A Sinister Service

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Are you still thinking of giving them your business?”

  Phoebe held up her hands. “I don’t see why not. Why punish an entire company for the horrible act of one? I’ll talk to Julia. I’m sure she’ll agree.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Phoebe and Julia went to Crown Lily the next afternoon. Eva and Hetta accompanied them, but Fox and Amelia hadn’t even suggested they come along. Rather, they had expressed their trust in Julia when it came to selecting the right china. Poor things, all they could think of was Trent; they’d lost their heart for the endeavor that had brought them to Langston.

  Which was fortunate. Phoebe didn’t want either of them involved in searching for Mr. Mercer’s killer, especially if it turned out that Trent had committed the act. Strictly speaking, Eva and Hetta needn’t have gone, either, but Phoebe had had a good reason for wishing Eva to accompany them. Hetta, on the other hand, had resolutely refused to stay behind. “Where Madame goes, Hetta goes,” she had stated with a bullish look on her face. When Phoebe reminded her that they had gone to Crown Lily yesterday morning without her, she had crossed her arms in front of her and stubbornly replied, “That was then, ja? Things have changed. I go.”

  The motorcar brought them beneath the arching Crown Lily sign and into the main quadrangle. Here, the driver stopped as planned and allowed Eva to get out. As she stepped onto the cobblestones, Phoebe slid closer to the open door. “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, I will be. If anyone asks what I’m doing wandering about, I’ll tell them I’m interested in a career change.” Eva tightened her coat around her and set off across the quadrangle, toward the building where she had met Moira Wickham.

  The motorcar continued into the smaller enclosure that housed the administrative building. Julia had telephoned earlier, and Mr. Tremaine must have had someone watching for them, as the door immediately opened. He stepped out, all smiles, as if his factory hadn’t suffered a tragedy only the day before.

  “Lady Annondale, Lady Phoebe. Thank you for returning.” Nudging Fenton aside after the chauffeur had opened the rear door, Mr. Tremaine reached in to help them out. “I’d feared we’d lost your patronage after yesterday’s fiasco.”

  Phoebe winced. She didn’t think the word fiasco suited the occasion. Mr. Mercer had worked here many years, and she would have expected his employer to have taken a more somber tone.

  “Let’s get you ladies inside and attend to business, shall we?” He held the door to the building open for them. He paid no attention to Hetta after an initial nod in her direction, but Hetta preferred that to having attention on her. The Swiss woman had become adept at blending into the scenery until Julia needed her. And then let anyone try to stand in her way.

  They walked through the showroom again, and Phoebe’s eyes were dazzled anew from the glossy displays. She had been glad on their first visit that Mr. Tremaine had sorted through the dozens and dozens of patterns and shapes and selected the ones he believed best fit the qualities Julia had articulated to him. That had narrowed down the assortment considerably, even though there had still seemed to be a vast array of possibilities covering the conference room table.

  He led them not to that room again, but to his office, a large corner space with windows overlooking two separate enclosures. In one, three bottle kilns puffed their black smoke into a sharp November sky. In the other, men loaded those open train carriages, which Phoebe had seen last time, with what appeared to be packed and sealed barrels. The way the men carefully hefted them, she could only surmise they were filled with china orders ready to be shipped out to patrons all over England, and beyond.

  He must have noticed her gazing out the window, for he said, “From here I can see my china entering the kilns that make it strong and lasting, and I can also see it leave on its way to become part of people’s homes and their families’ lives.” He assisted them in shedding their coats, and held a chair for each of them, Julia first, of course. Hetta backed against the wall beside the office door, folded her hands at her waist, and stared straight ahead, like a soldier. Julia’s army of one. The thought made Phoebe smile.

  “Now, I believe this is what you want, Lady Annondale.” Mr. Tremaine circled his desk and sat. He gestured toward a plain white cup and saucer sitting on the blotter in front of him.

  It was one Julia had admired on their first trip here. It had a simple trumpet shape, narrow at the bottom and flaring wide at the top, and stood on a low round foot. A solid triangle formed the handle, which one would pinch to hold, rather than a loop one could hook one’s finger through.

