“But how will you do that?”
Her amused expression faded. “By convincing Mr. Tremaine he needs me as a designer. I’ve got patterns I’ve been working on for years. I’ll show them to him and then he’ll see who has talent. He’ll realize the truth.”
Patterns. Were they Moira Wickham’s own? Or did she have Ronald Mercer’s stolen pattern book? “I’d love to see them,” Eva said. “Could you . . . could you show me?”
“I don’t have them here.” The woman spoke curtly, but then relented. “But, yes, if you’re terribly interested, I suppose we could meet again tomorrow. Or will you be able to manage it?”
“Oh, I’m sure I could.” Eva ate a couple of bites and pretended to be mulling over whether or not to ask her next question. “Do you have any ideas on who might have murdered Mr. Mercer, and why?”
“Why would you think I’d know?” Once more taking a curt tone, Moira Wickham seemed about to end the conversation.
Eva spoke quickly. “I simply thought someone in your position of authority at the factory might have heard rumors or if threats had been made. People often threaten without meaning it, but in this case someone obviously did.” Eva leaned forward. “Thank goodness you work in an entirely separate building from the one where the clay is mixed. I cannot imagine stumbling on such a sight. I understand a worker found Mr. Mercer.”
“Gus Abbott, yes. I’ve actually never been inside that building. Never had reason to go in. Never will do, now.” Miss Wickham gave a light shudder.
“Never? Well, I have been, and I wish I hadn’t, because I can’t erase the image of those dreadful blades from my mind.” Eva savored a bite, then said, “So I suppose you were safely in the painting room when . . . when it happened.”
Miss Wickham eyed Eva for a long moment, making her wonder if she’d made a mistake. But the woman said, “Don’t know, exactly, because no one is sure exactly when he died. I might have been at work, or I might still have been on my way in.”
“I see.” It was an honest enough reply, Eva conceded. If Miss Wickham had murdered Ronald Mercer, wouldn’t she have an alibi at the ready? Eva paused for another bite, pretending to consider. Then she asked, “You don’t think the boy did it, do you?”
“Trent?”
Eva nodded, letting her eyes grow large.
“He’s always seemed a good lad to me, although it was no secret he didn’t wish to follow in his father’s footsteps, and that he was boiling mad when his father brought him home from Eton. But you know all about that, don’t you?”
“I do. He’s a schoolmate of my lady’s brother. It was awful for the family when the police came to arrest him.”
“I imagine it was.” Miss Wickham shrugged as if the trials of the Renshaw family were of little account. “What’s frightfully strange is that the dog was in the grinding room with the body. That dog is Trent Mercer’s shadow. Didn’t much like the father. So, why was he there?” She held up her forefinger, tapping it at an imaginary point in the air. “That’s the question, Miss Huntford. If Trent didn’t fight with his father and manage to dump him into the grinding pan, why was the dog there?”
Eva wasn’t feeling at all reassured about Trent’s innocence, however much she and the Renshaws wished to believe in the boy. Gus Abbott, the man Ronald Mercer had gone to meet in the grinding room to discuss the clay-making formula, said he hadn’t been there, and there were witnesses to corroborate his whereabouts. Such had not been the case with Trent that morning, but he wasn’t a true employee, not like the others. As evidenced by the first day they had encountered him in the factory yard, he often came and went as he chose and appeared to answer only to his father and Mr. Tremaine. Which meant he could very well have met his father in the grinding room. That would surely explain his dog being there at the time.
Miss Wickham refilled their mugs with tea so dark it looked nearly like coffee. The rich steam recalled Eva from her reverie. Miss Wickham said, “We haven’t talked much about you, Miss Huntford, and your sudden desire to join the china industry. It seems a bit of a whim to me, I’m sorry to say.”
“No, I assure you it isn’t. Perhaps this specific type of work, yes, but I’ve long been itching to leave service and do something more fulfilling.”
