A Sinister Service

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Trent,” Mr. Tremaine said as he came to a halt in front of the boy.

  Phoebe needed no more than that—no more that the weight of dread hanging on that one word. Trent.

  The color leached from the boy’s face. Fox went to his side, standing shoulder to shoulder, but Trent didn’t acknowledge him. He frowned at Mr. Tremaine, and then suddenly turned about and started to walk away.

  “Trent,” the pottery’s owner said. “Wait. There’s something—”

  Trent took off running, Jester loping at his side. Fox and Phoebe exchanged startled glances, and then set off together in the direction the boy had taken. Phoebe wondered if he even knew where he was going. When he turned a corner and disappeared, Fox shot ahead of Phoebe in a burst of speed. She hefted her skirts higher and tried to meet their pace, but she was no match in her pumps, especially on the cobblestones.

  She found them at the base of a bottle kiln. The doorway of the structure was sealed tight, its chimney puffing black smoke to mingle with the clouds. Ash drifted gently down. Fox had his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Jester’s large eyes glistened as he gazed up at them.

  “Come back with me. Hear what Mr. Tremaine has to say.”

  Trent shook his head. “I already know what he has to say. My father . . . He . . .” Trent pinched his lips together.

  To Fox’s credit, he didn’t try to dissuade Trent of that conclusion. It had been all too obvious.

  “Don’t you wish to know what happened?” Phoebe asked Trent gently. “And your mother. We’ll need to let her know.”

  “My mother is dead. Over a year now.”

  Stricken to have made such a mistake, she caught Fox’s eye. “Why didn’t you mention this,” she mouthed, but then realized it simply hadn’t come up. While last night they had discussed Fox’s good fortune in coming upon a friend from school, they hadn’t delved too deeply into Trent Mercer’s background. Except . . .

  Except to comment on his obvious resentment at having been withdrawn from Eton to work at Crown Lily. A chill traveled Phoebe’s back, but she shook away the sensation. Trent’s education surely had nothing to do with today’s tragedy.

  “I’m sorry, Trent.” She groped for something more useful to say, but came up empty. A sudden gust swept the area and whistled between the bottle kilns, raising a mournful cry. Phoebe shivered in earnest now, as did the two boys. “Come. Let’s go back. We’ll go inside. Trent, you don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t wish to.”

  He appeared not to hear her, or at least he appeared disinclined to respond. He stood there several seconds, until Phoebe began to wonder what else to do. Then he nodded, turned, and started walking. Fox kept pace at his side. Phoebe followed a few steps behind them. Fox and Trent knew each other, making Fox the right person to offer comfort, whether with words or with sympathetic silence.

  When they returned to the main enclosure, Phoebe let Fox and Trent join a grim-faced Mr. Tremaine. They spoke quietly with one another, and Mr. Tremaine walked with them back in the direction of the administrative building. The ambulance had gone, but there were several police sedans in its place, with constables spread out among the lingering crowd. Phoebe approached one and waited until he’d finished questioning a pair of workers, men in coveralls and aprons smeared with clay, their flat caps in their hands. Both men mirrored Mr. Tremaine’s bleak expression.

  Phoebe had a quick change of heart, and instead of addressing the policeman, she waited until he’d walked away and spoke to the workers. “Excuse me, but can you tell me what happened?” When they hesitated, eyeing her clothing and judging her not to be one of them, she explained, “Trent Mercer is my brother’s friend, and we’d like to be able to help him through this. His father is dead, isn’t he?”

  Both men nodded, and the heavier of the two, with a short-trimmed beard and broad, round shoulders, said, “It’s none-too-pleasant a thing, miss. I daresay you don’t want to know what happened.”

  “But you’re wrong, I do. As I said, my family will want to be able to help Trent, and we can’t do that unless we know the facts. How did his father die?” Although they hadn’t confirmed it, that much Phoebe was certain of.

  The other man, shorter than the first and with a protruding belly, wiped a sleeve across his brow. “Gus Abbott, he’s our head clay mixer that operates the grinding pans. He found ’im. Found Ron Mercer when he went in to start fillin’ the pans.”

