Douglas brought the motorcar to a stop and turned to speak to them. “Will this do?”
Eva nodded. Even in the fading light she could see Crown Lily’s outer wall in the near distance standing as a sentinel against intruders from the neighborhood. The inhabitants might be welcome to work there during the day, but they were adamantly forbidden access at night.
There were people out, traveling to and fro along the pavement, most of them dressed in shabby woolens and drab colors. They’d passed several pubs along the way here, the most recent just there on the corner. Lit windows in the tenements provided glimpses of crowded parlors and kitchens, voices and laughter tumbling out onto the street. Even in November, those windows had been shoved open. Otherwise, flats such as these, constructed during the previous century, provided virtually no ventilation.
“The one I’m looking for is there, I believe.” Eva pointed to a three-story building about a dozen yards down the street. Constructed of brick, the ground floor had been whitewashed—although even in the darkness one could see the ashen veil left behind by the kilns—while the bricks above had been left naked. “Nedra, the young woman who used to sit beside Lydia, told me she lives on the third floor.” She turned to Hetta. “Ready?”
Hetta sucked in a breath. “I should not be away from Madame, ja, but we are here. Let us go, then I get back.”
It had taken some persuasion to convince Hetta to leave Lady Annondale’s side. But Lady Annondale, having had the situation explained to her, had seen the sense in Hetta coming along. She had insisted the false labor pains had ceased, and, she had added, as a mother-to-be, she wished to give Trent every opportunity to clear his name. Prison was no place for a boy.
Eva collected her handbag and the basket provided by Lyndale Park’s cook. In it were pasties, scones, a few apples, and a bottle of milk. Lady Phoebe had also contributed a handful of shillings. Any more than that and Miss Travers would realize these gifts could not have come from Eva.
The building stood beside an alley, a dark, cramped passageway that prompted Eva to walk faster as they passed it. After they climbed the front steps, they entered a foyer as cold and grim as outside. They heard muffled voices from behind doors: a woman shouting, a baby crying, and, incongruously, laughter. At the very top of the wooden staircase that trembled with each step they took, a tight hallway revealed several doors. Good heavens, how many flats had been squeezed into this cramped space beneath the roof?
They knocked at the first door, both of them lurching back a step when a man with unkempt hair and several missing teeth growled out at them with a burst of foul breath. “What?”
“We . . . we’re looking f-for Miss Travers,” Eva stammered. She wondered if she should have come here with Douglas instead of Hetta. She pulled back another step when she noticed the fellow eyeing the basket hanging from her arm. “D-does she live here?”
“Over there.” The man pointed with a none-too-clean finger and slammed the door in their faces.
They turned in the general direction of his gesture to where three more doors lined the hall before it turned. Hetta shook her head. “Which one?”
Eva made a quick judgment. “I think he meant that one.” She walked to the second door down and knocked again, bracing for another rude encounter. This time, however, the door opened a crack and a single eye peered out at her.
“What?” Though the female voice spoke the same word the man had, it came as a whisper laced with fear.
“Lydia Travers?”
“Why? Who are you?”
“My name is Eva Huntford, and this is my friend Hetta Brauer. I was wondering if I might speak with you.”
“What about?” The eye narrowed speculatively. “Wait, I remember you. From Crown Lily. You came with that posh family. And then . . . yes . . . you were there when Miss Wickham sent me packing.” The door started to close.
Eva stuck the toe of her low-heeled oxford shoe into the gap between the door and the jamb. “Please wait.”
“You stole my job.”
“I feel dreadful about what happened in the painting room. Yes, I’m considering taking a permanent position there, but I assure you that I had nothing to do with your being let go. And . . . and I’ve brought you some things to help, to see you through a few days until you find a new situation. I promise we mean you no harm.”
Slowly the door opened wider. Lydia Travers glanced at the basket hanging from Eva’s bent arm. She shrugged and turned away. “Come in. Close the door behind you.”
