“Perhaps we’re wrong about their being here. How else could they have gotten in if not past the guardhouse?”
“Perhaps they climbed the wall,” Eva suggested, “or waited until the guard was distracted and sneaked in.”
“Well, I can’t think where else they would have gone.” No, all of Phoebe’s instincts told her they’d come here to confront—someone. “Trent wasn’t to leave the house at all. Only a matter of the utmost urgency could have prompted him to sneak off.”
“Something in those documents spurred them to action.”
“Fox has been itching to take action ever since his friend was accused.” Phoebe couldn’t decide if she would hug him or box his ears when she found him. “I just hope that what I took to be a hint as to their whereabouts is actually that.”
A rudimentary teacup had been hastily scribbled in pencil on a corner of the envelope. Had Fox drawn it as a message, or had it been there for years, doodled by Mr. Mercer?
The motorcar entered the central quadrangle and rolled to a stop. She saw no one about and a deserted air permeated the enclosure. Still, the guard had said the night workers would be arriving, so they would not be alone here. A thought occurred to her.
“Perhaps they’re not here, after all. It’s late. Since most of the day employees have left, perhaps Fox and Trent went to someone’s home to confront him. Or her.”
“If that’s the case,” Eva said, “we’re completely in the dark as to the direction they took. They could be anywhere in the city.”
“Maybe we should have tried Lydia Travers’s neighborhood. Quite a number of the workers live there.”
“Yes, my lady, but not all.” Eva gazed out the window at their surroundings. “No, I believe you were right that Fox tried to leave us a hint, one that wouldn’t alert Trent that we might be following. Whatever the boy is planning, it must be extreme. And don’t forget, Trent would know which employees tended to remain on the premises late in the day.”
Phoebe met her gaze. “They would most likely be supervisors, people of importance rather than hourly workers and laborers.”
Eva nodded solemnly, and apprehension swirled in Phoebe’s gut. Each individual they had suspected so far occupied a position of some authority at Crown Lily: Moira Wickham, Gus Abbott, Percy Bateman. Even Mr. Tremaine.
“Right, then.” The clay-mixing building sprawled to their left. Phoebe pointed to it. “Let’s see if anyone is inside.”
As she and Eva opened the motorcar’s rear doors, Douglas opened his. “I’m coming with you.”
“We won’t complain.” Phoebe showed him a grateful smile. Then she steeled herself with a breath and strode to the entrance of the building. Not a sound reached her ears when she opened it. The corridor lay in darkness, but she nonetheless proceeded, peering into the first grinding room she came to, the one they had seen during their tour. Only the light through the windows illuminated the interior. “There doesn’t appear to be anyone here.”
Eva followed close behind her. “No, it looks as if Mr. Abbott and his crew have left for the day.”
“Still, let’s finish checking the building before we move on.” In the silence Phoebe felt a need to muffle her footsteps, and noticed Eva and Douglas did likewise.
Eva poked her head into the next room they came to. “My lady, do you think we should check inside the grinding pans?”
That swirling apprehension became a maelstrom as Phoebe considered what had occurred in one of those pans. Before she could answer, Douglas stepped in front of them. “I’ll do it. I’ll have a look in these and then double back to check the ones we’ve already passed.”
It only took some ten minutes to search through the building—until they came to the room where Ronald Mercer had met his death. There they paused, looking in, all of them hesitating. Though none of them had witnessed the crime scene, one look at those deadly blades in the grinding pan emblazoned one’s mind with all manner of gruesome images.
Douglas stepped across the threshold and crept to the pan. Once he got there, he glanced back. Phoebe nodded to him and he peered into the pan. Phoebe and Eva, waiting in the doorway, clutched at each other and held their breath until spots danced before Phoebe’s eyes, making her light-headed.
“All clear,” Douglas said with a rush of breath. Phoebe and Eva nearly collapsed against each other in relief.
