A Sinister Service

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “I can make changes,” he said quickly. “Anything you suggest can be incorporated, or I could start over.”

  She slowly glanced up, loath to take her eyes off the pages. “Don’t change a thing, Mr. Bateman. This is perfect. It’s wonderful. It’s as though you knew exactly what I wanted, before I myself knew. If I possessed the talent to do so, this is exactly what I would have designed for my future niece or nephew.” She stood and reached a hand across the desk. “Thank you, Mr. Bateman. Thank you very much.”

  His anxious expression melted into one of sheer happiness. He came to his feet and gave her hand a hearty shake. “I’m so glad. To be honest, though I’ve designed a small amount of children’s china, mostly keepsake mug-and-plate sets for toddlers, this is my first complete tea service for a child. I found it rather a challenge, and I don’t mind telling you that I’m proud of the results.”

  “I can understand why.” She smiled as she resumed her seat, realizing what a blow it would have been if she hadn’t approved the design. “What’s next?”

  “Had you thought about the cup shape?”

  “Yes, I believe something simple would be best, suitable for a child’s hands.”

  “My thoughts exactly, and a simple, evenly cylindrical shape will show the pattern to its best advantage.” He stood and went to his drawing table. From a shelf above it he took down a book and brought it back to the desk. The title was Crown Lily Potteries Catalogue of Shapes. He turned pages until he found what he was looking for. “This,” he said, placing his finger on the page, “is our Martine shape, and as you can see, it will allow a smooth wrapping of the pattern around the cup, so that as you turn it, the pattern tells a story. It will, of course, be scaled down to a child’s size.”

  “That’s delightful. Yes, we’ll go with that.”

  “Very good. If you’ll wait here, I’ll just be a few moments.” He came around his desk. “I’ll just need to check the production schedule and draw up a contract. In the meantime I’ll ask Jessup to bring you some refreshments.”

  “That poor man seems to serve a lot of tea,” Phoebe joked.

  “It’s part of his job, along with seeing to all of Mr. Tremaine’s clerical needs.”

  “I should think you’d have your own secretary, Mr. Bateman.”

  “Me?” He pointed to himself with an expression of incredulity. “Goodness no, Lady Phoebe. I’m not nearly important enough to warrant having my own secretary. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Of course. But, please, no tea this time. I had quite a hearty breakfast earlier and couldn’t consume another thing until much later.” She crossed her fingers where he couldn’t see them as she spoke the lie. He nodded and left the room.

  Phoebe sat looking into the empty space where Percy Bateman had been. He had done a splendid job of the design—that, she couldn’t deny. Did he really believe he wasn’t important enough at Crown Lily to warrant personal assistance of his own? Without him and the other designers, there would be no Crown Lily. And she could easily see by the two designs he had accomplished for her family that he was at the top of his profession, at least in terms of talent and creativity. But not, perhaps, in terms of seniority or appreciation. Ronald Mercer had disparaged Mr. Bateman as inexperienced, his skills raw. Mr. Bateman couldn’t have been ignorant of the other designer’s opinion of him. It must have rankled.

  The tea set for Julia’s child was only one reason why she had come here today. If Mr. Bateman had wanted to order tea for her, he must anticipate being gone for more than a few minutes. What had he said? Ah, yes. He needed to check the production schedule and draw up a contract.

  Phoebe got to her feet, closed the office door most of the way, and circled the desk. She decided to start with the top drawer on the right . . .

  * * *

  Eva quickly covered her pigments jars and cleaned off her brushes. As the other women filed out of the painting department for their luncheon break, she stayed behind. Moira Wickham moved from her worktable to the adjoining storage room. Making certain the last woman had gone, Eva crossed the room and stood in the storeroom doorway. She absently rubbed at her shoulder, still aching from last night’s frightening encounter. “I’ll have to be going now. My employer will wonder where I am, otherwise. She may already be looking for me.”

  Miss Wickham nodded absently. “Don’t get into trouble.” She moved some items around on a shelf, filling in the spaces with plain, unpainted china from a cart that had been delivered a short while ago. “Then again, let her make a fuss. It’s not as though you’re planning to continue in her service, is it?”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is.”