  “I hope you concur, Lady Phoebe. This is our most modern shape, very new. Very innovative.”

  Phoebe wasn’t at all sure she liked it. That triangle handle might prove less than comfortable, and she could imagine both Grams and Grampapa eyeing it askance. Of course neither would ever openly criticize. They’d say it was wonderful, no matter what they really thought. As for Julia . . .

  “It’s perfect. Phoebe, don’t you think so? Isn’t it just the thing?”

  “I . . . er . . . yes. It’s . . . unique. Modern, as Mr. Tremaine said.”

  “Good,” that man said with a light clap of his hands. “Now, for the pattern. We can’t send you home with blank china, now can we?”

  “Perish the thought.” Julia smoothed the front of her tunic, which flowed to her knees over a narrow skirt that reached just below her calves. The ensemble flowed gently over the contours of her belly. “Now, then, since we’ve gone quite modern with the shape, we’ll be more traditional with the pattern.” She turned to Phoebe. “You see, I’m willing to compromise. Both new and traditional.” Turning back to Mr. Tremaine, she said, “Is Mr. Bateman available? I’d like him to be here when we announce our decision.”

  Here, for the first time since their arrival, Mr. Tremaine looked melancholy. “I suppose you felt that under the circumstances, you’d award the commission to a living designer.”

  “That isn’t it at all, actually,” Julia said. “When we saw Mr. Bateman’s landscape design, I think we all knew it was what we wanted, that it was perfect for our grandparents. What happened to Mr. Mercer is most unfortunate, and his family has our utmost condolences, as do you, but Mr. Bateman won us over with his design.”

  Despite the odd cup handle, Phoebe found herself perfectly satisfied with Julia’s decision. But the time had come to put her plan in motion.

  “I’m in agreement with my sister . . . I think.”

  “What do you mean, you think?” Julia turned to her with a scowl that made slashes of her carefully delineated eyebrows. While Julia had known Eva would be asking questions among the women workers in the art department, Phoebe had made no mention of her plan involving Percy Bateman. She had wanted a believable reaction from her sister, and Julia didn’t disappoint. “I believed we were in agreement. Why are you suddenly being difficult?”

  “I’m not. I merely wish to see the design again.” Phoebe appealed to Mr. Tremaine. “To be certain.”

  “Of course, of course.” He picked up the candlestick phone on his desk and called his secretary. “Jessup? Yes, please send in Percy Bateman. And tell him to bring the patterns he designed for the Renshaws.”

  The young designer entered moments later, stumbling over the threshold in his haste, a portfolio beneath his left arm. He looked both delighted and disbelieving—as if he couldn’t trust his good fortune. “My ladies. Have . . . you made a decision?”

  Julia pursed her lips. “We thought we had.”

  “Oh.” The man visibly sagged. He looked at Mr. Tremaine for clarification, but received only a shrug.

  “It’s between two,” Phoebe told him. She motioned him closer to the desk. “We loved the Cotswold landscape pattern, but there’s one other I’d like to see again. I hope you have it with you. It’s the Art Nouveau floral, with all the twisting vines. Do you remember which one I mean?”

  She held her breath as she waited for his reply, knowing quite well he�
�d never shown them any such pattern. Mr. Mercer had. Both Phoebe and Amelia had commented on it at the time, but neither had thought it might replace the Cotswold landscape. Now she wanted Mr. Bateman to believe it to be a serious contender.

  “It’s a very stylized design,” she clarified, when Mr. Bateman seemed stumped, “with elongated flowers in soft blues, pinks, and yellows. I think my grandmother would adore it.”

  “She wouldn’t, Phoebe.” Julia huffed with impatience. “She would find it too abstract for her taste.”

  Phoebe ignored Julia and watched the young man closely. He blinked rapidly as his eyebrows gathered, and he fussed with a bit of hair hanging over his forehead.