“Thank goodness.” Phoebe let out a soft groan. “Although, honestly, I don’t know what we expected to find. Certainly not . . . not the boys.” Had she? Yes, perhaps part of her had dreaded a horrific discovery. But another part of her trusted Fox and Trent to be clever enough to outwit even a killer. “Let’s move on. If they’re here, we need to find them before they do something regrettable.”
They crossed the enclosure to the main warehouse. The wide doors stood open, but most of the lights had been extinguished, only a few remaining on to chase away the darkness. Phoebe could just make out rows of shelving disappearing into the shadows, as well as the hulking stacks of barrels. Though the vast space appeared abandoned, they heard voices.
“I believe it’s coming from the attached warehouse, where outgoing shipments are prepared. Through there.”
Eva led the way to an enormous opening in one wall. It led into an adjoining space. Here, the lights were brighter, illuminating further rows of shelves that nearly reached the ceiling and spanned the building’s length. A conveyor ran along one wall, and containers of straw stood open and waiting to be used for packing. Cubbies above a workbench held a variety of items, including something that raised the hairs on Phoebe’s nape.
An image of Lydia Travers filled her mind, her neck bulging around the strap that had cut off her breath. Such straps, Phoebe now saw, were used to secure the containers being readied for shipment. About a score of men were nailing lids closed, further securing them with the straps, and affixing labels. From there they hefted them onto the conveyor, which must bring them outside to the train tracks that ran the outer perimeter of the property, or to the river, where barges would carry them toward their destinations.
A worker happened to glance up. A frown instantly formed across his brow. “You there. You shouldn’t be here.”
Phoebe ventured closer. The man and his immediate coworkers moved in front of the crates, forming themselves into a barrier as if to protect a treasure from marauders. They eyed her up and down, with less than congenial expressions, rousing a fit of nerves she did her best to conceal and making her glad Douglas and Eva were right behind her.
“Yes, I know we shouldn’t be. We’re looking for a pair of boys. One of them is Trent Mercer. Have you seen him?”
“Trent?” The worker looked taken aback. The others apparently shared his mystification. “He’s been taken to jail, miss. Terrible story, that.”
“He’s been released, actually,” she told them, the news greeted with exclamations of “You don’t say” and “I hope the coppers know what they’re doing.”
“Then none of you has seen him this evening,” Phoebe persisted. “He couldn’t have come through the warehouse at all?”
“Not through here, miss,” another worker said. “Not while we’ve been here. We’d have seen him, just as we see you plain as day.”
“What do you mean, while you’ve been here?” Douglas hovered protectively behind Phoebe. “You mean you haven’t been here all day?”
“We’re the night crew. Came in about twenty minutes ago.” Turning his back, the worker dismissed Phoebe, Eva, and Douglas and said to the other men, “All right. We need to get on with it or we’ll answer to the boss. Got to get these ready to load onto the evening ferry. That’s less than an hour from now. Where are the rest of those shipping labels he dropped off?”
“I’ve got them over here . . .”
And yet, none of them moved from their defensive postures until Phoebe, Eva, and Douglas made their way back into the main warehouse. Only then did Phoebe hear the sounds of packing resume.
&nb
sp; “Not a very friendly bunch,” Douglas commented.
“They’ve got work to do,” Phoebe replied. “No time for distractions from witless fools, as we, no doubt, appeared to them.”
“They did seem awfully protective of their wares.” Eva kept pace beside Phoebe while Douglas walked a few steps behind them. “Did they think we were each going to snatch a place setting and run off?”
“With the recent thefts, I suppose they were just being conscientious,” Phoebe said.
“Wait.” Behind them, Douglas had come to an abrupt halt. “What’s that?”
Phoebe turned around. “Is something wrong?”
Douglas didn’t answer. He stood staring at a point hidden from her view by the shadows of the warehouse shelving. His eyes narrowed. He moved into those shadows.
“Douglas,” Phoebe whispered, suddenly feeling a need for caution, “where are you going? What is it?”
