Phoebe studied her intently. “Which is how Ernie makes me feel. And why I could never trust him again.”
“Part of me wishes to trust Miss Wickham,” Eva said, “while another part echoes that same warning that she isn’t to be trusted.”
“She frightened me a little when we toured the painting room.” Amelia turned away from the mirror, allowing her hair to tumble down her back. “Perhaps frightened is too strong a word. I sensed it would be difficult to work under her supervision, that she could be excessively critical and exacting.”
“That’s true,” Eva confirmed. “But it’s her responsibility to uphold the standards of perfection so vital to Crown Lily. Without them, they couldn’t compete.”
“Yes, but need she be so very stern?” Amelia gave a little shudder, and Eva smiled. Undoubtedly, tenderhearted Amelia would not fare well in such an environment as the painting room at Crown Lily. Then she switched back to her original train of thought. “Mr. Shelton’s revelations have me thinking. Perhaps Miss Wickham is more than ambitious.”
“Are you thinking about Lydia . . . what was her last name?” Lady Phoebe gazed at her from across the room; Eva had her full attention now.
“Travers, and, yes, the possibility that Miss Wickham fired her for supposedly doing exactly what Miss Wickham herself has been doing all along—selling patterns to the competition.”
“If so, would she stop at that?” Lady Phoebe’s voice deepened with speculation.
“Your talk with Mr. Shelton convinces me more than ever that Miss Wickham might not stop at murder if she felt cornered. Not that Mr. Shelton is a murderer, but it’s a lesson in the extremes an individual will go to when they believe it’s necessary. I need to become friendlier with Miss Wickham and gain her confidence. Perhaps even lead her to believe I share her views and feel sometimes women must resort to cheating if we are ever to advance beyond our secondary roles.”
Phoebe moved beside her at the bed and laid the necklace she held on the dress Eva had placed there. She nodded briefly in approval of the match and turned to Eva. “That could be dangerous. She might at some point realize what you’re doing, and if she is a murderer—”
“You mustn’t do it, Eva.” Amelia hurried over to them. “We forbid it, Phoebe and I.”
Eva laughed softly. “If I don’t do this, we certainly can’t rely on the police to expand their investigation to include Miss Wickham. They’ll say they see no reason for it.”
After a hesitation Lady Phoebe nodded. “You’re right. But you must be very careful. Avoid being alone with her, if you can.”
“I will. In all honesty I hope to exonerate her, rather than the opposite. She can be rather brusque, but she’s also talented and has been treated unfairly.”
“That would leave us with Percy Bateman and Trent himself, at least at this point.” Lady Phoebe tapped her chin.
“Don’t forget about Gus Abbott, in the clay-mixing department,” Eva reminded her.
“Yes, Crown Lily’s possible china thief.” Phoebe began pacing and thinking out loud. “See what more you can find out about him, Eva. But I also need a reason to return to Crown Lily. Now that the contract for our china service has been signed . . .” She stopped pacing and faced Eva and her sister. “Julia signed that contract.”
“Yes?” Lady Amelia held out her hands. “So?”
“So I might consider signing another. I just had the most splendid idea. And it would kill two birds with one stone.”
Eva winced at the reference to killing, as did Lady Amelia.
“Sorry, a poor choice of words.” Lady Phoebe smiled ruefully. “What about another set of china . . . for Julia’s child? I’ve seen tea sets made exclusively for children, to be used at their birthday parties and other special occasions. They have bright colors, animals, elves, that sort of thing. I’ll return to Crown Lily and tell them I’d like a pattern that would suit either a boy or a girl, and order a set for perhaps six. Or make it twelve. Any child of Julia’s is sure to be very popular among his or her peers.”
Lady Amelia clapped her hands together. “A marvelous idea! Even if we weren’t investigating Mr. Mercer’s death—”
“The only we here are Eva and I,” Lady Phoebe corrected her.
Amelia made a face that dismissed the comment. “You’ll need me to go back with you if we’re to make a new commission look real. Oh, but it will be real, won’t it? It’s a darling idea, such a lovely thing to do for Julia. And her child. Yes, we must go tomorrow. We’ll telephone over, first thing in the morning.”
