Eva blew out a breath. She wondered how the woman had figured it out; perhaps she had seen her with Lady Phoebe in Lydia Travers’s neighborhood, or someone else had and reported back. There was no use in lying now.
“No, Miss Wickham, and I’m very sorry to have inconvenienced you. If there had been any other way—”
“Inconvenienced me? Inconvenienced me? Oh, you did much more than that, Miss Huntford. You came to me under false pretenses, lied to me, and tricked me into confiding in you and showing you my designs, for heaven’s sake. I wasted my valuable time on you, and for what? How dare you treat me so shabbily?”
“Miss Wickham, believe me, it wasn’t my intention to wrong you, and anything you told me or showed me will remain in the strictest confidence.” But Eva immediately realized the lie in her own words. “That is,” she amended, “provided you aren’t guilty of anything.”
A deepening scowl turned Moira Wickham’s blunt features ugly. “Of what? Of killing Ronald Mercer?”
“You had plenty of reason to resent him. To want him out of your way.”
“And ruin my own life in the bargain? You don’t know me at all, Miss Huntford.”
Eva narrowed her gaze on the other woman. “You said you had a plan to advance your career. Did it involve stealing patterns from the designers?”
“From Mercer? Ha! As if I couldn’t come up with better designs than that old windbag.”
“What about Percy Bateman?”
Before Eva could pull away, Miss Wickham advanced on her and gripped her forearm. “What’s he told you?”
“Nothing. Let me go. You’re hurting me.”
Miss Wickham’s fingers clamped like the metal teeth of a trap, making Eva feel like a hare that had been caught. She suddenly became very much aware that she could be standing in the shadow of a killer. She had grown accustomed to concurring with Miss Wickham, respecting her authority in the painting room, even admiring her; she had all but forgotten the woman remained a suspect in Ronald Mercer’s death . . . along with that of Lydia Travers’s and now Gus Abbott’s. Broad-shouldered, large-boned, Miss Wickham could have been the person who accosted them on the street outside Lydia’s flat. Had the note in Lady Phoebe’s handbag been a warning, or a taunt?
One thing was certain: Eva dared not mention Gus Abbott’s death. Better to pretend they knew nothing about it rather than risk Miss Wickham, if she were guilty, deciding she needed to silence yet more individuals.
“I suggest you stop asking questions,” Miss Wickham said in a low, hissing tone. The pressure of her fingers eased and she released her hold. “Stop sticking your nose into other people’s business. You’re not from here. What happens in Langston is none of your concern.”
Eva opened her mouth to speak, but Douglas appeared across the enclosure, between two bottle kilns. “Eva. Everything all right?”
“Yes. I’m coming.” She turned back to Miss Wickham. “I’m sorry.” Despite everything, she meant it.
* * *
“I should go outside and see if the police have arrived yet,” Jeffrey Tremaine said as Phoebe continued sorting through the papers left on Ronald Mercer’s desk, searching for any clue as to what had sent the boys here earlier. “You’ll be all right here.”
“Is that a question or a statement?” she replied absently, her attention drawn once again to the financial records of various orders and the like. While his words seemed a reassurance, something in his tone had implied uncertainty. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. The police should be here any moment now.”
“Exactly my thought. I’ll lock you in to make certain no one else has access to the building.” He rose to go, leaving the order forms he had been going through in a neat stack on the desk. “I’ve found nothing here that could possibly have interested Trent. He must have been looking for something altogether different, and either he found it, or it wasn’t here. You know, it’s quite possible they left the factory a while ago.”
Phoebe sighed, her hands going still over the papers. “I realize that. But if they’re not here, I have no inkling where they could be.”
“Perhaps try telephoning over to Lyndale Park to see if they’ve made it home by now.” He pointed to the telephone on the desk.
The suggestion took her by surprise with its simple logic, and she felt foolish for not having thought of it herself. “Thank you, Mr. Tremaine, I’ll do that.”
He nodded. “I’ll be back soon, with the police.”
