Eva released her and pressed her ear against them, wincing when her skin came up against the hot surface. Her mouth opened on a gasp. “There’s someone out there.”
Phoebe pushed forward, her ear to the bricks as well, ignoring the blistering of her own skin. Ever so faintly she heard voices and a metallic rapping against the outer part of the doorway. “I can’t make out what they’re saying.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Eva grasped her arm. “Let’s move out of the way.”
They stood pressed together, clasping hands tightly, hoping against hope. To Phoebe they stood there for an eternity, waiting for the impossible. She began to believe their liberation would never come, at least not in time. But Phoebe realized that if people were out there, they must have doused the coal fires. Could she feel a difference?
She could not. Heat enveloped her. The air continued to sear her lungs, scorch her skin. Surely, surely, they would not burn to death now. She and Eva both tightened their hold on one another. Her fingers throbbed with the pain of it, but she didn’t care. It meant they were both still alive.
Finally a voice reached her ears. “Is someone in there?”
“Help us!” she and Eva shouted together.
Bricks began to fall away and light speared through in silver shafts. First Phoebe saw iron crowbars and a sledgehammer chipping away at the barrier. Then thickly-gloved hands appeared, able to find purchase now that an opening had been created. That opening grew, and Phoebe and Eva rushed forward.
“There’s someone else inside,” Phoebe cried out as those hands seized her arms and pulled her through to the other side. The heated stones burned against her torso and legs, but only for an instant and then she was clear. Bright, electric floodlights momentarily blinded her. Eva emerged immediately after her, and then a man disappeared inside.
“Thank you, thank you.” As the words left her lips, she fell to the ground and began sucking in great, cooling drafts of life-giving air.
Eva sank beside her and they held each other again, sobbing and speaking at once. Phoebe didn’t quite know what she or Eva was saying. Their ability to speak at all was enough for the moment.
Another pair of arms went around her, and a deep, infinitely comforting voice spoke in her ear. “Phoebe. My God, Phoebe. And you, Eva. Thank God you’re both still alive.”
“Owen.” Without relinquishing her hold on Eva, she buried her cheek against Owen’s chest and thanked God and every angel that must have been watching over them for their lives. And then she remembered. “Douglas.”
Owen raised his chin from her hair. “They’ve got him out.” He was silent as his arms tightened around her, and then, “He’s alive, Phoebe. Thank God for that dreadful crash inside the kiln, or we would have taken much longer to find you.”
She thought to tell him that pushing over the saggars had been Eva’s idea, but that could wait for now. “Fox and Trent?”
“I found them on my way here,” he said, stroking her cheek. “They were on the road, making their way to the police station. They said they had evidence against Jeffrey Tremaine, a motive for him to have murdered Ronald Mercer.”
“Are they . . . ?”
“They’re fine. And you needn’t worry about Tremaine getting away. He had a bit of a mishap with his motorcar just now in his haste to flee Crown Lily.”
Phoebe had so many questions that went unspoken. The last of her strength drained away, and she slipped into darkness.
* * *
She woke up sometime later—how much later, she could not say. Her head lay on a pillow, her body on a lumpy mattress, which could not have felt more luxurious, not after what she’d been through. A plain white ceiling stretched above her, informing her she could not be anywhere in Lyndale Park, with its coffered ceilings or intricate plaster medallions.
She glanced around her. A curtained screen stood to one side of the bed. A bare window occupied the wall on her left. A plain wooden door with a rectangular window led . . .
To the rest of the hospital, she could only assume. Suddenly the door opened and a nurse came in.
“Awake, I see. How are you feeling?”
Phoebe wasn’t quite sure. She tested her voice, only to cough and sputter. She tried again. “I’m all right,” she rasped. “Alive.”
“Indeed. You’re very lucky. We all know what those kilns can do. It’s a wonder you survived the heat for as long as you did. You have some minor burns on your legs, but they’ll soon heal.” The woman shook a thermometer vigorously and slipped it into Phoebe’s mouth. “Under the tongue. I’d say you and your friends are frightfully stubborn, in a good way.”
“Eva and Douglas?”
“Are both going to be all right. Miss Huntford is already sitting up and asking for you. The young man suffered quite a head injury, I’m afraid. A concussion. But he’s also awake and the doctor says he’ll be fine as well, given a bit of time.”
