The motorcar passed under the arching Crown Lily sign. The watchman at the gate, by now familiar with both of the Renshaws’ vehicles, waved them in. Eva stepped out in the main quadrangle, tipped a nod at Douglas, and started for the art department building. Commotion at the open doors of the main warehouse, however, sent her on a detour.
A delivery of crates and barrels was being unloaded from a rail carriage, the items handed from man to man in a snaking line that disappeared into the dimmer lighting of the warehouse. Eva knew these containers could be full of supplies, or simply empty, to be filled later with finished products and shipped out. The men, dressed in denim work trousers and heavy woolen shirts, eyed her as she approached, some of them showing grins of a rather leering nature that almost made her regret venturing in this direction.
In the next instant a whistle blew and those unloading the carriage stopped what they were doing. Soon the entire line went still as the last of the containers was handed into the warehouse. Some of the men lit up cigarettes. Others hurried inside, probably to retrieve lunch pails brought from home. Eva’s timing had proven perfect.
She stopped a few feet from one worker who had unabashedly watched her every step across the quadrangle. He flicked the ash of his cigarette as she reached him.
“Hullo there,” she said in her friendliest manner. “May I have a peek inside? I saw it when my employers were given a tour, but I wondered if I might have another look around.”
“Just a warehouse, miss.” He drew on the cigarette and exhaled the smoke through his nose. “Nothing fancy.”
“Yes, I know, but it’s so vast, and for someone born and raised in a country village, this is all so exciting.” Would he believe her round-eyed naivete?
With a shrug he stamped out his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. “Follow me, then. But if you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing here today?”
She had a ready answer. “Learning. Training, I suppose you could say. I’m considering signing on here in your art department as a painter. Do you like working here?” Again, she allowed herself to sound like a raw girl from the country.
“It puts food on the table and keeps me out of my missus’s hair. She doesn’t like when I’m underfoot.”
“No, I don’t suppose she does.” Eva chuckled. “So, what do you do here?”
“You were watching it. Packing, unpacking, storing, arranging, rearranging.” He swept his hand in a wide arc, encompassing endless rows of shelving crammed with all manner of containers, in many shapes and sizes. Men moved about like worker ants. Little by little, they scattered, probably to have their lunch. “This is where we take materials in and prepare them to go to whatever department they’re meant for.”
“What about the finished products?”
“That’s all in the adjoining warehouse, through there.” He pointed toward a gaping doorway far to their left. It was so large, Eva guessed a lorry could drive through it.
“And do you work in both warehouses?”
“If need be, when there’s more going out than coming in. But, generally, I’m in here. I supervise the first shift.” He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and gave her an assessing look. “Why all the questions?”
“I told you. To me this is all fascinating.”
He continued to eye her quizzically, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe her. He shook his head, his earlier grin reappearing. “I know why you’re poking about. You heard all about it, didn’t you?”
“About what?”
“Don’t play coy with me, miss. The murder. Mr. Mercer. Had you met him? You did come in that day with your betters, those Renshaws. My guess is you want to know what happened.”
A spark of panic heated Eva’s cheeks; she’d been caught and wouldn’t learn another thing from anyone. Not only that, but she’d be exposed to Miss Wickham, who wouldn’t take at all kindly to having been taken in. But then the man set her fears to rest when he said, “I’ll bet murder never happens where you’re from.”
She shook her head eagerly and told a blatant lie. “Never. We’re a sleepy little hamlet in the Cotswolds. Nothing extraordinary ever happens there. And while murder is a ghastly and detestable act, I can’t help but admit that . . . well . . . it’s an intriguing subject. Does anyone know what happened yet?”
“They arrested Mr. Mercer’s son, Trent. A deuced shame, that.”
Eva opened her eyes wide again. “Yes, I’d heard that, but do you really believe the boy killed his own father? I heard something from one of our footmen, who’s here in Langston with us. He said . . .” Eva trailed off and made a show of looking about her. Then she lowered her voice. “He said he’d heard down at one of the pubs that a lot of people here didn’t like Mr. Mercer. Is that true?”
The man shrugged. “I suppose. Sometimes that’s how it is between laborers and the blokes in charge.”
Eva nodded. “They also told him they were only too happy to protect their own, meaning some of them were willing to give Gus Abbott an alibi.”
His eyes narrowed and his silence stretched. Then he said in a tone resembling a low growl, “Meaning?”
Eva should have recognized the warning in his voice, and should have gone on her way immediately. Ill advisedly, she said, “Meaning perhaps they lied when they claimed he was here in the warehouse the morning of the murder.”
Abruptly, the man took her arm, albeit gently, turned her around and started her forward, out of the warehouse. “Come with me, miss.”
“Where? Let me go.” Taken completely off guard, she failed to put up much resistance.
In the next instant he did indeed release her, but kept walking. Over his shoulder he said, “You want to know what happened, don’t you?”
Had she only imagined his abruptness, his less than gentlemanly demeanor when he’d grasped her arm? “Yes, but—”
“Then follow me. I can introduce you to someone who might be able to answer your questions.”