“Itching, eh?” When Eva nodded eagerly, the woman said, “Then perhaps we’ll just have to scratch that itch of yours.” Miss Wickham nodded at Eva’s plate. “Eat up. Tomorrow night is shepherd’s pie. We could meet again for supper. But before that, could you manage to come to Crown Lily in the morning?”
“I might be able to manage it, depending on what my mistresses have planned.” She didn’t wish to appear as though it would be easy for her to slip away again. “Perhaps midmorning?”
“That will suit. Bring something that shows me your skills as an artist.”
“Like what? I haven’t any paints available to me. I have some embroidery I’ve been working on . . .”
“Draw something. Draw a cup and saucer and put a design on them. And be prepared to do some painting when you arrive.” Miss Wickham laughed. “We’ll see if we’ve got a designer in the making.”
* * *
“I’m going and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” Fox rummaged through the cloakroom in the rear hall until he came upon his chesterfield coat. Phoebe and Fox had both risen earlier than the others this morning. Phoebe had believed it to be a habit he’d formed at Eton, but she soon learned he had a particular reason for wanting to slip out of the house unnoticed by his siblings today.
“Actually, Fox, I can. I can order Fenton and Douglas not to take you anywhere.” Phoebe might have added that she could also call their grandfather, which would certainly stop Fox in his tracks, or at least give him pause.
Fox went still, his coat half on, one sleeve hanging empty. “You wouldn’t.”
Phoebe expelled a sigh; he had called her bluff. “No, I wouldn’t. But I want you to think about this first. Seeing your friend in a place like that . . . it’s awful, Fox. I know.”
“Yes, like when you went to visit Julia at the Cowes Jail.” He shoved his other arm into his sleeve and tugged the coat around him. “I’m not expecting tea and biscuits. I merely want to show my friend some support. Show him I believe he’s innocent. And bring him a change of clothes.”
“I could do that.”
“I’m going, Phoebe. You can’t talk me out of it.”
“Look, Fox, I’m not referring to the reception you’ll receive at the police station. I’m talking about what it’s like to see someone you care about in circumstances like that. The fear and fatigue in his eyes, the reality of bars and locks, the knowledge that he can’t walk out with you. He’s a prisoner and there is nothing genteel or noble about having your freedom stripped away.” Phoebe moved closer to her brother. “It will haunt you for longer than you think. I still have nightmares about Julia in that horrible place.”
“That may be so, but I’m still going. Unless you intend blocking the door or brandishing a gun at me.”
Phoebe quickly scanned the garments hanging along the rack until she spotted her own fur-trimmed topcoat. Her deep-crowned tan felt hat sat on the shelf above it. She whisked it down and crammed it on her head. “I’m going with you.”
“I’m not a child, Phoebe.” Fox strode briskly through to the main hall and headed for the front door. Phoebe followed along at a trot.
“Legally, you are, and Julia and I are responsible for you. And since a jail is the last place she needs to be, especially now, it’s up to me to make sure you don’t come away traumatized.”
The touring car sat ready on the drive. Fox had apparently arranged for Douglas to take him, rather than ask Fenton to drive him in the Rolls-Royce. Sneaky. Fox knew Fenton would have checked first with Julia or Phoebe, in case either of them needed the motorcar this morning. Douglas, on the other hand, would only have to worry about Eva and Hetta, who rarely went anywhere without their mistresses.
Phoe
be had been relieved when Eva and Douglas had arrived home last night. Not that she had believed much harm could come to them in a public place, but Eva had asked Moira Wickham some pointed questions, and Douglas had got some of the Crown Lily workmen talking as well. If one of them happened to be Ronald Mercer’s killer, he or she could take issue with Eva’s and Douglas’s probing.
Eva had paved the way for a friendship with Miss Wickham; the woman was gradually opening up. She planned to return to Crown Lily today to continue her ruse of wishing to work there, but not until later this morning. Phoebe and Fox should be back by then, or Eva could go in the Rolls-Royce with Fenton.