An urgent thought sent Phoebe upright. Dizziness made her lean back on her elbows. “Mr. Tremaine. He did all of this.”
“I know. It’s all anyone is talking about. He’s in this very hospital, too. But don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere. He’s handcuffed to his bed and there’s an armed policeman outside his room.”
Phoebe had a vague memory of Owen telling her Mr. Tremaine had had a mishap with his motorcar. “How . . . What happened to him?”
“Well, apparently, he tried to get away in his motorcar, and a young man in a Runabout—a war hero, I’m told—headed him off and made him swerve into a building. It was the one where they mix the clay. But no need to fret over Jeffrey Tremaine. He’ll be fine, too, and he’ll be heading off to jail soon enough.”
* * *
Eva opened the front door and beckoned the pair who stood on the steps inside. “Thank you for coming,” she said to them, and helped them off with their coats.
“It’s quite a place.” Moira Wickham walked several steps into Lyndale Park’s main hall and turned full about, her gaze traveling over woodwork, furnishings, and the Baccarat crystal chandelier that hung above her. “I suppose your job does have its perks, Miss Huntford. You get to live in places like this.”
“Yes.” Eva smiled and didn’t bother reminding her that most lady’s maids rarely saw this part of a great house, as they were typically consigned to bedrooms and the workrooms belowstairs.
Contrary to Miss Wickham’s enthusiasm for the house, Percy Bateman lingered near the door, looking uncertain and ready to flee. “Are we to be taken to task, Miss Huntford?”
The question surprised her. “Taken to task? Not at all, Mr. Bateman.” She held out her arm. “Won’t you both come this way, please.”
She led them into the drawing room, where Lady Phoebe, Owen Seabright, and the boys, Trent and Fox, sat ranged around the fireplace. Jester lay curled up in front of the hearth, sound asleep and snoring lightly. Everyone looked up as the new arrivals entered the room.
Lady Phoebe came to her feet. “Thank you for agreeing to see us here today.” She extended her hand to both of them, but saved a sheepish expression for Mr. Bateman. “How is your head? I’m so sorry to have struck you with the telephone. But in all honesty, you frightened me. Why did you try to keep me in Ronald Mercer’s office?”
“You looked at me so suspiciously, Lady Phoebe, I thought you’d realized the truth of what Miss Wickham and I were doing. I feared if I simply let you walk out, you might tell Mr. Tremaine, and I wanted a chance to explain.”
“You might have simply done that, rather than refuse to let me leave in such a threatening manner.” Though Lady Phoebe’s words were harsh, her manner remained cordial. “It was for that very reason I suspected you. And hit you,” she added apologetically.
“Yes, well.” He pressed a hand to his head, where, Eva surmised, a bump must still exist. “Hindsight” was all he said. But Eva could sense his vast relief.
Lady Phoebe addressed both of their guests. “Please have a seat. Tea?”
&n
bsp; It was Moira Wickham’s turn to look wary. “We’d like to know why we’re here, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Speak for yourself, Moira.” Percy Bateman claimed one of the vacant chairs. “I, for one, wouldn’t mind being served tea in a drawing room like this. Probably the only chance I’ll ever have.”
That drew a chuckle from Lady Phoebe, who waited until Moira Wickham had seated herself before returning to her own chair. Eva pushed the buzzer beside the mantel and then took her seat across from Lady Phoebe. “It will be up presently.”
“In Crown Lily china?” Percy Bateman asked.
“I’m sorry,” Eva replied, “I didn’t think to specify to the kitchen staff.”
Percy Bateman waved the notion away.
Moira Wickham turned to him with a scowl. “Stop acting the idiot. Do you think they brought us here to ply us with cake? No. We’re obviously in some sort of trouble.” She regarded Lady Phoebe and Lord Owen, then turned to Eva with a scowl meant specifically for her. “I’m sure you’re relishing this.”
“You’re not in any trouble, Miss Wickham. Nor you, Mr. Bateman.” Eva angled her legs and crossed her ankles, leaning slightly forward in her chair. “But we do wish you both to be honest with us. Were the two of you working together to create patterns for Crown Lily, and did you plan to eventually take your combined talent to another company?”
Moira Wickham stared at her for several long moments, her perplexity obvious. “Are you to conduct this interrogation, then? Not your superiors?”
