About half an hour later a relieved Phoebe joined Eva back at the Rolls-Royce. “And then we ended up back in his office,” she said, having explained events up to that point, “where I dreaded at every moment he’d discover the drawers I’d unlocked. I nearly choked when he couldn’t find a pen. Lucky for me, he found one under a folder on his desk. I signed the contract and hurried away.”
“When he attempts to unlock those drawers, they won’t open, because he’ll have actually locked them,” Eva reasoned. “Perhaps he’ll simply think the mechanisms stuck, try again and think nothing of it.”
“Perhaps. But there’s actually no reason now for me to return to Crown Lily, so I needn’t encounter Percy Bateman again. He can think what he likes.” She gazed out the window as Fenton maneuvered the motorcar into the largest of the quadrangles and headed for the front gate. Despite her cavalier pronouncement, a fear niggled at her. “Unless, of course, Percy Bateman is our killer, and he decides he must ensure my silence.” She opened her handbag. “Eva, look at this.”
* * *
Eva’s blood ran cold at the implications of the note Lady Phoebe had found in her handbag. They had been purposely singled out last night in Lydia Travers’s neighborhood. Watched. Waited for. The very notion sent ripples of dread through her.
She read the words again. A thief, a cheat, and a murderer, rolled into one . . .
“We need to bring this to the police, my lady.”
“I couldn’t agree more. But will that ensure our safety, or anyone’s, for that matter? Why this attempt to be poetic? And why the charade of snatching my handbag? I fear there will be another murder at Crown Lily. The question remains whether the person who slipped me this note is the killer, or knows the identity of the killer. But if he meant well, why not simply approach us with information?”
“I suspect because Lydia’s neighborhood lies so close to the factory. There must be quite a number of workers housed there, including, possibly, the killer. Our would-be thief apparently didn’t want to be seen giving us information.”
“Even information as cryptic as this?” Lady Phoebe let go an ironic chuckle. “I feel more as if we’re being toyed with than assisted in any way. Why didn’t this person simply tell us who the murderer is? But I have more to show you.” She again opened her bag and retrieved the drawing she’d inadvertently stolen from Percy Bateman’s pattern book. She handed it to Eva and explained where she’d found it.
Immediate recognition left Eva speechless. The chubby faces of the children, the whimsical nature of the colorful balloon trees . . . hadn’t she gazed at such designs barely half an hour ago? Yes, she felt quite sure she had.
“I recognize this. Or, not this exact sketch, but the style. Before I left the painting room, Moira Wickham showed me some of her designs. This looks very much like something she would do.”
Lady Phoebe exhibited no surprise. “I thought it stood out as different from the rest of Mr. Bateman’s work. I could see it immediately. He must have stolen this sketch from Miss Wickham, along with another one I saw in his book, and who knows how many more. For all I know, the very pattern I chose for Julia’s child might have been designed by Miss Wickham.”
Eva handed back the sketch. “I wonder how he could have stolen it. She keeps her book under lock and key.”
“As does Percy Bateman, but that didn’t stop me, did it?”
“Good point. But . . .” Eva shook her head, puzzled by one inescapable fact. “Once the set has been formed and the pattern transferred onto the china, it will be sent up to the painting department. Miss Wickham is sure to see it then. Won’t she realize her idea has been stolen and cry foul?”
Lady Phoebe thought this over, staring down at the pattern. “Perhaps she’ll be afraid to. It would be her word against Percy Bateman’s, and who is more likely to get the sack? The man or the woman?”
“Yes, once again you raise a good point. But I’ve gotten to know Moira Wickham a bit. She’s no shrinking violet, I can tell you that. I cannot imagine her allowing anyone to take such blatant advantage of her.”
“And yet it certainly appears as if Mr. Bateman is doing just that . . . unless . . .” Lady Phoebe trailed off, chewing her bottom lip. “Unless these patterns—and Moira Wickham’s—are Ronald Mercer’s.”