She felt a certain relief when she heard the echo of the outer door closing and the lock clicking into place. Being alone, she reasoned, was safer than being with anyone connected to Crown Lily, Jeffrey Tremaine included. Though she didn’t seriously entertain the notion of his being guilty, until they discovered the identity of the killer, no one rose above suspicion.
She reached for the telephone and tapped the cradle, and placed the call with the operator. The butler answered, and moments later Veronica’s voice came over the wire.
“Phoebe? Where are you?”
“At Crown Lily. Has my brother shown up there?”
“Fox? I haven’t seen him. Not for hours now. His friend, either, come to think of it. Aren’t they supposed to be in the house or on the immediate grounds? That detective inspector won’t be pleased to learn they’re running around somewhere, unchaperoned. I must say, if I’d had anything to say about it, I would not have allowed a suspected murderer, no matter how young, in this house. What was your sister thinking?”
“Veronica.” Phoebe practically shouted into the telephone to quiet Julia’s sister-in-law. “Please, if they happen to appear, keep them there. Have Owen and Amelia returned yet?”
“Phoebe, it seems everyone is deserting you today. No, they aren’t back from their ride. I suspect Amelia persuaded him into letting her take the wheel. Neither man nor sheep will be safe along these roads.”
“All right, I have to go. Please tell Owen I’m at Crown Lily and that he should drive over here immediately.”
Veronica was still speaking when Phoebe disconnected. She glanced at the pile of papers, then down at the desk drawers, and had another thought. Slipping a hairpin free, she set to work. True, the police had already been through this office, but perhaps they missed something, or had bypassed something they’d deemed unimportant. At this moment, she reminded herself, she wasn’t necessarily looking for a murderer. She was looking for her brother and his friend.
She had just managed to unlock the first drawer when she heard, from down the corridor, the main door being unlocked and opened. She quickly slid the drawer closed, not wishing Jeffrey Tremaine to see her rummaging like a thief. The footsteps approached at a rapid pace . . . lighter and different, somehow, from Mr. Tremaine’s. A figure rushed by the doorway.
Phoebe gasped. The footsteps halted and Percy Bateman reappeared on the threshold. He looked tousled—more so than his typical dishabille. Rather than simply rumpled, he looked as if he’d run across the factory at breakneck speed. Indeed, his chest heaved in and out and his nostrils flared as he obviously struggled to catch his breath.
His intense gaze pinned Phoebe to the chair she was sitting in. “What are you doing here?”
She swallowed and raised her chin. “I could ask you the same. Mr. Tremaine indicated there was no one else in the building but him.”
“I suppose he thought I’d left for the day.” She only now noticed he held a portfolio to his chest, both arms folded over it possessively. “Where is he?”
“Outside. Waiting for the police.” She considered her words carefully. “It seems there has been another incident.”
“What sort of incident?”
She compressed her lips and thought how best to frame it. She decided evasiveness might be the best choice. “I’m not sure.” Not a complete falsehood; she truly didn’t know how Gus Abbott had come to be lying on the warehouse floor. “I think you should wait and ask Mr. Tremaine about it.”
“You never answered my question, L
ady Phoebe. Why on earth would you be here now? It can’t be to place another order.” Now that his initial shock at finding her there had abated, he seemed to relax. His features eased. His tone sounded more congenial. “Unless there is some problem with your orders I’m not aware of.”
“No, it isn’t that.” She smiled, fully realizing if he had seen Fox and Trent, he would have said so, unless his intentions toward them—and her—were less than benevolent. The portfolio once again drew her attention. “What’s that? More designs?”
“Again you evade my question, Lady Phoebe. One would almost think you were up to something.” He moved closer. “Are you? You really shouldn’t be in this office.”
“Mr. Tremaine is perfectly aware that I’m here.” Caution induced her to combine that bit of truth with a white lie. “I’m . . . looking for something Trent asked for. A . . . photograph that included his mother.”
Percy Bateman shook his head. “Ronald Mercer was not a sentimental man. I’d never known him to carry or display photos of his family.”