  Phoebe remembered the grinding pans from yesterday, those giant vats where clay, stone, and bone ash poured in through chutes and were ground down and mixed together by rotating blades. Like Mrs. Ellison’s hand-cranked dough kneader, Fox had said. But larger. So much larger.

  Large enough to crush a man’s body.

  An image of just that formed in her brain and her hand flew to her mouth. “You don’t mean to say . . . he was found in one of the pans . . .”

  The two workers simultaneously nodded. The bearded one said, “I told you, you didn’t want to know, miss.”

  “But . . . how did he get there?”

  The bearded fellow shrugged. The round-bellied one murmured, “Not by accident. I can tell you that, miss. Not by accident.”

  * * *

  Eva was surprised when she heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the drive. She looked out of her third-floor window to see the Renshaws’ Rolls-Royce approaching the house and wondered why they were back so soon. Had they reached an agreement, consulted with the designer, and placed the order so quickly? The siblings had decided to compromise and allow Julia to lead in the decisions, but this seemed much too good to be true.

  The call buzzer in her room went off, surprising that she would be needed so soon after the family’s return. She smoothed her frock, secured a few hairs that had come loose from the low bun at her nape, and made her way downstairs. The Renshaws had gone directly into the drawing room. She found them, along with the boy from yesterday, Fox’s friend, sitting close together around the hearth. They were stony-faced and silent. Fox sat beside his friend, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Then Eva noticed Trent Mercer’s dog lying on the rug at the boy’s feet. The animal’s eyes were open, but glassy, and as he breathed in and out, he made low, whimpering sounds.

  A sense of unease immediately gripped Eva. It only increased when Lady Phoebe, having spotted her in the doorway, quickly rose and drew Eva out into the main hall.

  “Something dreadful has happened.”

  “I already guessed, simply by looking at all of you.” Eva inwardly braced herself. “What is it?”

  “Trent’s father. He’s dead.”

  “How? Some kind of—”

  “Accident?” Phoebe shook her head. “I wish it were, but it doesn’t seem possible. He was found shortly after we arrived at the factory in one of the grinding pans.”

  Eva gasped, unable to stop herself. “He’s a designer. Why would he be in that part of the factory?”

  “He did have a reason. It was to discuss a new formula he’d devised for mixing the clay. But the man he went to speak with was in another area altogether. We learned he was at one of the warehouses at the time, helping load a shipment of stone into the railcars that would bring it to the clay-processing building. I’m told he has plenty of witnesses to vouch for him.”

  “So then, Mr. Mercer went to the grinding room looking for this man, and encountered someone else.”

  “Or someone followed him inside. But listen to this.” Phoebe grasped Eva’s hand and walked with her another several yards away from the drawing-room doorway, until they stood near the foot of the staircase. “Trent’s dog, Jester, came barreling out of the building after the ambulance brigade went in.”

  “Do you think Trent had something to do with his father’s death?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not. We saw him outside searching for Jester. At least he said he was. And when he learned of his father’s death . . .” Lady Phoebe fell silent. Her brow creased. Eva waited silently, until her lady met her gaze. �
��He hasn’t cried. Not once. He was visibly upset and went striding off, but . . .”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Eva said with a shake of her head. “People react in different ways. Especially young men who have been taught not to show their feelings.”

  “Yes, but yesterday Trent let us see quite clearly how unhappy he was with his father’s decision to withdraw him from Eton.” Lady Phoebe searched Eva’s face, her expression filled with hope that Eva would dissuade her of her suspicions.

  None of them would wish to see Fox’s friend guilty of such a horrible crime. Patricide. The very word chilled Eva’s heart. But then she, too, remembered something from yesterday.

  “I also met someone who resented Ronald Mercer. Her name is Moira . . . Moira Whitstone . . . no . . . Wickham. That was it. Moira Wickham.” She pictured the sturdy-framed woman and remembered her bitterness at being stuck in a position she felt overqualified for. “She’s a painter. The supervisor of the painting department, as a matter of fact. She wishes she could be a designer, which is more creative, but Ronald Mercer persuaded Mr. Tremaine not to take a chance on her, and said women should remember their proper places. Or words to that effect.”

