A Sinister Service

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you never called them.” She tried to dig in her heels. Could she hold out long enough for Owen to arrive? Would he arrive? “No. I’m going back. Let me go.”

  “I’ve given you every chance to avoid this, Lady Phoebe, and you’ve refused.” He released her long enough to seize her again with two hands, one on each shoulder. With a violent thrust he propelled her forward. “Such a stubborn young lady, it’s a wonder your grandparents don’t despair of you. Come along now, like a good girl. Why, soon you’ll be reunited with your maid. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Eva’s in there?” The bottle kiln towered over her, its height blocking out the few stars that had appeared in the purpling sky; its doorway gaped like a toothless grin.

  “She is. And so is Douglas. They’re waiting for you.”

  “Where are the boys? What have you done with Trent and Fox?”

  “Not a thing . . . yet. But when I find those two troublemakers, they’ll regret their meddling, just as you’re going to.”

  They were within yards of the kiln. Phoebe stiffened every muscle in her body to bring them to a halt. “You killed Ronald Mercer, and the others. Why? At least tell me that much before you kill me.”

  “My dear Lady Phoebe, I’m not going to kill you.” He grinned with malevolent enjoyment as he moved his hands from her shoulders to her wrists, locking them viciously within his grip. “The intense heat of the kiln will do that. I suppose there’s no harm, therefore, in telling you. Ronald Mercer was about to challenge my ownership of Crown Lily. You see, the war nearly killed this company. We barely hung on, and only did so because Ron Mercer’s father lent me a great sum of money. Quietly, with none of our other investors the wiser. When he died in ’17, I thought, Good, the money is now mine, free and clear. And it was, until Ron found evidence of the loan among his father’s financial documents and demanded payment or an equal share in the company. Equal! Can you imagine the gall?” With a condescending smirk he shook his head. “I couldn’t possibly allow that, could I?”

  “So you killed him. But why in the grinding pan?” Recalling something Eva had told her, she gasped. “Gus Abbott said you sent him into the warehouse that morning. Because you knew Ronald Mercer wished to speak to him about altering the clay formula, that he would be in the clay-mixing building . . . that was your chance.”

  “Indeed, it was. But Gus, he was a man who thought about things too much. He started acting skittish with me, and it wasn’t hard to realize why.”

  “He figured you out, didn’t he?” Dread filled her, but she couldn’t keep silent. “Trent’s dog—Jester. He’d been following you around that morning, hadn’t he? He likes you. He didn’t go near Mr. Mercer in the conference room that first day, but he went right over to greet you.”

  “Yes, I seem to have a way with dogs.” He chuckled. “He witnessed the whole thing. At the time I thought a good thing dogs can’t talk.”

  A wave of nausea rolled through Phoebe. She whispered, “And Lydia? Why her?” Yet the answer suddenly occurred to her. “She was selling patterns . . . for you. Another way for you to reap greater profits. You sabotaged your own company, didn’t you?”

  “Crown Lily’s days are numbered, Lady Phoebe, and it’s time for me to maximize my own profits. As for poor Lydia, she had the misfortune of Miss Wickham putting two and two together and realizing the girl had been selling patterns to the competition. Lucky for me—and for Miss Wickham—her deduction stopped there, or I’d have had to dispatch her as well. As it is, I’m thinking of sacking her. She’s too clever by half, that one.”

  “You killed Lydia for no reason, simply for being found out by Miss Wickham?” The thought of that poor girl’s final moments sickened her. Her stomach pitched and roiled.

  “Goodness no. I killed her because after she was sacked, she tried blackmailing me.” His features twisted into a scowl. “That’s enough conversation. Move.”

  She tried to resist him, tried pulling free, but his grip on her wrists threatened to break her bones. He jerked her forward, half shoving, half dragging her, when she stumbled. The empty half smile of the kiln’s doorway mocked her, becoming wider, deeper, the closer she got. She cried out for help, but his hand was over her mouth before she could get out the words, pressing her lips cruelly against her teeth until she tasted blood. The kiln towered over her, filling her vision. Suddenly his hand came away from her mouth, and a blinding pain exploded at the back of her head.

