"Diana, what's happening here?" Charles asked, crossing the hallway with quick, measured strides, his earlier easy sociability replaced by genuine alarm at the sight of his wife's raised voice and the maid's tear-streaked, frightened face.
"She stole my diamond bracelet," Diana said, gesturing furiously toward Marianne, who remained frozen on the floor, apparently too stunned by the accusation to formulate any further defense. "I found the empty case in her cleaning cart not ten minutes ago."
Charles crouched to retrieve the small velvet box, examining it with a frown, the latch clicking softly as he opened and closed it, confirming its emptiness with his own eyes. "Marianne," he said, his tone carrying more genuine curiosity than accusation, "do you have any explanation for how this ended up in your cart?"
"I don't," Marianne said, tears streaming freely now, her voice breaking with the particular helpless panic of someone watching circumstantial evidence assemble itself against her despite her complete innocence. "I clean a dozen rooms every day. Anyone could have put that there. I promise you, I have never touched Mrs. Ashford's jewelry."
Diana's expression remained hard, unmoved by Marianne's evident distress, already reaching for her phone with sharp, decisive movements. "Call the police immediately," she said, her voice carrying the flat, stern certainty of someone who had already decided the matter was settled.