But Phoebe preferred she go with Douglas. Apparently, he had learned two quite significant things last night. According to Eva, one of the warehouse clerks had hinted that someone had been stealing finished china—whole cases of it. Mr. Tremaine was aware of the problem, but had admonished the clerk to say nothing; he hadn’t wished to tip off the thief that anyone suspected him. The clerk had only wagged his tongue last night due to excessive ale and Douglas’s assurances that since he was only visiting Langston and knew no one in town, there was no one he could tell. She hoped if Douglas returned later with Eva, he might discover more about it.
The other item of consequence had been a certain name that popped up several times: Gus Abbott. While it didn’t surprise Phoebe that the workers would have discussed the very man who had discovered Ronald Mercer’s body, they had raised a doubt about his alibi. Douglas related that one man had said, and others had agreed, that Crown Lily workers protected their own. Had they fabricated an alibi for a well-liked coworker? Phoebe wondered if this Gus Abbott could be Crown Lily’s thief, and Ronald Mercer had discovered his perfidy and confronted him.
She let the matter go for the moment, as she could do nothing about it presently. Fox slouched at the other end of the bench seat, his arms crossed, his chin tucked into the velvet collar of his coat. He resented Phoebe coming—that much was obvious.
“I’m sorry, Fox. Grams would have my head if she discovered I let you go alone.”
“I’m so tired of being treated as a child.”
“Yes, I understand. But really, I’d like to see Trent, too. Can’t you look at it that way?”
“Do you believe he’s innocent?” he asked in a challenging tone, as if to test Phoebe’s loyalty.
“I do. Perhaps for no other reason than that you believe in him. You know him better than anyone else here, I’d wager. Probably better than his own father did.”
“You’d win that wager. His father not only didn’t know his own son, he didn’t care to learn anything about him. Didn’t care what was important to him.”
Phoebe studied her brother’s profile, wondering. Then she voiced her thoughts. “You’re Grampapa’s heir. You’ve been raised to run Foxwood Hall someday and oversee Little Barlow as its chief patron. It’s what is expected of you. But is it what you want?”
His brows drew inward. “What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what Trent was facing before his father died. He was expected to enter the china industry, whether he wished to or not. And we all know he didn’t. You’ve never said what you want.”
His frown tightened. “Of course I want to be the Earl of Wroxly.”
“Do you, Fox? Truthfully?”
“I don’t know . . .” He slouched down farther, sliding lower on the leather seat. “Yes. Yes, I do. I want . . .”
“What?”
“To make Grampapa proud, I suppose.”
Phoebe smiled, reached across, and laid her hand on his forearm. “You will. You do, Fox. Grampapa’s terribly proud of you. If he doesn’t always say it—”
“He never says it.”
“That’s not true. But I realize it’s a rarity, and that’s because men of his generation are simply like that. They have expectations for their sons and grandsons, but that doesn’t mean they take them for granted. I assure you, Grampapa does not take you for granted.”
He shrugged, but his features softened as the perplexity faded from them. “It’s one thing for Grampapa to expect me to live up to his expectations and follow him as earl. There are generations of tradition to uphold. But I can’t imagine why it was so important to Mr. Mercer that Trent enter the china industry. Why not let him choose his profession?”
Phoebe sat back, but kept her gaze on her brother. “I suppose in this part of the country, china also has its long traditions. It must have been very important to Mr. Mercer that those traditions continued.”
“I don’t know . . .” Fox shook his head. “It’s really not the same thing at all. It’s not as if Mr. Mercer owned Crown Lily. I could understand it then.”
A possible reason occurred to her. Although she supposed a head designer at a china factory earned a substantial salary, since without him Crown Lily could not successfully compete with other companies, Mr. Mercer could have hit a financial stumbling block. “Could money have been the issue? Tuition at Eton is no small matter. Unless Trent was on scholarship.”
“I suppose it’s possible, but, then again, no. Trent wasn’t on scholarship, but he surely would have applied for one if money had suddenly become scarce.” He was silent a moment, obviously pondering. Then he asked, “Does Mr. Tremaine have sons? Someone to inherit the factory?”