A quick glimpse revealed this to be a one-room flat with a bed—neatly made—a small table and single chair, and a low cupboard. There was no cooker, and little room to prepare anything resembling a meal. Clothing, sparse as it was, hung on a few pegs pounded into the wall. A single window overlooked the alley and the building next door. It couldn’t let in much light during the day. Eva’s heart went out to Miss Travers.
She held out the basket. “This is for you. There’s a little money, too. Not much, but I hope it helps.”
“I don’t need your charity. Besides, why are you being kind? What do you want?” Lydia went through the contents as she spoke, and then covered it again with the cloth. Lydia jerked her chin at Hetta. “Doesn’t she talk?”
“Hetta doesn’t speak much English. I mostly wanted to see that you were all right. Your friend Nedra told me I’d find you here.”
“I’ll have to have a word with Nedra, then, won’t I?”
“She meant no harm. She and some of the other workers are worried about you. They feel bad about what happened. They regret not coming to your defense.”
“They’d have been sacked, too. It wasn’t my fault, you know. What Miss Wickham accused me of.”
“Has she done this before? Accused someone and given them the sack?”
“I suppose. She’s in charge, isn’t she?”
“Yes, but can you remember the last person she sent packing?”
Lydia rolled her eyes, but then seemed to consider the question. “There was an incident shortly after I started at Crown Lily. A girl, she wasn’t stealing patterns, but Miss Wickham said she was taking things—supplies. Sent her away. But then I heard she got married, so in the end it didn’t really matter, did it?”
“I suppose not.” Eva involuntarily stole another glance around the room. She decided to put Miss Wickham’s accusation against Lydia to the test. “Won’t your beau help you?”
“Were you deaf that day? I haven’t got a beau, haven’t for some time now.” She pulled herself up taller. “I can take care of myself, thank you. And my younger sisters. They live with my grandmother, who can’t work, so I’ve got to. And I will. I’ll find a new situation soon enough. You can go back to Miss Wickham and tell her that.”
“I believe you,” Eva said truthfully. She couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride in Lydia, in her determination to keep going when others would have despaired.
“I won’t go skulking back to my parents, either.” Outrage sparked in Lydia’s eyes. “I’d rather starve.”
The declaration explained why Lydia’s sisters lived with their grandmother; the implications tugged at Eva’s heartstrings. Not everyone enjoyed the happy, safe childhood she had. In good times and in lean ones, her parents had always provided a secure home for Eva and her siblings. Apparently, the same could not be said for Lydia’s parents.
Hetta reached out and touched Lydia’s forearm, offering her a gentle smile. It always surprised Eva how much English Hetta understood, even when she hadn’t the words to express herself. Lydia blinked rapidly and turned away, pretending to busy herself with the contents of the basket.
“I can’t offer you anything except what you brought,” she said briskly.
“We don’t need anything.”
“I suppose you came here offering gifts so I’d put your mind to rest about working at Crown Lily. Tell you what a wonderful place it is and all that, and how I don’t resent you for taking my position. But all I can s
ay is, where Miss Wickham is concerned, watch your back.”
Eva decided to play along. “Yes, I suppose that’s part of it. Until she sacked you, had you believed Miss Wickham to be a fair supervisor? Was she liked by the others?”
“As much as someone in her position can be liked by her inferiors. So, not much.” Lydia tossed her head with a sardonic chuckle. “As for fair—wasn’t fair what she’d done to me, was it?”
“Who do you think might have been selling patterns to the rival company, then?”
“How should I know? Maybe Miss Wickham herself.”
Yes, that had occurred to Eva as well. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“Look, Miss . . .”
“Huntford.”
Lydia nodded. “All I know is, I didn’t do it. I’ve no reason to lie to you, do I? And I say, I never stole nothing in my life. Now, if you’re done pestering me . . .”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be impertinent. But there was a murder there, after all. And the mystery of the missing pattern book, too. One worries about the future of Crown Lily.”
“If you want to know what I think about that, Ronald Mercer is as likely to have stolen his own pattern book as anyone else.”
