A Sinister Service

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Despondency gripped Phoebe again, like a hand on her throat, another around her heart. What would happen to Trent? Once he left here, where would he go?

  “You said you had a couple of questions,” he prompted her.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve wondered whether Mr. Tremaine has heirs, and if you happen to know them.”

  “He had two sons.”

  Trent’s emphasis on had told Phoebe all she needed to know. Still, she asked, “The war?”

  He nodded. “Both at the Battle of the Somme. If he has other heirs, I’ve never met them.”

  “So I wonder who will take over the factory when he retires,” Phoebe mused out loud. “Had your father any ambitions in that direction?”

  Once more, Trent answered with a shrug. “He never said anything about it. But I think he was talking to a couple of the other china works.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Seeing if they wanted to hire him away from Crown Lily. It’s all competitive, you know. Designers move around depending on how much they’re offered. Crown Lily wasn’t the first company my father worked for.”

  “Yes, I have learned that much since being here.” Had he agreed to a move, made promises, only to go back on his word, prompting the owner of another company to murder him? That seemed a far stretch. Besides, why do it at Crown Lily, in a grinding room? She shook her head at the notion, eliciting a puzzled look from Trent. No, she believed whoever killed Ronald Mercer worked at Crown Lily. Then there was another perplexing matter to be solved. “Trent, do you know what happened to your father’s pattern book?”

  The boy shoved back his chair and came to his feet. “I already told you I didn’t know. Why don’t you ask Mr. Bateman?”

  From behind her, she heard the shuffle of the policeman’s feet as he came to attention and started to intervene. Phoebe held up a hand and glanced over her shoulder. “It’s all right.” Then, to Trent, she said, “I have asked Mr. Bateman.” In a manner, at least, she acknowledged silently.

  “And I suppose he denied it. But the man’s a liar. He lies all the time. It’s his fault my father’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Lady Phoebe’s trip to the jail to visit Trent Mercer had obviously upset her, but there hadn’t been time to talk about it. Eva didn’t like leaving her lady in such an agitated state, but she had her brother and sisters to comfort her, and Eva had promised to be at Crown Lily by midmorning. Disappointing Miss Wickham could result in a loss of the woman’s regard, and with it her confidence. Eva had climbed into the touring car with Douglas, practically as Phoebe and Fox slid out, with promises to compare what they each learned later.

  When they arrived in the factory’s main yard, Douglas sauntered off in the direction of the packing warehouse. Eva steeled herself with a deep breath. She carried a folder with several teacups she had sketched the night before, and found herself fretting over whether she would pass muster with Miss Wickham. She tried reminding herself that her interest in becoming a painter was nothing more than a deception, a means to acquire information. Yet her sense of pride and her belief in always doing one’s best had her fingers quivering as she let herself into the building. Her legs trembled slightly as she climbed the stairs to the second-floor studio.

  Her qualms were forgotten as shouting reached her ears, and she hurried through the doorway. In the second aisle, about two thirds of the way back, Miss Wickham stood with her hands on her hips, her back to Eva. Another woman, younger, shorter, and more slender, with blond hair and childlike features, looked up at the other woman from her seat at one of the worktables.

  “You’ll pack your things, such as they are, and leave immediately.” Miss Wickham’s voice filled the silent space. None of the workers even pretended to be concentrating on their painting. All gazes converged on the confrontation.

  “You’re making a mistake,” the blonde protested. “I’ve done nothing wrong. This isn’t fair.”

  What had she done to warrant dismissal? Eva wondered if she should back her way out of the room and pretend she hadn’t seen or heard the matter, but just then, a graying redhead in the front of the room noticed her.

  The woman scowled. “Ahem, Miss Wickham, we appear to have company.”

  Miss Wickham turned, looking very much annoyed at the interruption. Yet, when she spotted Eva, whose face turned fiery, her features softened. She motioned for Eva to come farther into the room. She turned back to the blonde.

  “It so happens, I might have a ready replacement for you, Lydia. So hurry up, off with you.”

  Lydia stood her ground. “Mr. Tremaine is going to hear about this.”