“Stay back,” he commanded, using a tone Phoebe had never heard from him before. “There’s someone here. It’s a man . . .” He trailed off. His shadow seemed to melt into the darker ones as he stooped, and then knelt on the stone floor. “I . . . I believe he’s dead.”
CHAPTER 18
Lady Phoebe tiptoed to Douglas’s side as he pushed to his feet. She spoke in a whisper, one that trembled like a delicate breeze. “Who is it?”
“Don’t know,” he murmured. He dragged the cap from his head and raked his hand through his hair. “Looks like he was . . .”
“Strangled,” Lady Phoebe finished for him.
Eva flanked Douglas’s other side. “Just like Lydia Travers.”
Eva saw a strap had been used, like those they had seen in the other warehouse. She sucked in a breath. The body lay faceup, eyes glazed and sightless, recognizable even in the dim lighting. “I know who it is,” she whispered. “It’s Gus Abbott.”
“We’ve got to get help.” Lady Phoebe turned and started toward the other warehouse, where the men’s voices could still be heard. Eva stopped her.
“My lady, we don’t know who did this. It could have been one of them.”
“They were very defensive, weren’t they?” Lady Phoebe replied. “Perhaps it wasn’t merely because we interrupted their work.”
“Let’s get out of here.” Douglas took the liberty of setting a hand on each of their shoulders and nudging them away from the sight of Gus Abbott lying dead on the flagstone flooring. “We might be able to telephone for help from one of the offices, if they’re still open.”
As they made their way outside, Eva whispered, “If it wasn’t one of those men, how could this have happened and none of them heard anything?”
“It could have happened before they started working. But, good heavens, we need to find Fox and Trent.” Lady Phoebe led the way to the small enclosure that housed the administrative building. No lights shone from the windows, but when they tried the main door, it opened. They came up short at the sight of a figure standing in the darkness of the corridor.
“Who’s there?” the masculine voice demanded.
“Mr. Tremaine? It’s Phoebe Renshaw.”
“Lady Phoebe? What are you doing here at this time of day?”
When Lady Phoebe hesitated, Eva said, “We need to send for the police.”
“The police? Why?” The man backed up a step as if to elude the grasp of ill fortune. “What’s happened now?”
Lady Phoebe explained what they had encountered in the main warehouse.
“Please,” Mr. Tremaine said. He came toward them, his face awash with heightened color. “Please come inside. We’ll telephone the police immediately.”
He brought them into his office and wasted no time in snatching the telephone on his desk. He clicked the cradle several times and then spoke. “Yes, it’s Jeffrey Tremaine at the Crown Lily headquarters. Please connect me with the police.” He continued speaking into the receiver for another minute or so and then replaced the earpiece on the base. “They’re on their way. Why don’t you all have a seat—”
“Mr. Tremaine, there is another emergency.” Lady Phoebe spoke urgently. “We have reason to believe my brother and Trent Mercer are here. It’ll take too long to explain, but we must find them as quickly as possible.”
“How can that be? Isn’t Trent in jail?”
“Not anymore. My sister had him released into her custody, and he wasn’t to leave Lyndale Park, but the two of them have, and we think they’re here. Somewhere.” As she spoke, Lady Phoebe retreated into the corridor and hurried along its length.
“But what would they be doing here?” Mr. Tremaine called as he came to his feet. He circled his desk and followed Eva and Douglas in Lady Phoebe’s wake. She didn’t answer. She had already entered Ronald Mercer’s office.
“But that room is kept locked now . . .”
Eva turned into the office to be greeted by a scene like the one in Fox’s bedroom earlier. Drawers and cupboard doors had been left gaping; papers were strewn across the desk. “They’ve been here.”
Mr. Tremaine flipped the wall switch and the overhead lights burst on. Eva went to the desk and scooped up several papers. “Order forms . . .” She glanced at the dates at the top of several. “But they appear to be old ones.”
“Copies,” Mr. Tremaine explained. “The original ones are kept in our records room. Ronald Mercer was a stickler and liked to keep details close on hand. But how on earth did the boys gain entry through a locked door?”