This took Eva by surprise. “Why would he sabotage his own place of employment?”
Lydia laughed, a sound tinged with irony. “You still confuse the dainty china made hereabouts for the kind of industry it is. Don’t be fooled. This is a ruthless business. Men like Ronald Mercer would sell their own mothers for the chance to rise to the top of their profession. He was almost there at Crown Lily, but he could have gone further. Oh, but not there. From what I’ve heard, Jeffrey Tremaine reigns over his designers like a king over his subjects. But Mr. Mercer could have bought his way into a partnership somewhere else. Someday the likes of your employers might have been sipping tea from Crown Mercer china. But not now.”
Could china manufacturing be as cutthroat as Lydia suggested? The girl had certainly given Eva a lot to think about, and she pondered this question and more as she and Hetta made their way back out to the street.
There were few people about now, and the shadows loomed darker than when they’d arrived. Maybe Ronald Mercer had sold his pattern book to a competitor, and someone—Jeffrey Tremaine, perhaps—had found out and murdered him because of it. A king betrayed by one of his noblemen? Once upon a time . . . that would have been reason to send a man to the block.
But why kill the man, rather than offer him better recompense in exchange for his continued loyalty? And why murder him in the grinding room? Why not follow him home in the evening and dispatch him there? No, the location and circumstances surrounding the murder suggested a burst of temper combined with an unexpected opportunity.
And that, once again, pointed to someone like Gus Abbott. But what reason would Gus have had to kill Ronald Mercer? And he had sounded indignant at the mere hint he had done so—just as Lydia Travers had sounded indignant at Miss Wickham’s accusations against her. Trent as well—indignant and angry. But hadn’t she learned that criminals are often the best liars? At least until they’d lied themselves into a corner.
But Lydia had presented a possibility they hadn’t thought of before, that of Ronald Mercer having removed his own pattern book from his office and . . . and then did what with it? Promised to sell it to a competitor for a partnership? Perhaps the deal had gone sour and Mr. Mercer paid with his life.
As they neared the motorcar, the rear passenger door opened and Lady Phoebe stepped out onto the pavement. “I was beginning to worry, you were in there so long.”
“All is well,” Eva assured her. “Lydia—”
She broke off at the sound of abrupt footsteps coming from the direction of Lydia’s building. Instinct sent a warning shiver down her spine. She turned to see a figure swathed in nondescript dark clothing rushing toward them. A hood created shadows around his face. Pain spread through Eva’s shoulder as she was knocked aside. The force of the blow sent her sprawling onto her hands and knees, the cracked pavement biting into them. Hetta, shoved aside as well, screamed. Fright gripped Eva as their attacker yanked Lady Phoebe’s arm with a vicious jolt. He just as quickly released her and ran off down the street. The door of the motorcar swung open and Douglas took off after their attacker.
“Eva, are you all right?” Lady Phoebe was beside her, grasping her arm and helping her up. Hetta took her other arm, and together they brought her to her feet just in time to see the back of Douglas disappear around the corner of the next street. Lady Phoebe massaged her arm and winced.
Eva answered Lady Phoebe’s urgent question with one of her own. “My lady, did he hurt you? Is your arm broken?”
“He stole my handbag, but I believe I’m all right. Quickly, then, let’s get back in the motorcar.” Once they’d all slid in, she held up her empty hands. “I’d been holding my bag on my lap and stupidly kept holding on to it when I got out. Serves me right, I suppose. Hetta, are you hurt?”
“Nein, I am good. Madame? Fraulein?”
“My shoulder might be sore tomorrow.” Lady Phoebe gave that shoulder a roll. “Eva?”
“Mine as well. And I’m a bit scraped.” Eva stared down at her palms, just able to make out the abrasions on each. Then she raised her skirts to reveal the tears in the knees of her stockings. “It’s as if that scoundrel had been waiting for us, for that exact moment.”
“Here comes Douglas.” Lady Phoebe pointed out the window. “And look—I believe he’s got my bag.”