“No, actually, we won’t.” Lady Phoebe tapped a finger to her chin. “Let’s catch Mr. Tremaine and Mr. Bateman unaware.”
“But what if they’re too busy to see us?” Amelia asked.
“They’ll see us.” Lady Phoebe smiled. “They’ll make time for us because of who our grandfather is, and because of the amount of money we’ve already spent at their establishment. There’s no better advertisement than that, and they won’t wish to lose it.”
CHAPTER 11
Phoebe and Amelia arrived at Crown Lily at half past nine the next morning. They had decided Eva would go later, to preserve the illusion that she was sneaking away from Lyndale Park when her employers wouldn’t be needing her. Since they hadn’t called ahead first, no one met them as they drove into the enclosure. However, upon seeing them enter the building, Mr. Tremaine’s secretary jumped up from his seat and ran to inform his superior.
“Lady Phoebe, Lady Amelia.” Mr. Tremaine hurried out of his office; he looked flushed and worried. “Is there a problem with the order? Something you’d like to change before production begins?”
“No, nothing like that.” Phoebe began unbuttoning her coat, and Amelia did likewise. “Actually, we’d like to place another order.”
“Another order?” His demeanor instantly changed to one of delight. “How splendid! Please come into my office and we’ll discuss it.” To his secretary he said, “Tea and cake, Jessup, in my office.”
“Right away, sir.”
Mr. Tremaine gestured for them to precede him into the room, but then he moved past them to reposition the chairs facing his own across the desk just so. Next he helped each off with her coat. “Now then, tell me what it is you’d like.”
“A child’s tea set,” Amelia said eagerly. “Can you do something like that for us? It’s a secret, of course. You mustn’t say a word to our sister. It’s for her child.”
“Lovely, lovely,” the man intoned. He started to go on, but Phoebe cut him off.
“I do have one concern, however. The thefts I’ve heard about.”
“The . . . thefts?”
“Yes, Mr. Tremaine. Our footman supped at one of your local pubs the other night and heard about it from several of your employees.”
His eyes sparked. “Which ones?”
“Oh, I really couldn’t say. He didn’t mention names. He said shipments of china were being stolen in transit, and that has me worried. What is our guarantee that our china won’t go awry on its way to us in Gloucestershire?”
“Lady Phoebe, you realize I can’t control what happens once our china leaves the factory.” The man tented his fingers beneath his chin. “However, all of our shipments are fully insured, and then some. At worst there could be a delay while the set is being duplicated, but I promise it would be replaced at no cost to you. Or to Crown Lily, for that matter.”
“We certainly can’t ask for more than that, Phoebe.” Amelia beamed at Mr. Tremaine. “That puts our minds to rest, sir. Thank you.”
“But it has happened, then,” Phoebe pressed.
“A few isolated incidents,” he replied. “Nothing more.”
“And you’ve no idea how it’s done or who is doing the stealing? A warehouse worker? Perhaps one of your clay mixers?” Phoebe suggested, thinking about Gus Abbott.
“A clay mixer? I can’t imagine. But rest assured I’ve got my eyes and ears open. Should I find out anyone here at Crown Lily
is involved, the police will know about it immediately.”
Phoebe nodded, doing her best to assume a thoughtful look. “You don’t suppose, do you . . .”
“Suppose what, Lady Phoebe?”
“Well, I don’t like to say, but . . . do you suppose Trent Mercer had anything to do with it? In light of the fact that he didn’t wish to be working here, as we all well know.”
Mr. Tremaine let out a long, regretful sigh. “That’s very true. If only his father hadn’t forced him. The boy was much happier studying at Eton. I can’t help but think . . .” He left off, shaking his head.
Phoebe pretended to study him, and at length she asked, “Mr. Tremaine, are you thinking Trent Mercer might have had a hand in his father’s death? Do you believe him capable of such an act?”
Just as she had hesitated in asking, he took his time in replying, emitting another sigh. “In the past I’d never have thought so, but now? But what am I saying? No, no, Trent wouldn’t commit murder, much less kill his own father. But . . .”
“Yes?”