  “Suppose?” Miss Wickham stacked one last cup on the shelf and turned to face Eva. “Having second thoughts, are we?”

  Eva hesitated, but only briefly. “No. I’m set on making the change, or I wouldn’t be here now.” Yet, she let the tiniest smidgeon of doubt enter her voice. She didn’t want to appear overly confident or Miss Wickham might become suspicious. Better to let her believe Eva entertained a few qualms, not to mention fears, as most women in her position would.

  That seemed to satisfy the other woman. “Good. I’d hate to think I’ve been training you for no good reason.”

  “It was a surprise when Lady Phoebe announced she wished to order another tea set, this one for her sister’s child. Wouldn’t it be something if it were me that applied paint to some of the pieces?”

  “It would be something, indeed.” A mixture of irony and disappointment in Miss Wickham’s expression gave Eva the opportunity she’d hoped for.

  “I can’t help but wonder what sort of design Mr. Bateman has come up with. A children’s theme doesn’t seem the kind of subject to interest a man.” She glanced down at the reddened abrasions left on her palms by her fall last night. At least the wounds had been minor and hadn’t prevented her from wielding her paintbrushes today. “I wonder if he’s up to the challenge.”

  Miss Wickham shrugged. “It’s no different, really, from designing for ladies. Flowers, ribbons, and bows . . . men design those, too.”

  “True, but when I think of what a woman might be capable of, I can’t help but wonder.” Eva injected a wistfulness into her words. “Take you, for example. I’m sure you could design an enchanting child’s set.”

  Miss Wickham didn’t answer, but a sudden shimmer of tears made her blink and took Eva aback.

  “Have you designed for children? That night at the pub you said you’d show me some of your patterns, but you never have. There’s no one else here now, and I’d love to see.”

  The other woman stared hard at Eva; an obvious internal debate was taking place inside her. Finally she nodded and said, “Come with me.”

  She brought Eva to her workspace and unlocked a bottom drawer. Reaching in, she pulled out a leather-bound portfolio, pulled free the leather cord holding it closed, and spread the cover open on the flat surface of her tabletop. Slowly she began turning pages, allowing Eva to view each drawing before showing her the next. Eva sank into the chair while Miss Wickham stood over her shoulder, continuing to turn pages. Many of the designs reminded her of those she had seen on the finished teacups in the showroom and the conference room the first day she had arrived here with the Renshaws. They were certainly as intricate and as lovely.

  She saw more than common creativity here, more than mere skill with a pencil and sketchbook. Though she herself might be no expert, every instinct told her—insisted—Moira Wickham possessed artistic brilliance. Miss Wickham had told her she had, on more than one occasion, shown her designs to Ronald Mercer. Each time he had dismissed her efforts as not good enough. How could he have said such a thing? Clearly, he could not have believed it; no one looking at these designs could. Had it been his wish to prevent a woman from advancing, or something even more devious? Had he, perhaps, borrowed on her brilliance and taken the credit?

  Then again, had Moira Wickham borrowed on his? That would have been eas
ier, after all, as anyone could study Crown Lily’s finished china and take ideas from that. Which was it? Eva couldn’t say—not yet. But if Ronald Mercer’s pattern book was found, would it reveal the answer? Or would it merely further confound the question?

  Miss Wickham flipped the page again, and there, staring up at Eva, were the cherubic faces and plump, dimpled limbs of small children posed with puppies, kittens, bunny rabbits, and other furry creatures. Adorable and whimsical, these designs captured the essence of childhood innocence and roused an inexplicable yearning in Eva for . . . good heavens . . . for a child to hold and care for.

  How extraordinary a reaction to mere pictures! She tried to shake the sensation away, silently calling herself a sentimental fool. But she couldn’t deny that Miss Wickham had created a vision of childhood that made Eva ache both for what she had once been, long ago, and what she might someday become.

  “You’re quiet,” Miss Wickham said, pulling Eva back to the present. “Tell me, do you like what I’ve done?”