  “Mr. Tremaine has no time for your nonsense, my dear, now does he?”

  “He’ll listen.” Lydia’s face darkened. “He has to. You’re being unfair. You decided I’m a spy for Royal Wiltshire for no good reason.”

  “No reason? You’ve been seen with one of their assistant engravers. That’s reason enough to incriminate you.”

  “We haven’t been stepping out together for weeks now. There’s been no sneaking around, never was.”

  Miss Wickham harrumphed. “Lies. The thefts began several months ago, when you first started seeing that young man. Obviously, the pair of you plotted to increase your fortunes by stealing patterns and bringing them to Royal Wiltshire. Otherwise, how did Royal Wiltshire suddenly release a pattern almost identical to our Violets and Vines?” The girl started to protest again, but Miss Wickham thrust her chin in the air and made a chopping motion with her hand. “That will be all, Lydia. Collect your things, and out with you.”

  Eva expected tears, but when Lydia brushed past her on her way out the door, her meager possessions stuffed into her bulging handbag and her coat tossed over her arm, Eva saw nothing but defiance on the young woman’s face. Defiance, and a square-chinned dignity that made Eva wonder if indeed Miss Wickham had unjustly accused her.

  She wasn’t afforded much time to ponder the matter, for Moira Wickham waved her over.

  “Come in, come in. Don’t mind them.” Miss Wickham referred to the many faces now turned in Eva’s direction, their curiosity evident. They’d seen her here before; now they must be burning to know why she had returned, and if she might be the ready replacement their supervisor had spoken of moments ago. Eva wondered that, too. “Back to work, the lot of you.”

  Miss Wickham returned to her workspace and Eva met her there. The woman sat, but allowed Eva to remain standing. After moving aside paints and the china she had been embellishing, she held out the flat of one broad palm. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got for me.”

  Eva handed over the folder and held her breath as the other woman opened it and slid out its contents. That earlier sense of wanting to do well, to prove herself, gripped her again, despite the fact that she would never work here—not for any price. Miss Wickham spread out Eva’s four drawings and leaned over them.

  “Mm-hmm. Ah. Yes, I see why you did that. Mmm . . .” Her brow creased, her lips skewed, her head tilted this way and that. “Well, then . . .”

  And yet she gave no opinion, but continued to stare down at Eva’s handiwork. She hadn’t rushed these drawings last night. She’d first made rough sketches, pondered over them, showed them to Ladies Phoebe and Amelia, who had declared them splendid and engaging. Well, Eva knew better than to take their opinions to heart, as they were quite certainly prejudiced in her favor. Still . . .

  Miss Wickham suddenly raised her chin and pinned Eva with her gaze. “They’re awful. Entirely predictable, the work of an amateur.”

  “Oh . . .” Something inside Eva deflated painfully. “I’m terribly sorry.” She bent to gather up her wasted efforts.

  Miss Wickham’s hand came down on the drawings with a thwack that made Eva jump. She snatched back her hand as if Miss Wickham had slapped it. “Not so fast. I didn’t expect any different. In fact, I expected far worse. These surely aren’t acceptable as they are, but they show promise, Miss Huntford, real promise. Yo
u’ve got a raw talent. What you need now is training. Lots of it.”

  Briskly the woman rose from her chair and strode into an adjoining room, perhaps a storage room, for she returned with a white plate bearing a simple transfer design in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. “Follow me.”

  She just as briskly led Eva to the second row and to the worktable so recently vacated by Lydia. “You may sit here and use Lydia’s paints and brushes. Here is your canvas, Miss Huntford.” She set the plate down on the table. “And here are your instructions.” She slapped the paper down beside the plate. “Show me what you’re capable of. Don’t worry about ruining the finished product. This is one of our least expensive shapes to produce—very plain, as you can see—and no great loss should we end up tossing it in the bin. It’s what we use in training all new painters.”

  With that, she walked back to her corner station and left Eva to work out the instructions. They seemed a jumble of numbers and indecipherable diagrams at first, but as she perused them several times over, they began to take shape in her mind as coherent directions of where to apply which colors on the transferred design. The instructions even indicated which size brushes to use for each part of the design. Eva set to work.