He compressed his lips, then said in a confidential tone, “I only tell you this because of your brother’s friendship with Trent. He’s been a virtual powder keg since leaving school. I only agreed to allow him to bring that dog of his here because it seemed to mollify him a bit, make him more amenable to his circumstances. I also agreed because Staffordshire bull terriers are popular around here and the dog is good for morale generally. I’m a connoisseur of the breed myself. But I also realized it was one way for Trent to irritate his father, which he’d seemed bent on doing at every turn. Murder? No. But ill will toward his father? Yes, I’m afraid so. In abundance.”
“Goodness.” It was Phoebe’s turn to sigh. Should the police become privy to this information, it wouldn’t go well for Trent. Or had Mr. Tremaine already shared his opinion of Trent’s state of mind with them? And could it be possible Phoebe and her siblings were putting too much trust in the boy?
“I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss such dismal matters.” Mr. Tremaine’s expression brightened. “Children’s china isn’t our main business, mind you, but I’m certain we can accommodate your needs with something perfectly charming. Let me just go and get Mr. Bateman . . .”
Phoebe and Amelia both came to their feet. “No need,” Phoebe told him. “We know the way.”
“But I’ve ordered tea . . .”
“We’ll come back.” Phoebe waved a hand. She and Amelia left the office and went along the corridor until they came to the designer’s office. The door was partly open, Mr. Bateman sitting at his drawing table. Phoebe knocked, startling him. He looked up, saw them, and after a hesitation, he shoved some papers together and stood.
“I do hope we aren’t disturbing you,” Phoebe said as she and Amelia sauntered into his office. Unlike Mr. Tremaine’s, furnished in fine leathers and mahogany, Percy Bateman’s office projected a much more utilitarian air, with chairs, table, and desk made of inexpensive metal and wood.
“On the contrary, it’s a pleasure.” The young man dragged a second chair next to the one already positioned in front of his desk. He bade them both sit. “Now, what can I do for you? Does Mr. Tremaine know you’re here?”
“We just saw him,” Amelia said. “But you’re the man we need to speak with. We’d like to commission another china service, for our sister’s child.”
The man’s eyebrows went up.
“Yes, a child’s tea set, on a smaller scale, of course, than a typical adult set,” Phoebe explained, “but not a play set. We want this to be functional for when our little niece or nephew has birthdays and that sort of thing. Can you come up with a suitable design, do you think?”
“I’m sure I can . . .” Something in his countenance suggested he was less than confident in his abilities when it came to children’s designs.
“We would hate to have to go elsewhere,” Phoebe said as incentive.
“No, indeed. We can certainly work with you.” He thought a moment, his fingers tapping on the desk. “Do you have certain preferences for the design?” Perplexity flashed in his eyes. Phoebe guessed he was remembering all the bickering that went on concerning her grandparents’ china.
“Bright colors,” she said. “And something adorable, like bears.”
“Or kittens,” Amelia suggested. “Or what about fairies? Oh, Phoebe, wouldn’t that make an enchanting theme?”
“Well, yes . . . if it’s a girl,” Phoebe said slowly. “Fairies might not suit a little boy.” She said to Mr. Bateman, “I think it’s best we go with animals. Puppies, I should think. Amelia, what do you say about that?”
Amelia pondered that a moment, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Puppies.” Her nose wrinkled. “But what kind?”
The lines across Mr. Bateman’s brow deepened. With no small amount of foreboding, he asked, “Tell me, is your brother in on this decision as well?”
“No, this was Phoebe’s idea.” Amelia showed her brightest smile. “And it’s splendid, isn’t it?”
He nodded, appearing relieved. Then he took out a sheet of paper and a charcoal pencil and began to sketch. “How about hounds?” he asked as he worked. “Foxhound pups?”
“Hmm.” Amelia pondered a moment. “Foxhounds might not be squiggly enough.”
Mr. Bateman glanced up. “Squiggly?”
“You know, the way puppies are.” Amelia looked to Phoebe for affirmation, but Phoebe felt as puzzled as Mr. Bateman looked. Amelia let go an impatient sigh. “All warm and squirmy and soft. Foxhounds, even as puppies, might be too adult-looking, if you see what I mean.”
Phoebe didn’t. She rolled her eyes. “Of course. Squiggly. Any suggestions, Mr. Bateman?”