“You’d be astonished at what a determined person can do.” Lady Phoebe moved beside Eva, scooped up another handful of papers, and shuffled through. “Requisition orders . . . financial records . . . more order forms . . .” She shook her head. “What could it be? What sent them here, and what did they find?”
“And where are they now?” Eva finished for her.
“I simply don’t see how they could have gotten into the building without my seeing them.” Mr. Tremaine suddenly frowned in thought. Then, “Wait a moment. I was out of my office, out of the building, in fact, for a short time earlier.”
Eva nodded. “When you brought the shipping labels to the packing crew in the outgoing shipments warehouse.” The man’s eyebrows went up in surprise, and she said, “We looked in the warehouse for the boys when we first arrived. That’s how we discovered Mr. Abbott.”
“Of course.” His brows knit tightly. “It pains me to point this out, but if Trent Mercer is or was here, and another man has been . . . good heavens, has been killed . . . doesn’t that tell us something? Why on earth did the police release him from jail?”
The blood drained from Eva’s face, from her hands, leaving her suddenly frigid. Was Mr. Tremaine correct? Had the police made a mistake? Even Lady Phoebe went pale. Fear for the two boys, or for Fox only and what might happen to him at Trent’s hands? No, Eva didn’t believe it, and she knew Lady Phoebe didn’t believe in Trent’s guilt.
But then, where were they?
Mr. Tremaine’s question again went unanswered. Lady Phoebe turned to Eva and Douglas. “I suggest we split up. Eva, you and Douglas go together and start the search on the other side of the factory. I’ll keep looking through this office to see if I can discover anything. Perhaps Fox left us another clue.”
“I don’t like to leave you.” Eva placed a hand on Lady Phoebe’s wrist.
“The police should be here soon. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t have to tell you there are plenty of nooks and crannies where young boys can hide, should they choose to.” Mr. Tremaine drew in a sudden breath. “The bottle kilns. Dear me. We’re scheduled for a firing this evening.”
Lady Phoebe’s eyes surged open, round as saucers. “Eva, Douglas, please hurry.” To Mr. Tremaine, Phoebe said, “Can you cancel the firing?”
“I can, provided the furnaces haven’t been lit yet.” He turned back up the corridor. Moments later his voice drifted to them as a low murmur as he again spoke into a telephone, presumably on an in-house line.
Eva
and Douglas hurried back outside. Once in the main quadrangle, Douglas gestured toward the art building. “Should we try there first?”
Glancing up at the building, she saw lights on in the painting room. Someone or several people were still working. “I doubt very much that’s where they are,” she replied. “I think we should search the outer areas. The bottle kilns first, and let’s pray they’re not inside one. Then the rail carriages, and the storage sheds.”
Yet as they passed the art building, a window on the second floor flew open and a voice called down to them. “Eva Huntford, I’d like a word with you.”
She looked up to see Moira Wickham framed in the window, glaring down at her. After a moment the woman pulled back and disappeared, and Eva assumed she was making her way downstairs.
“She’s angry,” she said unnecessarily. “We haven’t time for this, Douglas. Let’s keep going.”
They circled the clay-mixing building, but made it no farther than the enclosure on the other side, for Miss Wickham had caught up to them.
“Miss Huntford, stop right there. I don’t know what you think you’re up to, being here at this time of the evening, but if you don’t stop and speak with me, I’ll ring up the police and inform them we have intruders.”
That brought Eva to a halt. “You keep going,” she said to Douglas. “Look everywhere, even if you don’t think they could possibly squeeze inside.”
She walked to where Moira Wickham stood, with hands on hips, an angry scowl scoring lines across her brow.
“The police are already on their way. We’re having a crisis, and I really haven’t time—”
“A crisis,” the woman repeated, her voice snapping sharply. “I’ll give you a crisis, Miss Huntford. You never had any intention of leaving the Renshaw household, did you?”
A Sinister Service Page 23