A Sinister Service

by Alyssa Maxwell

  In the drawing room Eva set the earthenware bowl on the floor near the hearth and called to Jester. The dog sent a questioning look up at his master, who nodded and whispered, “Go ahead, boy. Thank you,” he added with a halfhearted smile for Eva.

  To the sound of lapping water, she served the tea and cakes, along with the sherry. Trent had already receded back into himself, and when he made no move to accept either offering from Eva, Fox took the small sherry glass from her and pressed it into his friend’s hand. “You might as well, old boy. It might help.”

  “Nothing can help,” Trent murmured back, but nonetheless raised the glass to his lips.

  “Trent,” Lady Phoebe said, “there must be someone we can notify for you. A relative who lives nearby?”

  The boy shook his head. “There’s no one. Nearest relatives are in York. Aunt, uncle, two cousins. We don’t talk to them.”

  “But, surely, they’ll want to help once they understand the circumstances,” Lady Phoebe pressed.

  “Doubt it.” Trent took another sip of his sherry and made a face. “They didn’t come or even write when my mum died.”

  Incredulous, Eva marveled that any family could put such little value on its fellow members. She found it exceedingly tragic, on top of the tragedy that had already taken place. What would Trent do now? Where would he go? Though close to adulthood, he still had several years before he reached his majority. Who would put a roof over his head?

  She noticed Amelia blinking back tears and lifting her teacup to her lips to hide them. Lady Annondale poured a tiny drop of sherry into her tea, set the rest aside, and sipped pensively. As Eva handed Phoebe a cordial glass, she communicated silently as best she could that they had much to talk about.

  * * *

  Phoebe knew by Eva’s expression that she had something important to relate, but before she could slip away from the drawing room again, Mildred and Veronica joined them.

  “Did no one think to invite the two of us down to tea?” With a wounded expression Veronica Townsend surveyed the occupants of the room. “Why are you back from Crown Lily so early? Squabbling again over the patterns?” Her gaze landed on Trent Mercer, and a slight frown formed above her snub nose. Then she noticed Jester. “What in the world is that thing doing in here?”

  Phoebe set her tea and cake aside and rose to her feet. “That is our guest’s dog, Jester.”

  The woman’s broad mouth turned down at the corners. “My brother never allowed animals in this part of the house.”

  “Well, here he stays for now,” Phoebe said firmly. “And there are two more cups and plates here for you, if you wish to have tea. Eva thought you might come down.” She gestured to the sideboard, where the extra settings had been laid.

  “Hmph. At least someone thinks of us.” Veronica crossed to the sideboard. She hummed tunelessly as she busied herself pouring her tea and examining the cakes. “My thanks to you, Huntford.”

  Eva bobbed her head in acknowledgment and kept her features even, allowing Veronica no hint as to her thoughts, though Phoebe could guess at them easily enough.

  Mildred didn’t follow Veronica to the sideboard, but studied each Renshaw in turn, then Eva, and finally Trent. “What’s going on here? Something isn’t right.”

  Both hands full, Veronica turned back to the others. “Yes, you’re all rather quiet. Suspiciously so. There’s probably a scheme afoot to run Mildred and me out of this house for good.”

  “Not everything is about you, Veronica.” Julia gave her a quelling look that would have made a less formidable opponent slink off. But not Veronica.

  “Excuse me if I seem a bit distrustful, dear sister.” Veronica thrust out her very round chin. “You did show up here without a by your leave.”

  “I most certainly did not,” Julia quipped back. “I sent notice a month ago. Either Carmichael is derelict in his duties when it comes to the mail, which I highly doubt, or you quite deliberately disregarded my letter. Probably tossed it in the fire. Oh, and, Veronica . . .” she added with cloying sweetness.

  “What?”

  “. . . I am not your sister.”

  “Please, both of you.” Amelia took on a pained expression. She darted a glance at Trent, who stared down at the crystal cordial glass that was nearly empty now. “This isn’t helping anything.”

  Mildred took another steady glance around at all of their faces, paused briefly on Trent, and appealed to Phoebe. “Come walk with me and tell me what happened.”

