"I'm as nervous as a race horse on market day," Charlotte said, adjusting her headband in the bedroom mirror to make sure the dark blue beads sparkled just right. "Mr Huntley has agreed to come tonight and sign his books for us. Have I mentioned that?'

"About thirty-seven times," answered Olivia Altringham, her hand on the doorknob. "Ready to go down?"

"And have I also mentioned thirty-seven times that I was forced to contact his editorial house and place a direct order with them when those stroppy newsagents at Paddington Station refused to order fifty copies of Bloody Murder in the Fens and The Rat-Chewed Rope? Even though I told them I would pay cash and in advance? Said they lack the storage space. If one chooses to believe that in such a huge station."

"About forty times, I think. And you slyly snuck in a request to the publisher for Mr Huntley to come and sign his books if you placed such a large order."

"And they said he would be delighted."

"And they said he would be delighted, yes." 

Charlotte twirled around, the fringe of her black and gold ensemble swishing. "How do I look? Divvy?"

"If you looked any more divine, Charlotte, we would be forced to erect a temple to you in the back garden. Now, shall we go down to the party, or spend the evening up here while the guests guzzle the champagne and we're left with Seltzer water?"

Charlotte pulled a face, narrowing her eyes playfully to slits. "You are cruel, Olivia. Tempting me with bubbly like that. Alright, let's go." 

On the ground floor, Charlotte's elephant of a bash in celebration of the capture of the diamond thief was in full swing. Most of the guests were unaware of the reason, and had merely shown up in their party clothes, looking to have a frightfully good time. 

But for those in the know -- Preston, Arthur and Sylvia Ricking, Anne and Rutland Frampton-Sacking, Mr Morris, Olivia and James, Brooks (who refused to stay down at Cloud Hill once he'd heard the news) and even for Robert Oakham, private detective -- it was a reason for intense relief and celebration. 

Preston and Mr Rowan, the Paggett's former butler, had found Arthur's letter in a desk drawer sloppily hidden under a Bible, along with a list of diamond jewellery and the names of their owners, the ones already having been stolen struck through with a line. Charlotte's included.

Most of the diamonds -- her glass and paste bracelet, Anne's collier and Victoria's tiara -- were hidden in a hat box in the back of a closet. 

Most, but not all. 

Bramwell had already turned Penelope's earrings into cash and some of the jewels had been removed from Anne's collier. 

They'd left the box where it was and Mr Rowan had locked up the house before going home. Bramwell, he said, would be out all night and only return in the wee hours. 

At nine the next morning, Charlotte had telephoned Mr Oakham, as had been her plan, telling him that the owner of the automobile with the registration A-513 was the thief and the exact location of the diamonds in his house. 

Silence had echoed on the other end of the line. Then Oakham's distant, sleep-furred voice said, "if this information is inaccurate, Miss Wynthorpe--"

"Mr Oakham. Should the police wish to question me in connection with this conversation I shall call you a liar and deny everything. Now, be so good and go apprehend the thief while he's still sleeping off his bender. Chalk the victory up to your extraordinary sleuthing abilities. I'm sure you can make something sound plausible. Good day." 

And she'd rung off. 

Two days later, the newspapers were full of stories about the apprehension of a nefarious diamond thief in Mayfair. Bramwell wasn't specifically named, but he was described so accurately, anyone who had met or heard of him knew exactly who was meant.  

A small bouquet of flowers had arrived that afternoon with the following note:

Your case has been resolved. Gossiper at charity society was a West London Chief Inspector's wife. Some total fabrication, as guessed. Pleasure working with you and thank you. Robert Oakham. 

Charlotte had stared at the small off-white square for a few moments before shaking her head in disbelief. A Chief Inspector's wife had been exaggerating and fabricating real police information to sound more in the know? That was almost too much to credit. Perhaps she should pay more attention in future to what the women at the Charity Society were nattering on about after all! 

In the swirl of partiers, Charlotte spotted Mr Oakham. She was about to go and press him for details of the arrest when a hand on her arm stopped her mid-step. 