  * * *

  Eva awoke to waves of heat eddying around her, through her, seeping up from the surface beneath her. A vague dread tickled at the back of her brain, but she couldn’t name it. She stirred, tried to move, to sit up. Her arms and legs felt weighted and numb, her skirts twisted around her knees. An endless void of inky blackness filled her vision. The cheek that lay on the ground felt as though someone held a hot iron near it.

  Where was she?

  In the next moment memory flooded back. Douglas had rounded the bottle kiln ahead of her, disappearing from her line of sight. He had thought he’d heard something . . . or someone. Before she reached him, she’d heard a thud and, coming around the kiln, found him on the ground, a figure standing over him. The figure turned to her and recognition had sent a violent shock through her.

  And then she’d woken up here in the darkness, unable to move. Her head throbbed, a dull pain that squeezed and released, squeezed and released. She tried to lift it, could just get her cheek off the ground. In the struggle to do so, the restraints on her wrists cut into her flesh. She clenched her teeth against the sting.

  “Douglas?” The name left her lips like a swipe of sandpaper. She tried to swallow, couldn’t, but tried her voice again. “Douglas? Are you here?”

  The words were dry and rusty and stung her throat. She wiggled her body and stretched out her bound hands. The ends of her fingers came in contact with something that yielded slightly as she prodded. Her fingertips identified fabric encasing something more solid. An arm?

  “Douglas, wake up. Please wake up.”

  “Eva? Is that you?” The answering voice, weak and rasping like hers, didn’t belong to Douglas.

  “Lady Phoebe?” Her heart filled her chest to bursting. A cold and deadly fear swam through her, driving away all sense of the heat.

  “Where are you, Eva?”

  “I’m here. I can’t move. I’m tied.”

  She heard a shuffling over the stone floor, and then, “Keep talking, I’ll find you.”

  Eva kept up a steady flow of words until, somehow, a pair of hands settled gently on her leg, then worked their way up to her bound hands. Lady Phoebe’s fingers went to work on the knots, while Eva clamped her teeth together to keep from groaning each time the thin leather straps bit into her wrists. Her skin became wet there; blood, no doubt, but it didn’t matter, not while they were still alive and clinging to some small hope of getting out of there.

  Where was here? Oh, yes. The bottle kiln. The bottle kiln that had been lit, and whose fires were even now growing in strength, sending searing heat upward from the network of flues beneath the floor. Jeffrey Tremaine would never get away with it, Eva thought, but then realized he would, of course. He’d order all the kilns fired now, and when they were opened two days hence, there would be no trace that any of them had ever been inside.

  “Where is Douglas?” Lady Phoebe whispered as she worked.

  “I think he’s lying just to my right.”

  Lady Phoebe’s fingers stilled. “Yes, he’s here. Douglas?”

  “He’s still unconscious.” Eva hoped, prayed, that was all it was, that Douglas wasn’t . . .

  “I think I’ve got it now.” Lady Phoebe stopped working the knots again. “Try to pull your hands apart.”

  Eva put her strength into forcing her bonds to slide free. That further cut into her wrists, but she pushed past the pain until the straps hung limply and fell to the floor. She wasted no time in settin
g to work on her ankles. “If we could only see something.”

  “There are tiny chinks of light coming through the doorway. We’re behind china saggars stacked in the middle of the kiln. A wall of them, several thick. They’re blocking the light from outside.”

  “I believe I’m free.” Eva gave a final tug and was rewarded once again by the last of the leather straps falling away, freeing her legs. She attempted to straighten them. Pain shot through her knees from having been in a bent position for so long, but it passed quickly enough. “Can you help me to stand?”

  She groped for Lady Phoebe’s hands, found them, and together they struggled to their feet. “Dear God, Eva, he started the firing. We’ve got to get out.”

  “We will, my lady. I promise, we will.” Could she keep such a promise? She’d use her last breath in the effort. Give her own life in exchange for that of her dear lady.

  And yet, it was Lady Phoebe who had already devised a plan. “Let’s get back to the doorway and start prying the bricks out of the way. If we can do that, it’ll not only let in more light, but will allow some of this heat to escape. And then we’ll come back for Douglas.”