  “Oh, yes.” Eva drew in a breath, groping for adequate words. “They’re exquisite.”

  “Yes.” Miss Wickham’s agreement held cynicism rather than conceit. “I’m afraid no one will ever see them.”

  Eva again heard more than simple words, but rather a very real fear that Miss Wickham would never be recognized for her talents, never be given the opportunity to reach her potential. Eva twisted to look up at her. “Don’t say that. Times are changing. You’ll get your chance.”

  “Times aren’t changing fast enough. At least not at Crown Lily.” She shook her head sadly. “I suggested months ago we should have a dedicated children’s department. People want such wares nowadays, I believe. Your employer does. Neither Mr. Mercer nor Mr. Tremaine took the idea seriously. Said there wouldn’t be enough demand, but I believe sentiments have grown stronger toward the ideals of childhood. Perhaps it was the war that’s done it, leaving people to harken back to a more innocent time.”

  Eva nodded. How often had she envisioned herself and her siblings as children, when they were still all together and so unaware of the tragedy their family would suffer? It was more than nostalgia. The image of the boy her brother Danny had been lived inside her always, and would for the rest of her life. It was all she had left of him, except for a few photographs. He had been the youngest, the baby, and having two older sisters had taught him to be patient and kind, to listen rather than always speak, to wait his turn rather than make demands. He’d have made a fine husband and father someday, but that day would never come because Danny had been one of nearly a million men who never came home from the war.

  Yes, Eva could understand how the war had reshaped how people viewed childhood, how violence and loss had brought about a yearning for and a celebration of innocence.

  Then she realized what Miss Wickham had said: Times aren’t changing fast enough. At least not at Crown Lily. The implication of those words struck her. “You’re thinking of moving to a new company, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I? Don’t worry, I won’t be abandoning you anytime soon. But you mustn’t tell anyone what I’ve shown you. I do have an eventual plan. If you mind your p’s and q’s, perhaps I’ll include you in that plan. Until then, no more questions about it.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Phoebe reached back to the coil of her hair and slid a hairpin free. Eva had taught her how to pick a lock some time ago and she fully intended to make use of the skill now. The top two drawers flanking each side of Mr. Bateman’s desk were unlocked, and a quick search had wrought nothing but the typical items one would expect to find in an office; she had discovered nothing incriminating. The bottom two on each side, and the one long one in the middle above the kneehole, were locked. Crouching, she inserted the pin into the bottom drawer on her right. When the lock didn’t give immediately, she held her breath, steadied her hand, and willed herself not to let impatience foil her plans.

  After another try the lock clicked and she slid the drawer open. Still unsure what she was looking for, other than Ronald Mercer’s stolen pattern book, she discovered boxes of pencils, brushes, pastels, and other art supplies. Tools of his trade, all fine quality, and she could understand why he kept them locked up. Every minute or so, she paused to scan the doorway and listen for footsteps.

  The bottom drawer on the other side yielded similar results, along with sketchbooks of high-quality paper. A final drawer loomed, and after pausing to monitor activity in the corridor, she set to work once again with her hairpin.

  A single item rested inside, and her heart trilled when a leather-bound book revealed itself to her. Closer scrutiny, however, disclosed this to be Percy Bateman’s own pattern book. She flipped through, discovering elements, each one numbered, similar to those he had assembled to create her grandparents’ china pattern, leading her to understand that he hadn’t created the design from thin air, but from previous ideas he could rearrange in scores of different combinations. She turned more pages and came upon a loose sheaf of paper that had been tucked inside. It bore a floral pattern she didn’t remember seeing before, surrounded by a delicate geometric design. It wasn’t numbered like the others.

  She almost disregarded it as an afterthought Mr. Bateman must have had, perhaps an inspiration he sketched at home and had slipped in with the rest. But something in the lines held her attention. She studied the shading, the places where he had applied more pressure to his pencil, and where he had lightened his hand. Then she compared the drawing to those on the pages of the book.