  * * *

  Phoebe looked up as Eva entered the doorway of the drawing room, her coat hanging over her arm. Phoebe had left a message belowstairs for her to come up to the drawing room as soon as she arrived back at the house.

  “I have a position, my lady. A china painter-in-training.”

  Her pronouncement sent a shiver of dread through Phoebe; she clasped her hands in her lap and tried her best not to show it. Seated across from her, Veronica Townsend made no secret of her disapproval as she turned her mouth down at the corners and hmphed.

  “The only servants who ever enter this room are the footmen to bring us tea, or the housemaid to clean—and she only comes in early in the morning, before anyone else is awake. Really, Phoebe, this is not a place to entertain your lady’s maid.” She hefted her bulk out of her chair and stalked out, practically knocking her shoulder into Eva’s in the doorway.

  Phoebe chuckled and motioned for Eva to join her. Though she had initially intended for the two of them to retreat elsewhere for their talk, in light of Veronica Townsend’s indignation, she decided the drawing room was as good a place as any. Eva took the seat so recently vacated by the other woman and tossed her coat over its arm.

  “Heavens,” Phoebe said in response to Eva’s startling news, “does Miss Wickham expect you to be there first thing every morning?” She realized how the question sounded—or, rather, made her sound. Like a helpless, spoiled aristocrat who couldn’t get by without someone to bring her tea and toast and dress her each morning. Quickly she added, “If she does, of course, we’ll manage it.”

  But it hadn’t been the thought of beginning each day without Eva’s help that had made her shudder. It was the thought of Eva leaving her, of losing the closest friend she had ever known.

  “I’ve worked it out that my training will be on a part-time basis, whenever I can find time to be there. I explained that I didn’t wish you to discover my new ambitions until the proper time came to inform you, preferably right before you and the others return to Little Barlow.”

  “And Miss Wickham accepted that?”

  “She seemed to believe me entirely. I think she’s so gratified to be saving me from a life of service that she’ll make whatever allowances are necessary for the time being. It’s on account of her mother, who was a lady’s maid until she married. Apparently, Mrs. Wickham never spoke well of being in service, nor of the woman she worked for.” Eva smiled. “Unlike me, my lady. But then, I’m uncommonly fortunate. Much more fortunate than a poor girl who was sacked today.”

  Phoebe listened as Eva went on about what had occurred in the painting room when she had first arrived. “Do you think Miss Wickham was justified in dismissing her?”

  “I’m not sure. Her name is Lydia Travers, and I intend to ask the other workers what they thought of her. I didn’t have a chance this morning, as Miss Wickham kept me far too busy until it was time for me to leave. But there was something in the girl’s countenance, a wounded dignity and an utter lack of shame that prod me to suspect she may be innocent.”

  Phoebe crossed one leg over the other, well aware her grandmother would frown at her doing so. “I would think Percy Bateman is the likeliest culprit when it comes to selling patterns. If he felt he couldn’t advance at Crown Lily because of Mr. Mercer’s strict hold on the design department, he might well have decided to help a competitor in exchange for an eventual position there.”

  “Or it’s Miss Wickham selling patterns, and using Lydia as a scapegoat.”

  Phoebe nodded at this possibility. “Which would also mean it’s likely she has the missing pattern book.”

  “The next question is whether the pattern thefts are connected to the china thefts.”

  “Good heavens, Crown Lily is rife with crime.”

  “It seems that way. Did you learn anything useful this morning from Trent Mercer, my lady?”

  The question jolted Phoebe back three hours earlier, to Trent’s blurted accusation. “There was one startling moment when he claimed it was Percy Bateman’s fault his father was dead.”