  They felt their way around the stacked saggars until, as Lady Phoebe had said, tiny chinks of light poked holes in the blackness. They headed for them.

  “We merely need to push some of these bricks out of the way.” Lady Phoebe pressed the heel of her hand against the wall that sealed them in. Eva did likewise, heaving for all she was worth. Nothing happened.

  “They’re not moving.” Eva kept trying, even as despair filled her.

  “We’re not giving up.” Lady Phoebe took her hands off the bricks and turned away. “Is there something we can use? Anything for leverage?”

  Eva, too, turned away from the wall of brick to search their surroundings. Now, in the scant light, she saw the saggars towering over them. Rows of the clay containers lined the walls of the kiln, nearly as high as the chimney some sixty feet above them. The heat surrounded her, seeming to sap her body of all its moisture, leaving her mouth parched and her eyes gritty. She saw nothing useful, only those saggars disappearing into the darkness overhead. “Do you think we could climb up? Could we fit through the chimney?”

  Lady Phoebe went to the nearest stack and glanced up. She shook her head. “I don’t think they’re sturdy enough. They’d come tumbling down if we tried to climb. Besides, even if we got out, it’s a good sixty or seventy feet to the ground.”

  Eva might be willing to chance it, to escape the fate of burning to death, being reduced to ash. She pounded with her fists against the bricks. “Is anyone out there? Can anyone hear me? Help us!”

  “The walls are more than a foot thick. So is the doorway. No wonder the bricks won’t budge.” The hope left Lady Phoebe’s voice, frightening Eva more than anything else. “Remember what Mr. Tremaine said that first day. There are at least two or three layers of them, held firm by the sand.” Lady Phoebe didn’t speak the words, but Eva heard her make the pronouncement, all the same. They were going to die, and their deaths would be horrific.

  “These chinks of light prove Jeffrey Tremaine did a poor job of sealing this doorway. It should be a solid barrier, and it isn’t.” Eva stopped pounding as a thought occurred to her. “Was it still daylight when Mr. Tremaine forced you in here?”

  “No. It was nearly dark.”

  “Well, it’s not now. This light peeking through—my guess is the area has been illuminated so the workers can see to resume lighting the rest of the kilns. Lighting only this one would be far too suspicious. Mr. Tremaine must make this look like an ordinary firing.”

  “Eva, you’re right.” Lady Phoebe moved back beside her at the doorway and began shouting. “Hello! In here! Someone, help us.”

  How long they could keep it up, Eva didn’t know. The heat drained her energy, left her feeling as though she’d trudged for days through a desert. Once again she turned to search for anything they could use to make noise that would be heard from outside. She saw nothing but all those towering saggars, and the iron bands that ran around the walls of the kiln to strengthen the structure. She doubted very much she could tear one of those free.

  Her gaze returned to the saggars . . . perhaps they could make use of those. Eva moved to the closest stack along the wall. They reached well over her head.

  Then she would have to push them over.

  “Lady Phoebe, help me with this.” She heaved against the stack, over and over.

  “What about Douglas?”

  “He’ll be safe. He’s toward the back, where I was, behind the saggars stacked in the middle.”

  Lady Phoebe came beside her and together they threw their combined weight against the stack of containers, each one holding numerous cups, saucers, plates, and bowls. The tower began to rock and teeter, and with a final shove they set it toppling. Eva grabbed Lady Phoebe, whisked her against the wall, and shielded her body with her own. Only a few feet from where they stood, clay and porcelain crashed and shattered, sending a spray of shards in all directions. A cloud of clay dust billowed. A dreadful sound echoed through the kiln, an earsplitting crescendo that lasted only a few seconds before all went still.

  CHAPTER 20

  Pressed against the wall of the kiln, her back burning from the rising heat, Phoebe coughed against the grit clogging her throat. Eva stayed pressed against her for some moments, utterly still, not even the sound of her breathing reaching Phoebe’s ears.

  Then Eva eased slowly away. “Dearest Phoebe, are you all right?”