  It was on Phoebe’s tongue to decline the request, but a subtle change in the other woman’s bearing hinted that perhaps Mildred’s curiosity stemmed from genuine concern and not a desire to mock, as in Veronica’s case. With everyone’s eyes upon her, Phoebe walked out of the drawing room, with Mildred close behind her.

  “That boy in there,” she said when they’d put enough distance between them and the others, “lost his father today. It happened at the factory, and it looks to be deliberate.”

  “Good heavens, foul play seems to follow you and your family wherever you go.”

  Phoebe huffed in disgust and turned about to retrace her steps.

  Mildred put a hand on her arm. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”

  “Yes, it was. He’s a child, Mildred, and now he’s alone in the world. It’s nothing to joke about.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She compressed her thickly rouged lips and flicked a strand of hair out of her face. “I should know. I also lost my father to murder.”

  Phoebe felt an easing of her anger, and with it the tension that had held her rigidly upright, as if ready for a fight. Her shoulders relaxed. “Indeed.” She drew a breath. “We don’t yet know what happened, but we didn’t want Trent to face it alone. He’s a friend of my brother’s from Eton. It appears someone might have lured his father to one of the more industrial areas of the factory and dispatched him in a most inhuman way.”

  “Were you all there when it happened?”

  “No. That is, I don’t know exactly when it happened. We were there when he was found.” She thought of Jester running out of the clay-processing building like a soul possessed, and how he’d pressed his shaking body up against Trent’s legs. She could only conclude the dog had witnessed the crime. Yet, he could never tell a soul.

  But how had he come to be in the building in the first place? He was always at Trent’s side, or at least she had gotten the impression boy and dog were inseparable. When they’d arrived back in the conference room yesterday, Jester had not run to Ronald Mercer, nor had Mr. Mercer given the dog more than a cursory glance.

  That insidious thought from earlier reared up again. Did Trent have something to do with his father’s death?

  “Phoebe, perhaps if—”

  An insistent knocking at the front door startled them both and silenced Mildred. For some inexplicable reason, the sound filled Phoebe with foreboding. Without waiting for Carmichael to appear from whatever part of the house he inhabited when not needed, she went to open the door.

  “Yes?” Even as she spoke, her stomach dropped.

  Three men stood on the other side of the threshold. Two wore dark blue constable’s uniforms and held their domed helmets in their hands. She recognized their faces from earlier that morning. The third, standing in front of them, wore a dark suit beneath an open trench coat. His features were unfamiliar. An instant of surprise at beholding Phoebe registered in his expression. Clearly, she was neither a butler nor a housemaid, nor any other servant who might answer the door.

  He recovered quickly. “I’m Detective Inspector Hugh Nichols. These are Constables Walker and Dodge. Is Trent Mercer here? We’d like to speak with him.”

  His request didn’t surprise her; she had already guessed what he would say. That didn’t mean she didn’t wish to shut the door in their faces and run to tell Trent to hide.

  “Come in.” She stepped aside to admit them. All three pulled up short when they noticed Mildred hovering a few feet away. Phoebe gestured to h
er. “This is Mildred Blair. She lives here.”

  The detective inspector pulled a notepad out of his coat pocket, along with a pencil. He jotted down Mildred’s name, then regarded Phoebe again. “Are you one of the Renshaw sisters?”

  Before she could reply, Constable Dodge said, “That’s Lady Phoebe Renshaw, the middle sister, sir.”

  Detective Inspector Nichols nodded, scribbled, and glanced up. “Trent Mercer.” It wasn’t a question, but a command.

  “This way.” Phoebe led them into the drawing room. “This is my sister, Lady Annondale, and her sister-in-law, Miss Townsend. At the moment they jointly own Lyndale Park.”

  “Mm-hmm.” The detective inspector scanned the faces briefly. His gaze rested longer on Julia than the others. Admiration sparked in his eyes, as it typically did whenever a man encountered her. He seemed also to note Eva’s presence. She stood off to one side, out of the way. The detective obviously took in her simple dark dress and deduced she was a servant. Then he shifted his attention to the two boys sitting side by side on the settee. Fox inched subtly closer to his friend. “Which one of you is Trent Mercer?”