The possibility startled Eva. “You mean . . . his patterns were stolen by both Moira Wickham and Percy Bateman?” That possibility led to yet another. “If that’s the case, perhaps they both had a hand in Ronald Mercer’s death.”
“Or,” Lady Phoebe began slowly, her features tight as she obviously tried to work it out, “it could be that Miss Wickham stole Ronald Mercer’s pattern book, and Mr. Bateman knows and feels free to borrow from it whenever he likes. Or he’s been sneaking peeks at it on the sly. And if he’s been doing that, at the very least it makes him complicit in Ronald Mercer’s death, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, if not his murderer.” Eva attempted to recall the other patterns Moira Wickham had shown her, and remembered thinking she had seen similar ones among the finished china in the showroom. “Yes, Moira Wickham might have the stolen pattern book. In fact, what she showed me today might have been Ronald Mercer’s book. There were no markings to indicate who it belonged to.”
“Were there pattern numbers in her book?” Lady Phoebe asked.
Eva again tried to envision the details she had seen. Numbers were not something she would have taken note of, because she’d been too engrossed in the artwork. She narrowed her eyes, considering . . . and then, “No, there weren’t any. None I recall. Just the sketches.”
Lady Phoebe sat back and stared out the window. “Then it’s improbable that what you saw was Ronald Mercer’s pattern book. In Mr. Bateman’s, every pattern had a number. It’s part of the process of registering the pattern to both the company and the artist’s name.” She returned her attention to the sketch in her lap. “Only this one, and the other like it, had no numbers.”
“We should show it to the police then, when we bring the note you found in your handbag.”
“Should we? What would we say? Here’s a stray sketch found in Percy Bateman’s pattern book, which, by the way, I stole from him. It looks like something Moira Wickham would draw. Either or both of them, therefore, must have murdered Ronald Mercer.”
Eva chuckled. “I don’t suppose they’d take us seriously.”
“No. But they will have to take the note seriously.” Lady Phoebe leaned forward. “Fenton, bring us to the Langston Police Station downtown.” The motorcar turned a corner and headed away from Lyndale Park.
“Who would ever think something as unthreatening as china would turn out to be so . . . well . . . threatening.” Eva sighed.
At the police station, a uniformed constable accepted the note from Lady Phoebe, took their names and preliminary statements, and had them sit in a waiting area. After nearly half an hour he returned and led them to Detective Inspector Hugh Nichols’s office. The man looked distinctly annoyed by their visit, as if he had much more important matters to attend to. Still, he bid them sit down as he perused the note.
“Why didn’t you report this robbery last night?” he mumbled without looking up.
“We would have done,” Lady Phoebe said, “but as nothing had been taken from my bag, what was there to report? A rude encounter with someone who knocked into us.”
“He did seize your handbag.”
“But then he dropped it when our driver took off after him. We were shaken by the incident, but unharmed. Isn’t that right, Eva?”
“It is, Detective. The first thing Lady Phoebe did upon Douglas handing her back her handbag was to check inside for her purse. Since it was there, we were only too happy to return home.”
The man leaned back in his chair and regarded them from beneath hooded lids. “Can you describe the culprit?”
Eva and Lady Phoebe looked at each other and shook their heads. Eva replied for both of them. “It was dark, and it happened so fa
st, we didn’t have time to notice his features, which was another reason we didn’t report the incident right away.”
Frowning, Detective Inspector Nichols turned the note over and back, studying both sides of the ragged piece of paper. “What were you doing in that neighborhood at that time of night?” The question rang with an implied accusation. Eva had a ready answer for him, even if it wasn’t the entire truth.
“A young woman was given the sack from the Crown Lily painting department, and I wished to bring her some food and a small amount of money to see her through until she finds a new situation.”
“Did you, now?”
Both Eva and Lady Phoebe nodded.
“And why such philanthropy in a town you don’t live in, for someone you can’t know at all well?”
Good heavens, he made it sound as though they were the criminals, sneaking around for no good purpose. Apparently, Lady Phoebe thought so, too, for she raised her chin and said, “Is it wrong to help another, no matter how well we may or may not know her?”