“Oh. Are you sure this person won’t mind?”
He replied with a raised hand that beckoned her to continue following him. They crossed the quadrangle, heading in a direction that made Eva drag her feet. “Are you taking me into the clay-mixing building? Because I’d really rather not.” What she had rather not do was confront Gus Abbott, if that was what this man had in mind.
He stopped outside the heavy metal door that led inside. “If you have questions for Gus, I suggest you ask him yourself.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No? It seems to me, then, that you’d rather spread rumors and play with a man’s reputation.” He tugged the door open and stood aside to let her cross the threshold. “If you’re going to toss around words about someone, you should do it to his face and not behind his back.” He raised his eyebrows at her, waiting.
She was backed into a corner of her own making. If she’d been more careful with her questions, she wouldn’t be standing here now. But if she backed away, she’d be a coward, and what was more, this man would be right about her. She entered the building.
He followed her in and bustled her down the corridor. At the same time he called out for Gus Abbott. A man in gray coveralls, smeared with dried clay, shuffled out through a doorway. He wasn’t what Eva would have expected of someone who worked in these rough, industrial surroundings. He was neither large nor particularly muscular, and a good two decades past his youth.
When he saw her, he removed the flat cap he wore and gave a little bob of his head. “Floyd,” he said in greeting to Eva’s companion. His gaze shifted back to her, his puzzlement clear. “Can I do something for you, miss?”
“I . . . er . . .”
“This young lady has a question or two for you, Gus.” Floyd, as Eva now knew he was called, didn’t exactly speak kindly, and she flinched.
“I’m sorry about this,” she said to Mr. Abbott. “I have no desire to disturb you.”
Floyd spoke for her. “She’s wondering if you might
have killed Ron Mercer—instead of Mercer’s boy doing it. What have you got to say about that, Gus?”
CHAPTER 12
Gus Abbott raised a callused, clay-soiled hand to his breastbone. “Me, a murderer?”
Eva couldn’t decide if he looked outraged or simply baffled. “I never said any such thing,” she protested. Indignation and, yes, mortification made her face burn. “It’s just that . . . well . . . you see . . .” While both men watched her expectantly, she drew a deep breath and started again. “The other night my employer’s footman was at a pub in town and he heard people—workers from Crown Lily—say they were only too happy to protect their own, the implication being that perhaps they’d create an alibi for someone when none actually existed.”
There. She had said it. Except . . . Mr. Abbott didn’t appear any more enlightened than he had a moment ago. If anything, he looked thoroughly confused.
“What she means, Gus, is that they were lying when they claimed you were in the warehouse, and that you were most likely right here the morning Ron Mercer died. And that the murderer was probably none other than you.”
Eva whirled on Floyd. “I’ll thank you to stop putting words in my mouth.”
It wasn’t Floyd who replied, but Mr. Abbott. “If you don’t believe I was in the warehouse, ask Mr. Tremaine. He knows.”
“Oh, I suppose he saw you there,” she said weakly.
“I don’t think I need to explain myself to the likes of you.” He regarded her with disdain. “Call me a murderer, will you?”
Eva hadn’t actually called him anything, but then again, what else should he think? “I was only trying to get at the truth. Trent Mercer is a schoolmate of my lady’s brother, and—”
“And anyone else will do, so long as it’s not the boy, is that it?” Gus Abbott pivoted on his heel and ducked back inside the room he had been in, but not before issuing a curt order. “Come in here.”
Eva glanced at Floyd, who shrugged and pointed through the doorway. “I think you owe him that much, miss.”
Did she? Exactly what did she owe him that required her to go deeper into this building? Before the lunch whistle blew, the premises would have been filled with men, the sounds of their voices filling the corridor, along with the whir and grind of machinery. Now all lay quiet, and Eva felt only too aware of being very much alone with these men. And yet . . .
With another breath to steel her nerves, she proceeded into the next room, aware of Floyd following on her heels. She stopped short just inside the doorway, forcing him to back up a step or bump into her. Though she hadn’t been in this specific room before, it was very much like the one she had seen on the tour of the factory, with its chutes and conveyors and several grinding vats. She didn’t have to look inside to know those vats contained vicious blades that turned raw materials into malleable clay.
And yet Gus Abbott waved her closer to the nearest contraption. “Have a look.”
“I’ve already seen—”
“I said have a look, miss.”
Eva went forward to join him at the vat. He pointed over the edge, and she had to rise onto her toes to see inside. This particular vat stood empty, the blades on full, unsettling display. Eva’s breath caught. She let it out unevenly, wishing she were anywhere but here. Gus Abbott’s hostility rolled over her in waves.
“Do you realize what kind of death Ron Mercer met in that vat in the other room?” he asked.
Eva hesitated, her fingertips shaking at the mere thought of it. She said in a half whisper, “It must have been horrific.”
He nodded. “Yes, it must have been. The vat he was dumped into was filled with stones and the rest, which would only have added to his terror and his suffering.”
Eva gulped, her heart fluttering. The pulses pattered in her wrists and her temples, making her dizzy and queasy.