  “I am, but never mind me.” No, Eva had used herself as a human shield, protecting Phoebe from the flying debris. “Were you struck? Your head? Your back?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not in any pain.”

  “Thank goodness.” They moved away from the wall, picking their way over the rubble, a small fortune’s worth of broken china. Phoebe could just make out heaps and shards and the swirling dust that was still settling, that had turned the blackness a sickly gray. “Now what?”

  “Find any part of a saggar—a lid or a divider from inside—still intact enough that we might use as a wedge between the bricks.”

  Phoebe went down on her hands and knees, attempting to keep her skirts between her and the slivers of china that littered the floor. Her hands found what felt like a large piece of a round saggar lid. She carefully came to her feet. “I’ve got something.”

  She carried it to the doorway and attempted to wedge it between layers of brick. The edge of the lid caught for a moment, but when she attempted to apply leverage, it slid off with a grinding jolt. Eva joined her, having found a piece of curving wall from a saggar. As had Phoebe, she attempted to use it as a makeshift crowbar.

  Eva’s results were the same as Phoebe’s. They kept trying until Phoebe’s arms ached, her muscles trembling. All the while as they struggled, the heat continued to swell around them, making breathing difficult, the dry air like a knife against her throat.

  “I don’t understand it. It’s as if he used mortar between these bricks.” She let the saggar lid slip from her hands and fall to the stones at her feet.

  “They’re packed tightly.” Eva kept trying as she spoke. “They must have special tools for clearing them away from the openings, once the firing is done.”

  Each heave punctuated her words. Then she stopped trying to use the side of the saggar as a wedge and simply pounded it against the bricks. Phoebe looked on while hope drained away, as understanding dawned that their efforts would come to nothing.

  They would come to nothing in a few short hours, too. Although judging by the growing pain in her lungs, Phoebe calculated they would be dead long before the kiln reduced them to ash.

  “Hello?” Eva shouted as she pounded. “Is anyone out there? We’re in here! We’re—” She broke off, coughing until she doubled over. When she straightened, she pulled back to deliver another blow.

  Phoebe reached out and placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Eva, stop. It�
��s no use.”

  “No, Phoebe, don’t give up. Don’t you dare.” Eva struck the piece of saggar against the bricks.

  Phoebe’s throat ached and her eyes stung, not only from the heat and dust now, but from the tears pushing for release. “Perhaps it’s better to accept it, dear Eva.”

  Her head bowing, Eva dropped the saggar and turned to Phoebe. “Dearest lady.” Her arms went around Phoebe, drawing her close. “A younger sister, a child, a wonderful friend . . . you’ve been all of those things to me.”

  Phoebe felt Eva’s tears mingling with her own. “I know. I don’t know what I would have done these past years without you. I’d have been utterly lost.”

  “No, you’re stronger than that.”

  “Because of you. Because you’ve always believed in me, even when few others did.”

  Like Phoebe’s father, Eva had always seen the best in her, had never doubted her abilities. Papa’s and Eva’s confidence in her had allowed her to flourish, to believe in herself, to do things she might never have had the courage to attempt, otherwise.

  But this time she had reached too far. And now . . . “Eva, I’m so very sorry. If not for me . . .”

  Eva’s arms tightened fiercely. “Don’t say that. We’re in this together. Everything we’ve survived, we’ve survived together. I was never anywhere but where I wished to be.”

  Phoebe let out a long, searing breath. She had no more words, wasn’t sure she could speak them if she did. Her thoughts went to Douglas, still lying unconscious behind the wall of saggars in the middle of the kiln. Should they have woken him? Perhaps it’s better he didn’t know what was happening. Perhaps he would die without suffering.

  She stood in Eva’s embrace, returning it with the last of her strength. The bottoms of her feet were burning through the soles of her shoes now. This was her fault, even though Eva would deny that with her last breath.

  “My lady, did you hear that?”

  Phoebe lifted her head from Eva’s shoulder. “Hear what?” Surely, it was merely Eva’s hopes conjuring sounds from outside. But then, she heard it, too, or were they both only imagining the clinking sounds from the other side of the bricks?