“Hmm. I suppose not. Would this individual—what is her name?”
Eva and Lady Phoebe traded glances. Eva said, “We don’t wish to drag her into this. We left her at her flat and she had no involvement in what happened next. We don’t want to complicate her life any further. Her circumstances are difficult enough.”
That earned another hmm. “Are you sure she had no involvement? After all, the pair of you shows up at her door bearing gifts, and the next thing you know, someone attempts to steal Lady Phoebe’s bag. Coincidence? Probably not. I certainly wouldn’t put it past anyone living in that neighborhood.”
“Actually, I didn’t accompany Miss Huntford to the door of the flat. Another of our maids did. One who doesn’t speak much English, so I don’t think she could be of much help in the matter,” Lady Phoebe added hastily.
Eva nodded inwardly. The last thing they needed was to upset Hetta with a trip to the police station to give evidence.
“Detective Inspector, this note is certainly a clue about who killed Ronald Mercer.”
If Lady Phoebe sounded the tiniest bit condescending, Eva couldn’t blame her.
“We don’t understand it, nor do we have the means to attempt to trace it to its origin, which is why we brought it to you,” Lady Phoebe continued.
“You brought it to me,” he replied sternly, “because to do otherwise would be obstructing an official police investigation.”
“Well,” Lady Phoebe quipped back, “we didn’t have to say a word about it, did we? And yet here we are.”
“Hmm. Yes, thank you for doing your civic duty, my lady.” The detective inspector opened one of many folders strewn across his desk and added the note to the assortment of papers inside. Without looking up at them he said, “Thank you, ladies. If that’s all, have a good day.”
Eva stifled a gasp. Did this man just summarily dismiss the Earl of Wroxly’s granddaughter? How dare he? She opened her mouth to issue a scathing reprimand when Lady Phoebe grasped her arm.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector. Eva, shall we?”
Eva found herself sputtering as she came to her feet. Lady Phoebe appealed to her with a lift of her eyebrow, then mouthed, “Not now,” and guided her out the door. When they were safely in the motorcar, Lady Phoebe, with a determined look on her face, turned to Eva.
“I think we need to pay another visit to Lydia Travers. The detective inspector is correct. She might have had a hand in what happened last night. It could have been her way of telling us something she hadn’t wished to say outright to our faces. Can you be sure there wasn’t someone else in that flat with you, hiding somewhere?”
“It would have been quite a challenge to hide someone in so small a place.” Eva thought back. “But then again, we didn’t look under the bed.”
“Or, for all we know, Lydia Travers herself came after you and Hetta.”
“But it was a man that attacked us.”
“Or did we only assume it was a man? This wouldn’t be the first time we’ve made that misjudgment, would it?”
Eva couldn’t but concede the truth of Lady Phoebe’s words. It wasn’t impossible that Lydia Travers owned a pair of trousers she could have slipped on, along with the hooded jacket their attacker had worn. As she had told Detective Inspector Nichols, it had happened so fast, and now that time had passed, neither she nor Lady Phoebe could conjure enough of a description of their attacker to be sure either way. A man? A woman?
Lydia Travers?
“One thing is certain,” Eva said. “The good detective inspector isn’t taking us seriously. So then, when do you wish to return to Lydia’s flat?”
“Tonight. After dark. We’ll bring Douglas again, this time right to her door.”
CHAPTER 15
Phoebe and Eva returned home to a surprise. Upon entering through the front door, Phoebe expected Jester to come running to greet them, as he usually did. As Carmichael helped them off with their things, there were no happy yips, no clicking of his feet running across the tiles. Had something happened to him? Had someone opened a door, and he ran off?
“Carmichael, where is—”
And then the sound of voices reached her ears. She heard her sisters and Fox speaking, and then another male voice, which assuredly did not belong to Ernest.
“Is that . . .” Eva didn’t complete the question. She didn’t need to. They hurried into the drawing room.