  Phoebe smiled eagerly. “If you haven’t got it with you, we’ll wait while you go and get it.” Would he? Did he have the missing pattern book hidden in his office? Would he remove the page with the Art Nouveau pattern and present it as his own?

  “Really, Phoebe, can’t we simply place the order with the Cotswold pattern?” Julia crossed her legs and swung her pump-clad foot. She was becoming more impatient by the instant. Behind them, Hetta subtly shifted, becoming alert to her mistress’s mood and ready, Phoebe knew, to intervene should Julia become overly agitated.

  Finally Percy Bateman gave a decisive shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Lady Phoebe, but while I do have Art Nouveau designs to my credit, I’m quite certain I didn’t design anything with that description for you. I believe Mr. Mercer did—may he rest in peace. If that’s the design you want, I’m sure Mr. Tremaine can arrange to have it found for you. It would be in Mr. Mercer’s pattern book, I’m sure—”

  Mr. Tremaine coughed. “I’m afraid Ron’s pattern book has gone missing.”

  “Missing?” Mr. Bateman slowly set his own pattern book on the desk. “How can that have happened? Has a search been launched?” To hear the urgency in the man’s voice, one would have thought his own pattern book had been stolen.

  “Of course a search is under way.” The older man shrugged. “And as for how the book disappeared . . . how can his death have occurred here yesterday? It was no accident, you know, and it would seem, whoever killed him probably also has the book, and . . .”

  Another cough, a forceful one, halted their conversation. Hetta came forward from her post against the wall. “That is enough. Such talk will upset Madame.”

  The men looked chagrined. With a quick glance at Julia, Mr. Tremaine said, “Right you are. Forgive us. Shall we get back to the business at hand? Now, which pattern will it be?”

  “The Cotswold one,” Phoebe said, not sure if she should be relieved or not. She had gauged Mr. Bateman’s reaction to her request carefully. If he had pretended the design had been his and, what’s more, had retrieved it for them, it might have been an indication his rivalry with the other designer had extended beyond professional competition. But did his failure to do so prove he had nothing to do with Ronald Mercer’s death? Or was he merely too clever to give himself away?

  Julia, too, looked relieved. “Good. Let’s complete the order. Where do we sign?”

  Phoebe left her sister to it and drew Percy Bateman into conversation. “It’s horrible, what happened. I’m having a difficult time grasping that one of the people we came to Langston specifically to see is no longer with us.”

  “Believe me, my lady, I understand. I’ve worked under the man for the past year now, and while I cannot say I knew him well, we’d certainly established a close professional rapport.”

  “I believe Mr. Mercer told us you haven’t been here long, but only a year, you say. You’re quite talented.”

  He colored slightly. “Thank you.”

  “What had you done before that?”

  “The same, pattern designing, but I was assistant, without the opportunity to head up my own projects. I worked for the Davenport Potteries.”

  “Oh, yes. I know that company. We have pieces of theirs at home. So then I take it you heard of an opening here and applied to fill the position.”

  He gave a nod. “That’s the way of it for designers. Most of us work at several potteries before settling in at one. It’s a bit of a gypsy lifestyle, moving from place to place, often town to town, but it’s necessary if one wishes to be successful.”

  “And you did.” When he nodded again, Phoebe smiled. “I’d imagine you still do.”

  “Of course. What man doesn’t?”

  “There are other designers here, aren’t there? Or assistant designers?”

  “There are four junior designers and several more assistants.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Bateman, would a designer so wish to succeed he might kill for the opportunity?”

  His eyes sparked with alarm. He drew himself up straighter, his shoulders rigid. “I . . . What are you getting at, Lady Phoebe?”

  “I’m merely asking a hypothetical question. It’s no secret Ronald Mercer was murdered. You yourself just implied designers are willing to uproot themselves for better opportunities. It made me wonder, what else might a designer be willing to do?”

  “Oh, I see. Hypothetically speaking.” He released a breath and relaxed, his shoulders sloping inward as he shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “I can’t see any sane man going to such lengths, not for any reason. But an insane man? Luckily, I don’t believe we have anyone of that description here.” He ended with a chuckle that sounded forced.

