Charlotte heaved a sigh as she turned the last page of Bloody Murder in the Fens and read the words THE END. 

She felt both relived that the murderer had been found, but somewhat put out that the story was over and she'd not be picking up any more tips from the indomitable Inspector Bump. 

Closing the novel, she placed it on the side table, propped her elbows on the armrests of the wing chair, and settled in for a good think.

Anyone casually observing from a corner might have assumed Charlotte was giving the expanse of her yellow-walled sitting room as serious once-over, but that would have been misleading. Her gaze roamed over the thick carpets and ornate fireplace without really seeing them. By and by, her eyes settled on the large windows and the garden beyond which was being watered by a dignified, but unmistakably London, drizzle.

The good Inspector had succeeded in catching Lizzie's murderer by making him believe there was still incriminating evidence lying about in Roger Green's home. 

There wasn't, of course, but the murderer couldn't have known that. He'd assumed the worst, and climbed through the parlour window in the dead of night to search about for whatever it could be.  

And when the murderer -- who turned out to be Farmer Jenkins from down the road --  had stepped in, Bump, who had been waiting in the darkness, had turned the lights on over his startled head and apprehended him. The whole story had come out, all the greed and lust, before two constables appeared to lead Jenkins away, leaving Bump to enjoy his last pipe on the Fens before returning to London.

From that, she gleaned that Mr K. Huntley advised deception for the catching of criminals. 

The principal was, no criminal could know exactly what the Inspector hunting him did, or didn't, know. He could only make guesses and assumptions. Inspector Bump had strewn false rumours around the village so vague that Farmer Jenkins had seen only his own fears in them. There was logically no evidence in Roger Green's home, but Farmer Jenkins hadn't been able to stop himself from climbing in the window to search for it anyway. 

Charlotte watched rivulets of water race each other down the window pane before they disappeared into the dark green shadow cast by a mulberry bush.

The diamond thief was climbing in windows all the time. Could he possibly be lured into climbing into the wrong window, where Charlotte would be waiting to slam the lights on and apprehend him red-handed? 

The idea was appealing. She scratched her nose and followed the descent of a few more rivulets with her eyes. 

Appealing or not, there was one major water hazard to that notion. 

Inspector Bump had already had a very good idea who the murderer was, hadn't he? He'd suspected Farmer Jenkins for a while. Ever since that market day in Lower Heatherworth. He hadn't simply waited in the dark for just anyone to come stumbling through the window to apprehend them for Lizzie's murder. He'd been waiting for Jenkins and no one else.

And just who should she be waiting for? She had no clue who was skimming diamonds. Not even a shred. Not even the faintest twinkle. 

The shrill ring of the telephone echoed out in the hall. Presently, she heard footsteps and the faint sound of Preston's voice as he answered.

Anne's hastily remembered guest list scrawled on the back of a delivery receipt for canvas was upstairs in Charlotte's bedroom. Many of the names on it were familiar, but not all, and there was no way of knowing if it were complete. 

If only she knew if it was a professional thief or one of her set! That was the most frustrating point of this entire affair. Was she looking for someone she knew, or someone she didn't? 

Four more penny paperbacks waited on the table where she'd left them. Only the brown paper wrapping they'd been packaged  in had been cleared away. Preston had probably thought she'd ordered them in a particular way and had not wanted to disturb her arrangement. 

She picked up the stack and looked through them again, hoping that she'd accidentally managed to include another of Inspector Bump's cases in the novels she'd randomly plucked off the rack.

It seemed not.

Charlotte opened The Horrid Poisonings of Cheltenham Row and read the first few pages, but it wasn't what she was looking for. Neither was Lord Eccleston Dies.  Although, it did have a rather fabulous opening scene in which Lord Eccleston's corpse was discovered in the library during a raging storm, Lady Eccleston's panicked screams drowned out by crashing thunder and sweeping gales buffeting the house. 

She'd come back to that one later. 

No, Charlotte wanted more Inspector Bump. He'd proven himself invaluable and now he'd jolly well gone and solved his own mystery, abandoning Charlotte to hers, the scoundrel. She reached for Bloody Murder in the Fens again, holding it up in one hand and giving it a black look.  