  This time it was Constable Walker who provided the information. “The one on the left, sir. With the dog. That’s him.”

  Jester let out a low growl, while Phoebe bristled. Constable Walker spoke as if Trent’s guilt had already been established.

  Amelia apparently heard the derisiveness in the constable’s voice, too. “Master Trent is a guest here. Please treat him accordingly.”

  The detective inspector treated her to a blank expression, but directed his next question to Phoebe. “Where can we speak privately?”

  “Detective, is there some reason you thought it necessary to come here as a force of three to question a boy, the victim’s own son?” Julia came to her feet with surprising agility, considering how far along she was in her pregnancy. Obviously taken off guard, Detective Inspector Nichols began to sputter a response, but Julia cut him off. “I suppose you’re only doing your job.” She made it sound rather tawdry. “You may use the library. Come, I’ll lead the way.”

  “That isn’t necessary, Lady Annondale.” Detective Inspector Nichols held up the hand holding the pencil. “These houses are all pretty much the same. Just point us in the right direction. Or maybe she can guide us.” He pointed to Eva, who looked none-too-eager for the task.

  Julia had walked past him toward the doorway. Now she stopped, half turned, and regarded him with all the haughtiness she could muster—and Julia was a master of haughtiness. “It most certainly is necessary, Detective Inspector. . . Nichols, is it? This is my home, and Trent is a child. He should have an adult with him. And he will.” A lift of her eyebrow dared all three policemen to argue with her. None of them did.

  Phoebe silently cheered her sister’s actions. Julia surprised her—no, astonished her. Usually, Julia could dismiss the difficulties of another person with a simple shrug of her shoulder. Today she seemed bent on championing a boy orphaned just that morning. The instincts of a soon-to-be mother?

  As all five left the room, Jester jumped up and followed, quickly reaching his master’s heels. The detective inspector stopped and whirled, his coat flapping out around him. He scowled down at Jester. “Someone take hold of this animal, please.”

  No one in the drawing room made a move.

  “Can’t he come?” Trent’s voice came small and thin, making him sound very much like the child Julia had described him as.

  “I’d prefer he didn’t.”

  One of the constables, the one named Dodge, bent to grasp Jester’s leather collar. Fox came to his feet with a huff. “Jester, come here, boy.”

  The dog stayed put, and Trent made no effort to urge him to go. Phoebe didn’t think this was an intentional act of rebellion on his part, but simply an inability to be an active participant in anything happening around him. He was still too much in shock. The constable curled his fingers around the collar and gave a tug toward the drawing room. Jester whimpered.

  “Leave him alone,” Trent cried out. He fell to his knees and slid his arms around Jester’s muscular body. Tears dribbled down the boy’s cheeks. The constable backed away, clearly baffled as to what to do. Phoebe felt equally baffled. How to reassure Trent, mollify the policemen, and prevent tensions from escalating?

  Fox hurried to his friend. He crouched and put one hand on Trent’s shoulder, the other on Jester’s collar. “Don’t worry. I’ll watch him for however long this takes. He’ll be fine and so will you. You’ve got Julia going with you.”

  He leaned closer to Trent and whispered something in his ear. This produced in Trent a wobbly grin, and he wiped his shirtsleeve across his cheeks to dry them. The boys stood, and Fox grasped the dog’s collar.

  “Come on, boy. Want a treat? I’m sure we can find you something.”

  The dog didn’t resist as Fox walked him back into the drawing room, much to Phoebe’s relief.

  “You won’t find any dog treats in the house.” Veronica spoke for the first time since the police had arrived. “Any dogs my brother kept were housed and fed in the kennels. But he didn’t often keep such beasts around. It wasn’t as though my brother could hunt in his condition.”

  She referred to Gilbert Townsend’s missing leg, a result of a battle during the second Boer War. He’d worn a prosthetic, which had allowed him a certain degree of mobility, but horseback riding hadn’t been possible.