“That’s a very good question.” So good, in fact, Phoebe’s pulse jumped. Had anyone thought to ask Mr. Tremaine about his heirs, and whether there could have been a problem between one of them and Ronald Mercer? Or had Ronald Mercer hoped to take over the business upon Mr. Tremaine’s retirement? Could that be why he wanted his son to learn every facet of Crown Lily’s operations?
If so, it wouldn’t happen now.
The police station occupied one end of a busy road lined with businesses and shops. With a steep slate roof, stone block trim around the windows and main entrance, and flanked by two narrow towers at either end, the redbrick structure might have been a school or even a small manor house. Douglas pulled up to the pavement. Fox gathered up the portmanteau of clothing and other small luxuries he’d brought for Trent. They let themselves out of the motorcar and climbed the two stone steps. Before entering, Phoebe glanced up at the scrolled pediments on either side of the door and the eagles carved in stone above it. She hadn’t thought to enter a police station again so soon after the one in Cowes. A sense of despondency settled over her.
Holding the portmanteau by its handle, Fox opened the door and glanced at her expectantly. She sighed and went in before she changed her mind.
She soon found herself settling onto a wooden bench in the foyer, as Trent could only have one visitor at a time. Fox had taken in the portmanteau, and Phoebe could only imagine some dour-faced bobby rummaging through it, checking pockets and unwrapping the scones, nutty Dundee cake, and crunchy toffee they’d brought. Did he sniff at the ingredients of each? He’d find neither chisels nor poison hidden within their gifts to Trent.
Fox returned to her about half an hour later, the empty portmanteau hanging lightly at his side. He looked weary and grim. “It’s your turn, if you still want to.” He gestured over his shoulder to the policeman waiting in a doorway. “He’ll take you back.”
Phoebe came to her feet. “How are you?”
He shrugged. “All right, I suppose. Glad I went in, if glad is a word you can use in circumstances like these. Trent isn’t all right.” He lowered his voice. “I told him you’d help him.”
Phoebe glanced at the policeman waiting by the door, then at the one behind the reception counter. Neither seemed to have heard Fox’s comment. Good. She didn’t need them threatening her to leave matters alone, as the detective in charge of Julia’s case in Cowes had. She’d very nearly landed in a jail cell of her own. Placing her hand on Fox’s shoulder, she nodded.
Trent awaited her in a room very much like the one in the Cowes Police Station when she had visited Julia: sparse, utilitarian, illuminated too brightly, yet not sufficiently heated
. Trent sat hunched before a table facing her; no restraints held him in place, Phoebe was glad to see. The policeman who had led her there did not leave, but closed the door and took up his position beside it. He crossed his arms and assumed a wide stance, as if ready to block an escaping Trent with his own body.
“How are you, Trent?” Phoebe pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. She folded her hands on the tabletop. “I’m sure Fox told you we brought some things for you, but if there’s anything else you need, you’re to let us know. Can you leave messages with the policeman at the front counter?”
“I suppose if I asked. I won’t need anything, though.” He kept his hazel eyes on her as he ran a forefinger absently down the length of his curving nose, so like his father’s. “Thanks for what you brought, Lady Phoebe.”
“Just Phoebe will do, please. Trent, I want to ask you a couple of questions, if I might.” She resisted glancing over her shoulder at the bobby, though she wondered how closely he was listening. Trent half shrugged and nodded his permission. “Do you know why it was so important to your father that you start at Crown Lily rather than finish your studies at Eton? Was there a financial difficulty?”
His features went taut as he considered. Then, “Not that I know of. We live in a good-sized house on the edge of town, the house Father and Mother bought when he became a china designer, and he had no plans that I knew of to sell it, although it would have brought a goodly sum.”
“Your mother died a couple of years ago, I understand.”
“In ’18, from the influenza,” he mumbled.
“I’m very sorry about that. Are you sure we shouldn’t contact your aunt and uncle? Where did you say they lived?”
He didn’t look at her. “York. I’ve another uncle, gone to America. We were never close with any of them. All my grandparents are dead.”
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