“Trent! You’re out of . . .” It was Phoebe’s turn to trail off, as quite obviously the boy no longer languished in a jail cell. Jester sat at his master’s feet, his chin resting on Trent’s knee as he gazed up at Trent with adoring eyes. Never had she seen an animal look so blissful. “But . . . how? Have the police found . . .” She trailed off again, not wanting to say your father’s murderer.
“Hello, Phoebe.” He nodded to Eva. “Miss Huntford. Yes, I’m out, for now.” Trent Mercer didn’t look nearly as happy as Phoebe would have expected. She soon discovered why. “I’m still a suspect. In fact, still their main suspect, and should I go sneaking off, you’ll all be in a good deal of trouble with the police.”
“I don’t understand.” Phoebe gazed at each of her siblings in turn, hoping one of them might enlighten her.
Julia raised a hand as if answering a question in the schoolroom. “It was me, actually. I arranged it.”
Incredulous, Phoebe went to the settee and sat beside Amelia, who smiled and curled her arm through Phoebe’s. “How on earth did you manage it?”
“You’re not the only clever member of this family, you know.” Julia’s eyebrows slashed inward. “So don’t look so dumbfounded.”
“I’m not . . .” Phoebe started to say more, but upon second thought she let it go. “Tell me how you accomplished this, please.”
Julia shrugged a shoulder. “I simply applied all the pressure of a viscountess, an earl, and a marquess.”
Phoebe felt no more informed than a moment ago. “I don’t understand.”
“It turns out there’s quite a tradition of Annondale philanthropy here in Langston. In fact, throughout all of Staffordshire. A lot of people here depend on it. I assured the police and the local magistrate the tradition would continue, once my son assumed the title, provided they did me one small favor now.”
Phoebe didn’t state the obvious, that no one could predict whether Julia’s child would be a boy or not. Apparently, her persuasive powers had been enough to sway the court. “But you said an earl and a marquess. I assume the earl is Grampapa. Did you telephone home and tell them of the situation?” If so, Phoebe thought, they could expect a summons home at any moment.
“No, I didn’t have to. Using Grampapa’s name was enough. As was using Theo’s.” Julia’s lips spread in a self-satisfied grin. “I did ring Theo, however, to discuss the matter with him first. He agreed it was the best use of the Allerton title since he’d inherited it.”
As Julia spoke, Phoebe could feel Amelia’s arm tighten around her own
. Julia’s mention of Theo Leighton, Marquess of Allerton, obviously met with their younger sister’s approval, not to mention her excitement. Phoebe flexed her arm slightly to encourage Amelia to loosen her hold. But Amelia had been hoping for Julia and Theo to reunite, once Julia’s official period of mourning ended in the spring. Did this communication between them signify their relationship might take up where it had left off, sooner rather than later? It had astonished them all two summers ago when Julia had suddenly stopped associating with Theo and encouraged Gilbert Townsend to court her.
Phoebe had known the exact reason why—they all had. Theo had inherited a nearly bankrupt estate from his brother, while the Viscount Annondale had fortune enough to sustain several estates, Foxwood Hall among them. Julia had seen marrying Gil Townsend as an obligation to the Earldom of Wroxly—to her grandparents, to the people of Little Barlow, and to Fox. But, oh, what a price Julia and all of them, Theo included, had paid for her sacrifice.
Phoebe knew better than to question her now about Theo. Instead she focused on Trent. “You know, of course, you’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you like.”
Trent stroked Jester’s head and neck. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s not as if my life will ever get back to normal. I won’t be able to return to school. I suppose I’ll ask Mr. Tremaine if I might stay on at Crown Lily.” He didn’t sound at all pleased about the prospect.
“That’s not true, old boy.” Fox sat up straighter. “There’s no one to prevent you from going back to Eton now that . . .” Like Phoebe, Fox apparently realized how mentioning his father’s death would impact Trent, and left off. “Well, you’ll be able to go back, you’ll see. The police will clear your name and you’ll . . . Well, you should be able to pay your tuition with . . .”
With his inheritance, Phoebe knew he’d been about to say.
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