“I’m an artisan, miss. Do you know what that means?”
She turned her head and met Gus Abbott’s gaze. “It means you’re a craftsman. An artist.”
“It means I’ve worked my entire life to learn my trade and do it properly. It means I care about what I do, that it’s important to me. These vats may be ugly to you. There’s nothing pretty about them, but to me they’re beautiful. Can you understand that?”
Actually, she could. Farming could be brutal. Cows became ill, died, or needed someone to put them out of their misery. Both the milking and the mucking were backbreaking, grimy labors. Some years weren’t good ones, and money ran short. It was always a struggle. Still, her father, who had been a farmer all his life, found it satisfying, at times beautiful, and never once wished for anything else. Neither had her mother.
She raised her chin and answered steadily, “I believe I can understand, Mr. Abbott.”
“Then you’ll also understand that I could never defile something so important to me with anything as foul as murder. And so violent a murder, at that. It would be like sacrilege, like desecrating a church.”
She wanted to believe him, and for the most part she did. Yet a tiny voice reminded her that not so very long ago, someone she loved very much had nearly lost her life inside a chapel, and the person responsible, who should have respected the sanctity of the church above all else, had shown no regard for it whatsoever. So, where did that leave Gus Abbott, standing before her in a decidedly convincing aspect of wounded self-righteousness?
“I’m very sorry I said what I did, Mr. Abbott. I listened to hearsay and rumor, and spoke out of turn. It won’t happen again.”
She moved to leave, and they allowed her to go. She hurried blindly across the quadrangle. Once she was upstairs in the painting room, her hands continued to tremble and she despaired of producing any results that would pass Miss Wickham’s scrutiny. Making matters worse, she found herself once again seated at the worktable so recently vacated by Lydia Travers. Whereas the first time she had worked here, the others had paid her little attention, now she felt their stares burning into her. She braved several glances in their directions and did not believe she was mistaken in detecting resentment and accusation glaring back at her. They obviously blamed her for Lydia getting the sack.
The very notion got Eva’s dander up, until she realized that Lydia’s dismissal and her being hired happened simultaneously. Perhaps these workers believed Eva had been instrumental in Lydia losing her position. She must find a way to talk to them and convince them one had nothing to do with the other. And then see what she could find out about Lydia Travers and where she lived. She still had questions about why the girl had been let go.
* * *
Phoebe paused in the upstairs gallery to view the portraits ranged along the wall between bedroom doorways. Studying the attire, hairstyles, and symbolic objects in each composition, she judged that the paintings spanned recent times—a picture of Gilbert Townsend and his first wife, Georgiana—all the way back to the 1600s. A man and a woman hung side by side, looking grim. She wore a long-waisted gown, open to show the petticoats beneath, with voluminous sleeves and a square neckline edged in lace, the style reminiscent of both the Stuart and Georgian eras. The man wore a long velvet coat edged in fox fur, wide knee-length trousers with stockings, and a cascade of lace that began at his collar. Something in his eyes struck Phoebe as defiant, challenging, and she guessed he had hailed from the merchant class and had only recently, at the time of the portrait, been raised to the nobility.
The pair looked nothing whatsoever like Gil, yet he had often conveyed that same look of defiant self-entitlement she saw on their faces. She smiled. Though she couldn’t say how directly related the couple in the portraits were to Gil, they certainly appeared to be kindred spirits, if nothing else.
Fox appeared at the top of the staircase, Jester lumbering along beside him, and the pair crossed the gallery to join her. Jester sniffed affectionately at Phoebe’s hand until she obliged him with a pat on the head. He sat beside her, leaning against her leg. Fox, meanwhile, stared up at the man in the picture for all of a sec
ond or two, gave the jacket of his Norfolk suit a tug, and murmured, “Glad I didn’t have to live back then. By the way, Phoebe, I want to talk to you. What have you learned about Ronald Mercer’s death? If you can’t find a way to clear Trent soon, I’ll start digging around myself.”
“No, you won’t.”
He leaned in closer. “Try me.”
“Fine.” She let out a huff of frustration. “But let’s wait until Eva gets back from the factory.”
“Why is she there alone? Why didn’t she go with you and Amelia this morning? And why the blazes is Amelia allowed to sneak around, but not me?” His combative tone brought Jester to his feet again, and he stared up at them with questions glistening in his eyes.
Phoebe held up her hands. “One question at a time.”
“Fine. The last one first.”
“You know why. You’re Grampapa’s heir, and you’re also the youngest of all of us. And Amelia is not sneaking around. She merely accompanied me to place a new order.”
“An order for what?” His voice bounced off the gallery walls.
“Shh!” Phoebe glanced toward the staircase, and then Julia’s bedroom. “It’s a surprise for Julia and her baby. Do not say a word to her. And would you really have wanted to come and pick out more china today?”
“Since you put it that way . . .” He recoiled with a comically disgusted look. “No, thank you all the same.”
“Well, then. As regarding Eva, she and I didn’t go together because she’s pretending to have an interest in working there.”
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