"Do you know what?" Anne Frampton-Sacking said, the reek of gin washing over Charlotte's face like a blast from a factory furnace. "That burglar had already removed the largest diamonds from my collier. The police returned the damn thing to me with two gapping holes in it."

"Really?"

"And you know what I did?" Anne's eyes glowed with delight. "I had the others taken out and this made." She pointed at the sparkling roundel on her turban. "Like it?"

"It's lovely, Anne." Charlotte said with all sincerity. 

"Rutland's great aunt must be positively spinning in her grave." Anne barked a sputtering laugh and tossed back a healthy swig of gin. "Where's your beau, Carlton?"

"Mourning the end of our relationship. I cut him loose last week." 

Anne's eyebrows shot up. "And here I'd heard wedding bells were in the air."

"Idle tattle. You know better than to believe such defamatory remarks about me." Anne snorted into her glass, let go of Charlotte's arm and disappeared into the crowd.  

On a table in the front salon, piles of Mr Huntley's novels were waiting to be handed out. A few partiers had already taken one and were reading the first pages. Charlotte took the opportunity to praise the novels in the highest tones, saying that the author himself would be arriving shortly to autograph their copies. 

Without Inspector Bump, Charlotte would never have been able to bring her case to such a successful close. She couldn't tell anyone that, but the knowledge percolated in her stomach into a mixture of intense gratitude and trepidation at meeting the creator of such brilliant and educative mysteries. Of course, it had been Mr Wrex who had killed Mr Dooley, and the testimony of the publican that the two had been drinking together the night before Dooley's murder was the key to it all. She hadn't seen it, but Bump had. 

How did authors think these things up? And so quickly, too. 

"Ma'am." Preston was suddenly by her elbow. "Mr Huntley has just arrived. Shall I show. . . him in?"

"Right away!" Charlotte smoothed her hair and turned towards the doorway of the salon, her brightest and most beautiful smile turned up to full wattage. 

Inspector Bump himself was about to enter the room! Bump the Great! Sleuth extraordinaire! 

Preston reappeared. On his heels was a bird-like woman, petite and fine featured, her grey hair tied up in a neat bun and a pair of spectacles perched on her nose. A small handbag that had seen better days dangled from the sleeve of her old-fashioned black dress. 

"Ma'am, this is. . .ah hem. . .Mrs  Kathleen Huntley, author. Mrs Huntley, Charlotte Wynthorpe, your greatest admirer." Preston said, surprise and amusement fighting for the upper hand in his voice. 

"I'm tickled pink to meet a reader of mine," Mrs Huntley said in a strong Welsh lilt. "First time, really. I'm never the one to be getting those letters of appreciation. And you live in such a grand house, too." She glanced round appreciatively.

Charlotte's mouth opened but nothing came out. Inspector Bump -- an elderly Welsh woman? Never in a million tennis matches would she have guessed that!  

"And I am . . . fabulously pleased to meet you, Mrs Huntley." Charlotte finally managed to get out. 

"Och, call me Kathleen, dearie. Now, where are those copies I'm meant to be signing? They told me it's quite the mountain. You must be a genuine admirer of good old Bumpy! I have to say, I am as well. He's modelled on my brother Dewi, God bless him. Now, I've brought me own pen, you needn't trouble your manservant here for one." Mrs Huntley lifted her tiny handbag to indicate her preparedness, and gave Preston a friendly pat on the arm. 

"Champagne, Mrs Huntley?" he asked, not able to keep a beaming smile from creeping across his face. 

"Oh! Well. If a glass or two is on offer, young man, I shall never say no," Mrs Huntley answered with a smile of her own. 

"And you, ma'am?" Preston turned to Charlotte.

"Yes, one for me, as well," she answered, taking Mrs K Huntley's arm. "Let the party begin."

 THE END

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Thank you for reading Charlotte Wynthorpe and the Case of the Disappearing Diamonds. I do hope you've enjoyed the party! 🍸🎉

--Berengaria di Rossi 

For those who like photo galleries, I have no clear idea of what Charlotte, Preston, or even Arthur Ricking look like, so I can't help there. 

But if you want to know what Kathleen "The Real Inspector Bump" Huntley looks like in my mind, I see Madame Tussaud but with late 1800s, not early 1800 clothing.