  Eva’s dark eyebrows climbed in her forehead. “Was he accusing Mr. Bateman of murder?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought at first, but once I’d calmed him down again, he admitted he’d only said that because of the competition between the two designers. You see, Ronald Mercer reigned supreme at Crown Lily for years, until Mr. Tremaine hired Percy Bateman. Suddenly Mr. Mercer faced a whole new level of competition, and from a much younger man. Hence his hubris when we first arrived, when he attempted to belittle Mr. Bateman’s talents. Anyway, the rivalry between them prompted Mr. Mercer to try to best Mr. Bateman in whatever ways he could, his latest attempt being to experiment with new formulas to make the china even stronger. That explains why he was in the grinding room that morning, looking for the head clay mixer to discuss his latest formulation.”

  “So Trent’s accusation is really one of circumstance, rather than actual guilt.”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly. The accusation doesn’t amount to anything legally, but Trent’s anger and his belief that his father would still be alive if not for Percy Bateman are quite real.”

  “Then, although Trent resented his father for withdrawing him from Eton, he wouldn’t have wished him dead,” Eva said.

  “I don’t believe he did. More than ever, I believe him to be innocent.”

  “I do hope it’s true, my lady.”

  “Hope what’s true?” Mildred Blair came into the drawing room, looking chic with a silk scarf wrapped as a headband around her bobbed ebony hair. She had donned a dress Phoebe suspected had been designed to mimic the new flowing Chanel fashions Julia favored.

  “That Trent Mercer is innocent,” Phoebe informed her, glad Mildred apparently hadn’t overheard more of their conversation.

  “Oh, that.” Mildred took a moment to stare Eva down, a silent but just-as-thorough disapproval as the vocal one Veronica Townsend had expressed. “Yes, he seemed a nice boy, and one pities him for the position he’s in. It would be a shame for him to swing.”

  At such bluntness Phoebe exchanged a disgusted look with Eva, but decided not to dignify the comment with a response.

  “Where’s his hound got to?” Mildred swung herself into the easy chair across the little table from Eva’s, facing Phoebe on the settee.

  “I suppose Fox has him somewhere,” Phoebe said.

  “Actually, I saw the two of them on the grounds as Douglas and I drove in.” Eva curled her lips at Mildred with a disdain only Phoebe could detect. Since their very first meeting last spring on Gilbert Townsend’s yacht, the two of them had taken a dislike to each other, which no amount of time or, Phoebe suspected, civilized encounters would overcome. “Fox was tossing a ball for him.
Jester seemed rather exuberant about bounding after it.”

  “What fun.” Mildred’s tone and expression said she considered such an outing anything but. She dismissed Eva with a toss of her hair, and said to Phoebe, “By the way, I’ve just been to visit Ernie.”

  “That hardly interests me, I’m afraid.” No, Ernie had lost Phoebe’s regard and wasn’t likely ever to win it back. She made no effort to hide her sentiments about him.

  “He’s hired a solicitor.” Mildred’s tone held a hint of merriment that raised Phoebe’s apprehensions.

  She narrowed her eyes at the other woman. “Why?”

  “Well, I don’t know if I should say . . .” She gave another toss of her hair, letting it fall coyly around her chin.

  “Then you shouldn’t have mentioned it, should you?” Eva took a tone she would never ordinarily use with someone she considered her social superior. Mildred blinked in surprise.

  “Hmph. If you must know, he’s exploring his options about this house. Seeing if there is any way of dislodging your sister until the child is born.”

  “How dare he?” Phoebe surged to her feet. “He’s going to regret this.”

  She cut a determined path to the cloakroom to retrieve her coat. Not bothering with a hat, she let herself out the front door.

  “My lady, wait for me.”

  A glance over her shoulder confirmed that Eva hurried after her, swinging her coat around her. Near the driveway Fox was running with Jester, but he came to a halt when he spotted Phoebe walking in such a hurry. She didn’t stop to explain, but a voice from the house brought a pause to her steps.

  “Phoebe, where are you rushing off to?” It was Julia, calling out from the library window she had swung open. “Has something happened?”

  “Not yet, it hasn’t, but it will if someone doesn’t do something.”

  Julia wrinkled her nose. “What are you talking about?”

  “I haven’t time, Julia. Suffice it to say, I’m off to defend your rights as a Townsend.”