She shrugged as if it were of little consequence to her. “I only know what Trent told me. Perhaps Mr. Mercer didn’t wish to appear sentimental. Perhaps he believed it would diminish his authority to admit he possessed a soft heart beneath his stern exterior.” She allowed her gaze to sweep him. “I expect it’s your position of authority now, Mr. Bateman.”
“That remains to be seen,” he said with a grim chuckle.
They appeared to be at a standoff, a cordial one, but impassable, all the same. Phoebe wasn’t about to tell him what he wished to know, and he seemed equally disinclined to show her what he guarded with such possessiveness within the portfolio.
Mr. Mercer’s pattern book? Why else would he be so unwilling to show it to her? But where had it been hidden? Where had he been just now? These were questions she burned to ask, but didn’t dare for fear of provoking him. Soon the police would be here and could make whatever inquiries they liked.
The police . . . She had told Percy Bateman they were on the way. If he were guilty of anything, would he still be here, calmly speaking with her? She didn’t think so. Unless it was part of his ruse to appear innocent.
She wished Mr. Tremaine would come back inside. Better still, she longed for Owen to arrive, if he’d gotten her message from Julia. She worried about Eva and Douglas—they’d been gone so long now. Had they not yet found a trace of Fox and Trent?
She came to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Bateman. I believe you were right, and there is no photograph to be found here. I’ll have to speak with Trent again. Perhaps he meant an office his father kept in their house.”
“I’m sorry, Lady Phoebe, but I can’t let you go.” He backed up and closed the door, then came closer to the desk again, leaning slightly over it with a significant lift of his eyebrow. “Not like this. Now sit back down.”
CHAPTER 19
Panic hit the back of Phoebe’s throat. Did Percy Bateman have a weapon hidden in that portfolio he continued to hug to his chest? She wasn’t about to wait and find out. A quick glance down revealed scant few choices for a weapon of her own, but she needed only one. As he continued to lean toward her in a threatening posture, she made her choice.
Snatching the telephone in two hands, she leaned over the desk, swung the device upward, and brought it down on the side of Percy Bateman’s head. For an instant he regarded her in startlement. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, the portfolio slid from his grasp, and his legs buckled, rendering him a heap on the floor.
She wasted no time in circling the desk, stepping over him, and hurrying down the corridor. Briefly she considered doubling back for the portfolio, which might provide evidence to prove he had murdered Mr. Mercer and stolen the pattern book, but she had no idea how long she had rendered him unconscious. He might merely be stunned and already could be gathering his sensibilities. Better to get to safety and allow the police to apprehend him and the pattern book.
At the outside door she paused to listen behind her. No sound came from Ronald Mercer’s office. She pushed through the door.
Not a soul inhabited the enclosure, but she hadn’t expected to find Jeffrey Tremaine here. He would be in the main quadrangle, or perhaps at the guard gate, waiting for the police. She headed in that direction.
Before she could turn the corner, Mr. Tremaine came around it and she nearly ran into him. She saw him only at the last moment and came to an abrupt halt that upset her footing. Mr. Tremaine caught her, gripping her forearms to steady her and prevent her from going down.
“Are the police here?” The question came out in a breathless rush, barely audible to her above the pounding of her heart.
“Not yet. I thought I’d better come check on you.”
“It’s Percy Bateman—I believe he’s our killer. He’s in Ronald Mercer’s office. He’s got the pattern book. At least I suspect he does. I don’t know if he’s armed. We must get away from here.”
His hands still encircled her wrists, and he tightened his hold. “Please, Lady Phoebe, slow down. What makes you think Percy Bateman killed anyone?”
“We’ve got to get away before he comes to,” she insisted. “And we have to find the others. Eva and Douglas and the boys. Have you seen them?”
“I haven’t.” Mr. Tremaine steered her into the main quadrangle, hurrying her along with a hand at the small of her back. “Surely, you’re wrong about Percy Bateman, though. I can’t believe it of him.”