  “A bone, anything,” Fox said with annoyance. “Just something to keep him occupied.”

  “I’ll go below and find something for him.” Eva started to leave, but hesitated. She turned to include both Phoebe and Amelia in her gaze. “That is, if you’re all right and don’t need me.”

  Phoebe smiled. “Of course we’re all right. Just worried about Trent.”

  “Yes, and about what these policemen are thinking in coming here and questioning him.” Amelia shook her head. “They were awfully rude, wouldn’t you say? That doesn’t seem to bode well for Trent.”

  Fox grimaced at her pronouncement. “Don’t go thinking the worst. It’s probably just their way to be grim and overbearing. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Amelia.”

  Amelia shrugged, and Phoebe caught her murmuring, “We’ll see.”

  Mildred didn’t help matters when she resumed her seat, crossed her arms in front of her, and said, “Police aren’t typically rude without a reason.”

  To distract her brother and sister from worrying, Phoebe asked Fox, “What did you say to Trent that had him smiling just before he went off with the policemen?”

  Fox broke out into a smile of his own. “I told him Julia is as fierce as any bull terrier when she wants to be.”

  Amelia’s mouth fell open on a gasp, but then the three of them fell to laughter, while Veronica and Mildred looked on with slightly bemused expressions.

  CHAPTER 6

  Eva went back through the baize door with a bowl of meaty soup bones in hand. The cook had been about to dump a platter of roasted beef bones into a pot of water, along with celery and onions, and Eva feared the stern-faced woman would not be willing to part with even a small amount of her broth-making ingredients. Turns out she had judged the woman unfairly, for as soon as Eva explained about Trent losing his father that morning, and the dog being all the boy had left in the world, Mrs. Wexon, as was her name, couldn’t offer up the treat fast enough.

  As she turned into the main hall, she heard subdued voices and footsteps coming from beyond the drawing room. Had the police finished questioning Trent? Detective Inspector Nichols came into view. The look on his face caused Eva to draw a sharp breath. Behind him came the two constables. Trent Mercer walked between them, his head down, his feet shuffling.

  Last came Lady Annondale, looking none-too-pleased. “This is ridiculous. He’s a boy, and we’re talking about his own father.” When none of the officials stopped or responded, she walked faster to catch up with them. Eva had a moment’s fright when Lady
Annondale’s shoe slid on the gleaming marble flooring. She caught her balance and hardly missed a step. “At least let him stay here. I’ll take full responsibility for him. We won’t let him out of our sight.”

  Jester streaked into the hall and jumped up against Trent’s torso. The boy absently stroked his head and said some quiet words to soothe the animal. The others hurried out of the drawing room, Lady Phoebe and Fox leading them.

  “What’s going on here? Detective?” When the policeman didn’t answer, Lady Phoebe gazed past him. “Julia, what’s happened?”

  “They’re arresting him.” Lady Annondale circled the constables and the boy and halted in front of the detective inspector. “You’re taking him on the flimsiest of evidence. Phoebe, they’ve got nothing against Trent except for the dog.”

  “The dog?” Lady Phoebe looked confused. “But that doesn’t make sense.”

  Fox pressed forward to stand with his friend. “Trent has no idea how Jester got into that building. Didn’t my sister tell you he was outside looking for Jester when we saw him this morning? He couldn’t be responsible for . . . for his father.”

  “For his father’s murder,” Detective Inspector Nichols said tersely. “And just because you saw him apparently searching for his dog doesn’t mean he himself wasn’t in that building earlier. He claims he was out strolling along the railroad tracks at the time of his father’s death, but I could find no one at the factory who can corroborate that. Strolling along the tracks, indeed.”

  “I had a lot to think about,” Trent murmured.

  “They keep bringing up something called a pattern book,” Lady Annondale said, “and insisting Trent stole it from his father.”

  “Which isn’t true.” Trent’s chin came up. “I have no idea where he even keeps it—kept it—so I couldn’t have taken it.”