  “Hmm. That does make me feel a bit better. Not because I want this Moira Wickham to be guilty, or that I believe she had enough cause to want him dead. But if both Trent and this woman resented Ronald Mercer, surely others had, too. The constables were interviewing the workers. I’m sure they all have a story to tell about Ronald Mercer, and that will lead the police to the guilty person.”

  “Do you think it’s a worker, and not someone from outside who might have held a grudge against the man?”

  “No, it had to be someone who knew their way around the factory, and who knew how the grinder works. Dear heavens, Eva, he was thrown in and . . .” Lady Phoebe bit down and pressed her lips together, as if holding back illness. But Eva knew her better than that. Phoebe Renshaw was hardier than the average aristocrat.

  “You can tell me, my lady.”

  “The grinder was turned on.”

  Eva clutched the collar of her dress. “How ghastly.”

  “It could have been worse. Apparently, the blades hit him and jammed, so the body wasn’t completely . . . well . . . you know. But this was a horrid crime, all the same.”

  Eva nodded her agreement. Then she thought about what Lady Phoebe had said only moments ago, about the local constabulary finding the guilty party. “So, are you saying you’ll leave it to the police?” She almost added this time. It was on the tip of her tongue, but why bring up past incidents that had nothing to do with this one? Those other times, she and Phoebe had been drawn in because of the involvement of a friend or family member, or because the crime had disturbed the tranquility of their village, Little Barlow.

  “I feel frightfully bad for Trent,” Phoebe replied, “and we’ll do what we can for him. You know his mother is deceased, too.”

  “I didn’t, my lady. I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Yes, Fox told me it was during the influenza epidemic. So he’s an orphan now. I can only hope he has family somewhere who’ll take him in.”

  “Phoebe? Eva?” They looked up as Amelia came across the hall to them. Her eyes were large and misty. It reminded Eva that no matter how much she had matured in the past year, the youngest Renshaw sister was still but a girl and must be reeling from today’s events. “I’m sorry, but it’s just so hard to be in there right now. No one is speaking, and Trent looks so very lost. Phoebe, won’t you come back? I’m so afraid I’ll say something wrong, and poor Julia. She looks done in.” The words were no sooner out of Lady Amelia’s mouth than her hand flew to her lips and her eyes spilled over. “What a beastly thing to say. I’m so sorry.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “No, I’m sorry, dearest Amellie. I shouldn’t have left you.” Lady Phoebe hugged her sister, then squeezed her hand. “I only wished to let Eva know what happened.”

  “Why don’t you both go back in with the others, and I’ll go see about some tea and perhaps something a teensy bit stronger. I think you could all use it.” Eva offered them a sympathetic look. She understood how difficult it would be not only to put on a brave face under these circumstances, but remain supportive of the young man in their midst. What did one say? How to offer reassurances, when there were none? For an instant she was grateful for her position, which would not require her to interact on any personal level with Trent Mercer. She felt immediately ashamed and repented the thought as cowardly, and hoped she could be of some comfort to him, and to her ladies.

  Belowstairs the servants were already abuzz with the news. In these days of telephones, Eva shouldn’t have been surprised. An industrialist like Gilbert Townsend had, of course, equipped his home with the latest gadgets and conveniences.

  She came first upon the housekeeper and the head butler speaking in terse whispers about the bizarre circumstances surrounding the Crown Lily design director’s death; the cook and her two assistants were speculating over the making of a rich bread pudding. A gaggle of footmen appeared to be laying odds about who the guilty party might be. And even the hall boy and scullery maid seemed able to talk of nothing else. They all quieted as Eva walked by and she could feel their gazes on her back as she passed them. She wasn’t one of them, and they couldn’t be certain where her loyalties lay. They couldn’t afford for her to report back to Lady Annondale or Miss Townsend about how the servants had descended into gossip.