* * *
“It could have been a random occurrence. A thief hoping for a hefty prize.” Phoebe curled against the pillows on one side of her bed. Eva occupied the other side, although it had taken quite a bit of coaxing, on both Phoebe’s and Amelia’s parts, to persuade her to take such a liberty in their bedroom. It hadn’t been the first time Eva had been thrust to the ground while pursuing information regarding a crime. Thank goodness, now, as then, her injuries appeared to be minor.
Amelia sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, her back against one of the posts, while Julia sat in a nearby armchair. Hetta fussed over the tea tray, doling out shortbread biscuits onto plates.
“Do you really think so?” This came from Julia, with a heavy dose of skepticism. “That might explain why he took your bag, and not Eva’s and Hetta’s. He might have seen the difference in how you were all dressed, and perhaps heard Eva address you as ‘my lady.’ From what you’ve described, it seems as though this individual pushed Eva out of the way specifically to get at you.”
“It happened so quickly, I don’t see how he had time to make such a deduction. Besides, he gained nothing. My purse is still inside, what little money I had in it all there. So puzzling.” Phoebe shook her head before accepting the cup of tea Hetta handed her. “I should have listened to you, Eva. I shouldn’t have gone along.”
“Since when do you ever listen to what anyone tells you?” Julia tipped her chin up and stared down Phoebe from between her lashes.
“It was a good thing you had Douglas with you,” Amelia said. “If not for him, you wouldn’t have gotten your bag back, Phoebe. And who knows what else that scrounger might have done? And a good thing Douglas wasn’t hurt, either.”
“It was an odd thing, really,” Eva mused as Hetta handed her a cup of tea and placed a plate of shortbread between her and Phoebe. “He said the thief had dropped the bag as soon as he’d rounded the corner. Without Douglas having to fight him at all for it. You’d think our perpetrator would have tried harder than that to hold on to his prize.”
“Douglas isn’t a small man.” Phoebe chose a biscuit and took a small bite. As she chewed, she said, “Perhaps the thief caught one glimpse of him and decided to play it safe.”
“I suppose.” Eva spoke absently, the rim of her teacup against her lips. She sipped, frowning in speculation.
* * *
In the morning Phoebe received a telephone call from Crown Lily.
“It
’s Percy Bateman, Lady Phoebe,” she heard from across the wire. “I’m happy to tell you, I believe I’ve got the perfect pattern for your children’s tea set.”
“That’s wonderful, Mr. Bateman. If you’re free today, I’ll come see it.”
“Anytime, I’ll be here.”
Eva insisted on going with her. Fenton drove them in the Rolls-Royce, and Eva assumed her proper role as Phoebe’s lady’s maid. However, they had decided that once Phoebe went in to speak with Mr. Bateman, Eva would use the time to “sneak away” to the painting department. Despite the ongoing deception, Phoebe couldn’t help smiling at the ruse, because as Fox had astutely pointed out yesterday, the notion of Eva leaving her in this manner was preposterous.
“Wait here with Fenton until I’m safely inside,” Phoebe told her outside Crown Lily’s administrative building. “That way anyone who sees you leave the motorcar will think you’re acting on your own.” Eva agreed and Phoebe made her way inside.
Mr. Bateman seemed to have taken greater care with his appearance today, rather than looking disheveled as he usually did. “Lady Phoebe, do come in and make yourself comfortable.” He wasted no time in spreading several sheets of paper out on the desk in front of her.
She leaned forward to study them. Two bore details of a bright geometric design that would embellish the borders of the cups, saucers, and plates. Another provided an up-close depiction of two beagle pups prancing in a hilly field of yellow and purple wildflowers. Phoebe recognized the lady’s bedstraw, meadow cranesbill, and greater knapweed, all commonly found in the Cotswolds. A third page showed an intertwining of those same wildflowers with a W and an A, the Wroxly and Annondale initials. The diagram indicated this would be on the inside of the cup, just below the rim, and a fourth picture comprised all of the elements into the finished design. Her mouth dropped open.
A Sinister Service Page 17