“He came into the office hugging a portfolio to his chest, and when I questioned him about it, he was entirely evasive. And then he refused to let me leave. He left me no choice but to hit him with the telephone. But I may have only dazed him. Please, Mr. Tremaine.”
“All right, all right. We’ll find the others. Everything will be fine, Lady Phoebe, you’ll see.” He raised his hand to her shoulder, guiding her quickly past the warehouse and the clay-mixing building. “Now if I remember correctly, you told your servants to search this side of the factory. So that’s where we’ll start.”
“Eva!” Phoebe cried out. “Douglas! Can you hear us?”
Mr. Tremaine’s hand on her shoulder tensed as if her shouts startled him. He increased the urgency of their pace until they reached the first row of bottle kilns, each one spaced several tens of yards from the next. The doorways, which she remembered as being open when they toured the facility, were now solid walls of brick and sand. Mr. Tremaine had pointed out there were no actual doors to these structures, and that bricks were used to seal each kiln when it was time for the firing. Panic niggled again and sent her gaze skyward. She searched for wisps of smoke.
“You were able to stop the firing,” she concluded with a great cascade of relief.
“Of course,” he said with authority. “We will not light the kilns until we’re sure there is no one in them.”
“Thank goodness,” she murmured, and called out for Eva and Douglas again. Each time, she noticed, Mr. Tremaine flinched. “What could be taking the police so long to get here?”
“I wish I knew.” He guided her around the first one. They briskly circled the perimeter of the kiln, past the fire-mouths, brick ovens in the walls of the kiln built close to the ground. Here, coal was fed to fuel the fires that would heat the kiln through flues that ran beneath the floor of the structure. Then they moved on to the next. They saw no trace of anyone, other than the footprints of the workmen who had prepared for the firing.
“Mr. Tremaine,” Phoebe said, “might we enlist some of your workers to help in the search? Perhaps the warehouse crew?”
“The warehouse crew?”
“Yes, the men preparing the night shipments. Surely, finding Eva, Douglas, and the boys takes precedence over a shipment of tea sets.”
“Yes, a good idea, that.” But he made no move to retrace their steps to the warehouse. Across the facility other bottle kilns appeared ready for firing, their doorways blocked with bricks. “We should check over that way,” he said, poin
ting.
“Mr. Tremaine, you aren’t listening to me.”
“Come, Lady Phoebe, we mustn’t delay.”
It was then the silence, the utter stillness, wrapped a new fear around her. If the kilns were to be fired, where were the men who would feed the furnaces? Had Mr. Tremaine sent them all home when he canceled the firing?
And the men in the warehouse—why wouldn’t he ask for their help? What could be so important about the shipments?
Something one of them had said earlier echoed in her memory—something about Mr. Tremaine bringing them shipping labels. Why would the owner of the company perform such a menial task? Weren’t there others responsible for preparing and delivering the labels? Of course there were. As they had learned on the tour, there existed a process for every step of Crown Lily’s operations.
And yet . . . this evening Mr. Tremaine had delivered those labels himself. And those warehouse workers . . . they had taken such a defensive stance when Phoebe and the others intruded upon their labors—as if they hadn’t wanted them to see what was in those containers. Or perhaps not what was in them, but where they were going.
There had been thefts at Crown Lily, with finished products disappearing in transit to their final destinations. . . And once they went “missing,” Jeffrey Tremaine would collect the insurance, not for cost of production, but the price of the final sale plus the shipping fees. Crown Lily could afford to replace the set, while its owner pocketed the profit.
And then there were those leather straps used to secure the crates—the very same used on Mr. Abbott.
“You were in the warehouse earlier,” she murmured without quite meaning to say it aloud.
“Did you say something, Lady Phoebe?”
They were nearing the next row of bottle kilns. From the corner of her eye, she saw one with a partly gaping doorway, where the bricks had only been piled halfway. His fingers clamped her shoulder, and he turned her toward it.
“The police aren’t coming, are they?” she said.
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