  Phoebe let go a laugh. “I hope you didn’t think I was accusing you.”

  “Goodness no.” His chuckle rose in volume and pitch. “Why on earth would you?”

  “Because someone did, after all, murder Mr. Mercer.”

  The man paled as Phoebe turned away and rejoined Julia and Mr. Tremaine.

  * * *

  When Eva stepped into the painting and enameling room, only a few artists glanced up from what they were doing, and then only briefly. Moira Wickham was not one of them. Eva spotted her at her worktable in the far left corner, beneath the tall windows, intent on whatever item she held in one hand while applying color with a paintbrush. From where she sat, Miss Wickham could easily keep an eye on her workforce.

  Each artist had several stacks of cups and saucers, or plates, or other items, ranged around her work area. Each sat hunched, paintbrush in hand, face close to her work. She noticed today that only women filled the room. The few men here the other day were not in evidence now.

  Eva stood for several moments simply observing, but also hoping Miss Wickham would notice her. She wished to appear wistful, but not seeking. Perhaps she should walk around a little, like last time. She began a slow pace, trying to muffle her footsteps. It wasn’t her intention to disrupt the workers, but within moments she realized this wasn’t a problem. They seemed immune to distractions, keeping their focus on their work without missing a brushstroke.

  Miss Wickham, however, did finally look up. She raised her eyebrows in question, immersed her brush in a jar of liquid, and came to her feet. She met Eva partway down the first row.

  “I see you’re back. Couldn’t keep away, could you?” The woman smiled in an offhand manner, but something in her gaze remained expectant, and Eva didn’t disappoint her.

  “I couldn’t, actually. My mistress and her sister are placing their order, and since they didn’t need me, I thought I’d come and take another look. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Placing their order the day after our head designer died?” The woman expressed a world of disapproval in the upward twitching of an eyebrow. “Business as usual for them, eh? Can’t have their sort inconvenienced by a little thing like a man’s murder. And, yes, we all know Mr. Mercer didn’t die by accident.”

  Eva nearly burst with the urge to contest Moira Wickham’s opinion of the Renshaws, but she held her tongue and nodded as if in sympathy with Miss Wickham’s sentiments. Eva glanced again at the workers with an admiration that wasn’t feigned. “I find this all so fascinating.”

  “Do you really?”

  “I know you’d rather be designing,
but that kind of creativity is a rare talent. I certainly couldn’t do it.”

  “But the painting interests you as something you’d like to try?” Miss Wickham tilted her head. Her eyes narrowed. “I distinctly remember you saying you hadn’t got the talent for painting.”

  Eva stole a glance over her shoulder, as if she were about to impart a deep secret and didn’t wish Lady Phoebe finding out. “I must admit it does interest me. Very much. And what I said, well, it wasn’t entirely true. I’ve got a steady hand—one must, to be a lady’s maid, you see. Stitching, dressing hair, applying cosmetics—it’s all a kind of artistic work. I think I could do this, if given the chance.”

  “You also said you loved working for your ladies.” Apparently, not only did Miss Wickham possess a good memory, she was not to be easily convinced of Eva’s change of heart.

  “Honestly, until I walked into this room day before last, I had never considered changing situations. But now . . . I don’t know. To be truly independent and have a life of my own . . .” She trailed off with another sigh.

  “Yes, a lady’s maid isn’t afforded that luxury, is she? I know that from listening to my mother’s stories. Always at another woman’s beck and call, at any hour of the day or night. In your case, two women. And how much time to yourself? Half a day on Sunday, after church?”

  While that was often the case, Eva had more time to herself than most lady’s maids ever dreamed of. But that was something she didn’t need to share. “Besides having little time to myself,” she said, “I’ve no sense of achievement, nothing to show for all my hard work.” A lie. She derived a great sense of accomplishment from watching her young ladies, motherless for most of their lives, grow to become confident, generous, intelligent young women, and knowing she helped them achieve their potential. “Not like here, where you can point to a solid object and say, I had a hand in creating that. That’s my work.”