listen, I overheard some rivetingly interesting information today and -" 

"Do you mean gossip? Oh, Charlotte. Alright, that is a bit alarming, if it's true. But what does it have to do with us? With you? A series of thefts, that's a matter for the police, darling, surely. You shouldn't go making things into your business that aren't. That's the fastest route to attracting trouble."

"It may very well become my business if I throw a party and some of my diamonds disappear! Carlton, use your brain. What if a thief is purposely targeting members of our set? The robbery at Anne's place was just one of several. More will certainly follow. I could be next."

Carlton shrugged. "Then remove your diamonds from the house if you're after throwing a party. Would seem to be the sensible thing to do." 

"Oh, pork pies and biscuits!" Charlotte exclaimed, waving a hand in frustration. "Of course, I can remove my diamonds. That's not the point, and you know it."

"Then what is?"

"What is," she said, slowly and clearly, "is that someone is robbing our set, darling. And that someone is either a professional, or one of us. One of us, Carlton. A snake in the nest, as it were. Don't you think it's important to determine which it is? For all of our sakes?"

"No, I think it's a matter for the police."

"Tosh. No one in their right mind involves the police if they can help it. It's just not done. We solve matters like this ourselves."

"Why not? What's wrong with turning something like that over to the proper authorities? Father had a case of pilfering in one of our warehouses a few years back and the police were able to apprehend the culprit rather quickly. We were all terribly relieved. No, it's best when the right men handle these things." 

"That was a warehouse, not a private home. Look, darling, the police see base motivations and ill-breeding everywhere because they're not used to anything else. That's the problem. They're tradesmen, recruited from the working classes, and no one in polite society reveals their private life to a tradesman. How absurd! The police are not our peers and have no understanding of the rules we live by. That's what's wrong with it."

Carlton leaned back in his chair and examined his cigarette. The petulant look had returned. "Ah." 

"What now?"

"I wasn't born into the upper classes, like you were. My father is only of the wealthy merchant class. I wouldn't understand. I'm just another tradesman."  

"This isn't about you. I'm attempting to explain-" 

"And I'm telling you it's none of your business! Leave it be, Charlotte. You'll listen to me, if you know what's good for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that if you go poking your nose in where it doesn't belong, you could easily stir up scandal where there is none. Don't go getting involved, darling, is what I'm saying. You aren't Inspector Bucket, nor are you Sherlock Holmes. No one has come knocking on your door to beg for help. You simply overheard some women chatting and what real evidence is that? To be honest, I don't want to have to explain to my peers why my betrothed is in the papers."

"I'm not the one breaking in and skimming diamonds! What public scandal could asking a few discreet questions cause?"

Carlton gave a snorting laugh. "Plenty! Now, where's that waiter? Shall we order? I'm starving."

"Carlton--"

"I'm finished talking about this. Put the notion of playing detective right out of your pretty head immediately, darling. I won't have it. I won't have my wife involving herself in scandal." 

"Since when am I your wife?" Charlotte asked, her eyes narrowed into slits. Carlton didn't answer and she knew she wouldn't get an answer. The menu he held in front of his face like a wall demonstrated that sufficiently. 

Charlotte reached for her drink again.

Protests and restrictions only spurred her on. Carlton had yet to learn that, if he ever would. A point for giving him the old heave-ho. 

Or perhaps not, Charlotte considered. Perhaps it would be more fun to have the delicious pleasure of proving nay-sayers wrong in the end.

She wanted to know who was taking those diamonds, and she would find it out. Why couldn't she  launch her own investigation and find the snake in the nest, or the criminal who thought he could so easily breeze into their homes and back out again with diamonds in his pocket. 

Charlotte felt her resolve strengthening throughout dinner as Carlton nattered on about his father's colonial goods business, which he already saw as his business and talked about it as if it were such. 

Nothing would stop her from finding the thief, she told herself.

Nothing. 

Not Carlton, not the police, not the threat of scandal.

Charlotte Holmes, the detective, would see to that.