  She flipped through several more, and soon found another loose page. This one presented a scene of two children seated at a garden table amid trees and flowers that bore balloons rather than foliage. A rabbit peeked at them from behind a tuft of grass. Why hadn’t he shown her this sketch?

  Again, something in the execution of the picture made it stand out from the others in the book, as if . . . yes, as if someone else had drawn it.

  Voices from down the hallway drew a startled gasp. Quickly she closed the book, replaced it in the desk, and closed the drawer. She could not relock it or the bottom ones; her talents extended only to picking locks, not securing them. She could only hope Mr. Bateman didn’t need to open either drawer when he returned. When he discovered them unlocked, would he believe he’d neglected to lock them? Probably not.

  Circling the desk, she resumed her seat, and with another gasp realized she still held the sketch of the children. The voices continued, and she recognized Mr. Bateman’s. Dare she attempt to return the loose page to the book? Would she have time?

  Footsteps provided the answer: no. With little other choice she opened her handbag and shoved it in, burrowing it down deep beneath her purse, handkerchief, and her comb and mirror. Her fingers came in contact with another bit of paper. Puzzled, she latched onto it with two fingers and drew it out. Torn from a larger piece of paper, it unfolded to reveal words that had been hastily scrawled and half smeared, but she could make them out:

  A thief, a cheat, and a murderer, rolled into one. Mischief at Crown Lily is far from done.

  In the hallway the footsteps had stopped, and she could again hear voices. She re-read the words twice over. What on earth? And when had this message found its way into her bag?

  The assault. Good heavens, Douglas hadn’t halted a theft in progress. Thievery had never been the intention, but, instead, delivering this taunting note. But why such an elaborate ruse?

  Her wrists and temples hammered with impatience. Hearing Percy Bateman and another man continuing to discuss whatever it was, for she couldn’t make out what they were saying, she wished he would hurry back and let her sign the contract. She wanted to find Eva and show her the note, and then the two of them could put their heads together to divine what the devil it could mean.

  There was also the matter of Mr. Bateman’s unlocked desk drawers. She needed to leave before he discovered them.

  Waiting for him to return, then, would be a mistak
e. Gathering up her things, she set off down the corridor, searching until she found him just inside the open doorway of another office, a narrow rectangular room that contained several desks positioned along the outer wall overlooking the enclosure. At each desk sat a man, absorbed in his work, some of them tapping away at typewriters. Mr. Bateman apparently heard her approach; he turned toward her with a surprised expression.

  She spoke before he could question her. “I just remembered, I have an appointment . . . um . . . with my sister. I mustn’t be late. If you have the contract, I’ll sign it and be on my way. If not, I’ll have to come back another time.” Never mind that returning would be risky, once he discovered she had gone through his desk.

  His puzzlement changed to alarm. A man sitting behind the nearest desk watched with interest as Mr. Bateman stammered, “P-please . . . ah . . . don’t go, Lady Phoebe. We have your contract right here.” He gestured at the man at the desk. “Why don’t we step back into my office . . .”

  “There isn’t time.” Phoebe stepped over the threshold, but only just. “Can’t I sign it here?”

  “Actually, it’s not quite ready yet.” He gestured again, this time at the typewriter on the man’s desk. A page sat halfway down on the platen. The other occupants of the room glanced up from their work, but otherwise pretended not to notice the encounter. “This is one of our financial secretaries, Charles Hadley. He’s filling out the necessary terms, pattern and shape numbers, dates, and payments. It shouldn’t be another minute.” He turned to the other man. “Isn’t that right, Hadley?”

  “Another few minutes and we’ll be done.” He offered Phoebe a deferential nod.

  Mr. Bateman went to Phoebe and offered her his arm. “Come, let’s return to my office and Hadley will bring the contract as soon as it’s ready.”

  Phoebe thought fast. “I’d prefer to go to the showroom, actually, where you can point out more of your designs.” The implied flattery brought a satisfied gleam to his countenance, telling Phoebe she’d hit upon the right ruse. “When friends admire the two sets you’ve created for us, I’d like to be able to tell them what other sorts of things you’ve created.”