"It would appear you've won me over, Mr Huntley," Charlotte said to the novel, its spine slanted and a few pages loose from being read all the way through. "I now feel compelled to return to Paddington Station and purchase more of your nonsense. I do hope you're pleased with yourself."  

Charlotte slapped the book down onto the pile of other mysteries, climbed out of the wing chair and opened the door to the hallway. Preston was still on the phone, standing with the earpiece pressed against his ear, the slim body of the phone clasped in the other. Charlotte halted in surprise. She had completely forgotten the phone had rung. 

". . .needs a man for his front office. Answering the telephone and arranging appointments primarily, I would assume.  . . yes . . . that's correct, a private detective. . . when Miss Wynthorpe rung up, no one was there to answer the ringing which . . . I'm not at liberty to say, Mr Morris, but I have seen his rooms and assure you that the man is in desperate need of an assistant . . . first floor. . .I wouldn't know . . . very good . . .  You're quite welcome, Mr Morris, good day."

Preston placed the earpiece on its hook and the telephone down on the round marble telephone table. 

"Mr Morris?" Charlotte asked. 

"Yes, ma'am. The London liaison for Miss Altringham's veteran's employment programme. The young man with the missing left arm," Preston gestured vaguely towards his own left arm. "I was telephoning through the tip that Oakham Enquires is in need of a man to handle the front office, which you will recall was appallingly vacant. Hopefully, it will lead to an employment opportunity for one of Miss Altringham's charges."

"How very thoughtful of you, Preston."

"Thank you, ma'am, we do what we can to support Miss Altringham's efforts." 

Charlotte smiled. Olivia was a living saint to Preston. She'd seen to it that Charlotte and everyone in her household had made it through the rationing and extreme lacks during the war by diverting fresh food and meat from her estate away from the army, and to them, whenever she could. Preston had broken down in tears when an army ambulance packed to the roof with prime firewood had arrived in the middle of the night one winter. It was a sight Charlotte had never forgotten. 

"But before that," Preston continued, "Mr Oakham himself rung up to say that he will, indeed, take your case. Now that the cheque you so graciously gave him has turned out to be genuine." An ironic gleam flared in Preston's eyes. 

"He no longer believes I'm a charlatan, then?"

"I do believe that notion is beginning to wobble, ma'am." 

"Well, that's good news. Look, I need to dash over to Paddington. I've just completed reading Mr K. Huntley's ghastly detective novel and I need another of the blasted things forthwith. Ring me a cab, will you?"

Preston frowned. "Right away, ma'am. Have you finished all of the ones in the sitting room? May I --"

"No, I haven't. I need another of Huntley's, that all. He's given me some soakingly good ideas and I want to keep them coming on at a fair slosh. The other novels don't look nearly as helpful."

"Ah, then the murderer of young Lizzie has been unmasked to your satisfaction?"

"Indeed, he has. Shall I not tell you in case you want to experience it yourself?"

"That is a pleasure I believe I shall forgo, ma'am," Preston said with an indulgent smile, "but I'm eager to hear whatever you wish to tell me of the plot." 

Charlotte put one finger to her chin and proceeded to describe the spreading of false rumours and the absent evidence and the window sash in the dark and how Inspector Bump had thrown the light on and how Farmer Jenkins had revealed all before he was taken away to his doom.

"Riveting, ma'am. Astounding the imagination of certain authors."

"Astounding is right. And now I'm wondering if my thief might not be tricked a similar fashion to come to a place where he might be easily captured." 

Preston blinked a few times and then with a quick intake of breath asked, "You aren't suggesting using your own diamonds to lure the thief here, are you, ma'am?"

Charlotte shrugged. "No clue what I'm suggesting, quite honestly. I've got loads of facts, but no theories nor solid conclusions. Inspector Bump is miles ahead of me and he consists of nothing more than cheap paper and printer's ink. Not very flattering, but there we are. A cab, if you would please, Preston."  

Charlotte bounded up the stairs to change into going-out clothing as a wide-eyed Preston reached once again for the telephone.