  Eva asked one of the kitchen assistants to help her assemble tea, enough to include Veronica Townsend and Mildred Blair, should they happen to appear downstairs. Eva cringed slightly at the possibility. Those two ladies would have no idea what they were walking into, and she thought perhaps someone should warn them, lest they do or say something to make matters worse for young Trent Mercer.

  “The tea is kept in there.” Barely gazing up from the batter she was mixing, the assistant cook used her elbow to point to a dry-goods pantry that opened onto the kitchen. Eva thanked her and went to see what kinds of flavors were stored there, supposing she shouldn’t expect too much assistance from the staff of Lyndale Park. Basically, they would see her as an intruder, an attitude she had encountered at other great houses when traveling with her ladies.

  She came back into the kitchen with a rich-scented Darjeeling and noticed the assistant had put the kettle on to boil. Eva smiled and thanked her. The girl directed her to the larder for cakes and biscuits. The family had breakfasted not long ago, but experience had taught Eva that food usually helped settle nerves and soothe tensions. If nothing else, it distracted from whatever matter had arisen.

  After assembling three trays, including one that held a small decanter of sherry and cordial glassware, as well as an earthenware bowl filled with water, she enlisted two footmen to help carry the lot up to the drawing room. Their expressions told her they didn’t appreciate being given orders by a visiting servant, but they nonetheless hefted the heavier two trays and started up the stairs. They surprised her by discussing the matter on everyone’s minds, almost as if they forgot she was there.

  “Your sister works there, doesn’t she? Does she have any idea who might have done it?” the one leading their small procession said. Both young men were tall, broad-shouldered, trim in the waist, and wore their livery as a gentleman wears a finely tailored suit—with pride and a dash of elegance. The only trait that distinguished one from the other was the color of their hair, and barely that, for one was a dark brunette, the other raven-haired.

  Eva listened carefully. Perhaps this young man, whose sister worked at Crown Lily, had insights to share.

  “She has a few notions about it. She’s thinking it’s the other designer. My guinea is on old Gus Abbott,” the black-haired one said.

  “What have you heard?” Eva posed the question in a friendly tone, hoping they would see it as no more than idle curiosity. So far, she hadn’t heard anyone belowstairs talking about Trent, the victim’s
own son. Perhaps they didn’t know he was just then sitting above their heads in the drawing room.

  “My sister’s a handler for Crown Lily,” the darker-haired one said. “That means she sticks handles on teacups. She’s heard the two designers have been quietly feuding. And sometimes not so quietly.”

  They reached the landing and would soon push through the baize door into the main part of the house. Once there, their banter would have to cease.

  “Do you know why?” Eva asked.

  That made both young men pause on the servants’ side of the door. They held the trays as if they were of no weight at all. “Cammie, that’s my sister, says it’s because the new designer, Bateman, is a better artist than Ron Mercer ever was or ever could be, which had Mercer burning with jealousy.”

  “That seems more of a reason for Mr. Mercer to wish to harm Bateman than the other way around.”

  “Could be, miss,” the brown-haired one said, “but maybe that’s exactly what it started out to be. Maybe Mercer lured Bateman into the grinding room, they fought, and Bateman won.”

  “But who is this Gus Abbott you mentioned?” Eva persisted.

  “Cammie says he’s head of clay mixing. He found the body. If anybody knows how to turn on one of those contraptions, it’s him.”

  With that, he pushed through the door. The raven-haired fellow followed, and Eva had no choice but to continue through as well. But he’d made an astute point. Just because Ronald Mercer died, it didn’t mean he was the intended victim. And it didn’t mean he hadn’t planned to be the killer. That could have made his death an act of self-defense on the part of the other designer.

  But if that were the case, wouldn’t this Mr. Bateman have admitted to the constables what had happened? Perhaps not. If they’d argued and fought, ending in a death without witnesses, would the police believe the survivor’s story?

  But the footman had added another name to the possibilities. Gus Abbott, who apparently had found Ronald Mercer in the grinding pan. As Phoebe had said, if one person resented the head of the design department, others might have as well. Perhaps Moira, Trent, and Percy were merely three of many individuals who would have been happy to see Ronald Mercer gone, for good.