“Ah . . . Mmm . . .” Absently he scratched behind his ear with the end of his pencil. “Beagles? Also a hunting dog, but perhaps a bit more, um, squiggly?”
“I think beagles will do.” Phoebe decided to end the matter before Amelia had any more suggestions. “Hunting dogs happen to tie in with our own history at Foxwood Hall, before the war, when our father and grandfather used to host foxhunts every fall. We haven’t any dogs anymore.” To her surprise and dismay, her eyes began to burn and she found herself blinking back tears.
“Exactly what I was thinking.” The man’s lower lip crept between his teeth as his pencil swished across the paper. “So many dogs were lost to the war.” His pencil stopped and he sat back, shaking his head. “No, this won’t do. May I have a day or two to experiment?”
“Certainly, Mr. Bateman.” Phoebe turned to consult with Amelia after the fact; her sister agreed with a nod. Amelia started to rise, but Phoebe stopped her with a flick of her gaze. She turned back to Mr. Bateman. “Tell me, has Ronald Mercer’s design book been found?”
He seemed startled by the question, then shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Perhaps whoever . . . took his life . . . took the book as well.”
“Yes, that’s what we were thinking,” Phoebe agreed. “Yet, aren’t your books kept locked away when you’re not using them? I can’t imagine something as important as a pattern book simply being left lying about.”
“Typically, they’re kept locked in our desks.” Percy Bateman absently ran the back of his hand across his chin. “But perhaps Mr. Mercer had been using it when he decided to go and see our head clay mixer. He might have forgotten to replace the book in his desk. Or he did, but neglected to lock the drawer.”
“Would the head of this department do something so careless?” Phoebe didn’t think so. Ronald Mercer didn’t get to be head of Crown Lily’s design department by forgetting to secure his very livelihood—his design bible. It also seemed to her that whoever took the book knew exactly where to find it, and understood the routine in this part of the factory, to have been able to be in and out of Ronald Mercer’s office without being seen. And she knew from her experiences with Eva that negotiating a lock wasn’t all that difficult; a few deft turns with a hairpin, and voila! That all made it less likely the t
hief had been a general factory worker, and far likelier he or she had worked in this building, or was at least a department supervisor who came here for meetings and was familiar with the layout of the administrative offices.
Moira Wickham, Phoebe remembered, was just such a supervisor. Was Gus Abbott? Somehow she doubted the head of clay mixing had the same entree into this part of the factory.
“Tell me, Mr. Bateman, had you and Mr. Mercer gotten on well?”
The point of the young man’s pencil snapped from the sudden pressure of his hand. The point flew off and sailed across the desk.
* * *
When Lady Phoebe returned to Lyndale Park, Eva had only a few minutes to speak with her before she herself hopped in the sedan with Douglas for the drive to Crown Lily. But in those few minutes, she had learned that Trent Mercer might have a shorter fuse than any of them had previously suspected. Or had Jeffrey Tremaine exaggerated? Many adults had little tolerance for the vagaries of youth and despaired of their behavior when it deviated even slightly from the norm. Thus, the boy’s moodiness upon his retrieval from Eton could have been misinterpreted as rebellious hostility. If only his dog could tell them what had happened in the grinding room that morning, and whom Ronald Mercer had met there.
As the car maneuvered first the country lanes and then the crowded city streets of Langston, she wondered, too, about Percy Bateman’s reaction to the question about how he had got on with Ronald Mercer. Had his broken pencil point signified a sudden bout of nerves? According to Lady Phoebe, Jeffrey Tremaine had appeared in the doorway a moment later, beckoning the sisters to take tea with him in his office, effectively cutting the discussion short.
And the thefts . . . according to Lady Phoebe, Mr. Tremaine had seemed about to dismiss these as false, but only when she referenced Douglas as having spoken with workers at the pub did he admit there had been a problem. True, a factory owner wouldn’t want to worry his customers that their goods might never arrive at their door, and Eva supposed she couldn’t blame him for that. But she also wondered if he might know more than he was willing to discuss, and for some reason he didn’t wish it becoming common knowledge. A shocking betrayal by one of his trusted employees? Something that might make him appear the fool for not having noticed it sooner? At least he had assured Lady Phoebe that he would fully guarantee the Renshaws’ orders.
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