Charlotte Wynthorpe and the Case of the Disappearing Diamonds

6. Milkmaids

The next morning found Charlotte at the breakfast table, attempting to coordinate the reading of chapter fourteen of Bloody Murder in the Fens with successfully guiding forkfuls of egg and rashers into her mouth.

It wasn't working terribly well.

Food that had been left hovering in the air during particularly gripping passages continually dropped from the fork back onto her plate with a soft splat. The tea in her nearly-full cup had grown cold, as had the four pieces of toast standing at attention in the silver toast rack.

Preston raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as another bite of egg fell unnoticed back onto its fellows, tumbled over the edge of the plate and onto the pristine, starched tablecloth.

"Inspector Bump certainly doesn't waste any time, does he?" Charlotte finally mumbled and clapped the paperback shut.

She observed her plate and the chaos on it for a moment, then said, "He happened onto a milkmaid who had, luckily for him, been traversing the fields just when the carriage in question trotted past on the main road. The maid had no idea who or what she saw, but Inspector Bump did. Recognised her description of the carriage straight away. Now he knows that Wendel was on his way to Fothering Abbey two hours before sunset and can now return to Withington to confront Mr Greene."

"Is that so, ma'am?"

"It is so." Charlotte set down her fork and took up her tea cup, but didn't drink. "It is very much so. Let's see, who could have seen something vital without knowing what she saw?"

"I'm not following, ma'am. Wasn't the milkmaid the unwitting witness?" Preston took up the silver tea pot and approached the dining table, a calculating sparkle in his eye. Charlotte automatically held out her cup.

"Oh, excuse me, ma'am. You aren't finished yet, my mistake." Preston took a step back.

Charlotte stared into her cup as if surprised to see it containing tea. Draining it in three gulps, she held the empty cup out to Preston, who refilled it and returned to his place by the sideboard, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. 

"No. I mean, yes. In the novel, but I am referring to my own investigation."

"Is this the dire mystery you mentioned intending to solve, ma'am?"

"It is, indeed. And I must say, Mr K. Huntley continues to be of boundless service on that front. I've already viewed the scene of the crime, questioned the most recent victim, gained important information on the modus operandi  and — oh, which reminds me, I've just bought a painting. Throw it anywhere when it arrives, will you? — and now I need a milkmaid."

Charlotte tapped a finger against her mouth as she ransacked her memory for London equivalents of clueless witnesses. Preston stood at attention, his eyes wandering the walls of the dining room as if mentally searching for where he could throw a painting.

"Linny Parson-Smythe!" Charlotte exclaimed. "She was there, and if anyone suits the description of unwitting anything, it's good old Linny. She's so utterly gullible you could convince her the moon was made of cheese and nibbled on monthly by precious celestial mice, if only you sounded sincere enough."

"Are you saying it isn't, ma'am?" Preston asked. "What terrible news."

"Sorry to have to break that to you," Charlotte said, giving him an impish grin. "I know the truth must be painful." Preston's humour was subtle, but a completely straight-laced butler wouldn't have lasted a month in her employ. Preston had lasted a little over ten years.

"That's alright, ma'am," he said with a sigh as he moved to clear away the dishes. "My world shall remain intact as long as you don't tell me it's not the pixies who flutter about in the garden, painting the roses with perfume each night."