Eva sighed. “It’s not meant to be an interrogation. But if you would prefer Lady Phoebe to ask the questions, she will.”
“But Eva is perfectly capable, and we are all of the same mind,” Lady Phoebe assured her. “Please, Miss Wickham, and you, too, Mr. Bateman, answer the questions. It’s important.”
“Yes, well . . . all right.” Miss Wickham and Mr. Bateman traded glances. He shrugged, as if to say there was no use in hiding the truth anymore. Miss Wickham nodded in resignation. “Yes, we’ve been working together for some time now. You see, I cannot submit my designs on my own. Percy can. And—”
She got no further, for Percy Bateman bounced forward in his chair, clapped his hands together once, and happily declared, “Moira here is a genius. Together we make a splendid team, and we planned to approach a competitor when the time was right—once our designs had taken on renown at Crown Lily.” He sat back again, some of his enthusiasm deflating. “Because you see, Ronald Mercer and Jeffrey Tremaine would never have allowed it. They considered me too young and Moira . . . well . . .”
“Is a woman,” Eva finished for him.
“But do you both see,” Lady Phoebe said, “that your actions became highly suspicious? We knew you were hiding something—something to do with your work. We believed one of you was stealing patterns from the other, or perhaps stealing from Ronald Mercer. And that, we believed, gave either or both of you a reason to have murdered Mr. Mercer.”
At that pronouncement the tea arrived. A brooding silence descended on the room as Carmichael served the refreshments. He had barely crossed the threshold on his way out before Moira Wickham burst out with, “So now you know we weren’t doing anything wrong—not criminally wrong, at any rate. Mr. Tremaine murdered Mr. Mercer and the others—God rest them. Crown Lily will be closed forever or will be sold to a new owner. There’s nothing that can be done about that. So, will someone please explain why we are here?”
“You are here because we wish to make you an offer,” Owen Seabright said.
That drew a frown from Miss Wickham. “And who are you?”
“Miss Wickham, Mr. Bateman, I’d like to introduce you to Owen Seabright.” Lady Phoebe smiled over at him. “He is in the textile industry, but is considering diversifying into china production.”
“Financially speaking, that is,” Lord Owen clarified. “I know nothing about china, which is why we’re here. A discovery has been made that should allow Crown Lily to continue as it has been for the past, what is it? Two hundred years or thereabouts?”
Neither Miss Wickham’s irritation nor her guardedness lifted even a fraction. “What kind of discovery?”
“One moment.” Eva stared down at the dark amber brew in her teacup, then back up at Miss Wickham. “Before we go on, I do have one question. Why did you give Lydia Travers the sack? Did you truly believe her to be selling patterns to a competitor?”
Miss Wickham picked up an enameled box from the table beside her, turned it over to gaze at the bottom, and placed it back on the table. “I did. I know for a fact a few of our patterns showed up on some of Royal Wiltshire’s china. She did have a beau there, and it only seemed to make sense.”
“I believe we can explain that.” Lady Phoebe rose and went to a side table. She lifted a leather-bound book and portfolio, and brought it back to the gathering. “These two items constitute Ronald Mercer’s pattern book. They were found in Mr. Tremaine’s office. He himself had been selling patterns to his competitors, as well as misdirecting shipments of china, in order to collect the insurance money and reap extra profits. However, he was working through Lydia Travers when it came to the patterns. He used her as a go-between to protect his own identity in these dealings.”
This news appeared to render Miss Wickham speechless. But only for a moment. “I was right about her. Why, that—”
“I don’t think Mr. Tremaine gave her much choice,” Lady Phoebe said. “Once you let her go, she realized her mistake and asked him for enough money to tide her over. Instead he murdered her to ensure her silence.”
“Oh, good heavens.” Moira Wickham went utterly white. “It’s my fault the girl is dead. I surely never meant for that to happen.”
Eva went over to the woman, crouched in front of her, and pressed her hand to Miss Wickham’s. “No. Mr. Tremaine is at fault. For all of it. You were merely doing your job as a supervisor. You and she were both victims of that man’s treachery.”
“Still, I wrongly accused her . . .” Miss Wickham blinked back tears. Eva gave her hand a final pat and backed away to resume her seat.
“I want you to know,” Lady Phoebe said, “that arrangements are being made for Lydia’s sisters. She had been supporting them, which is why, we assume, she went along with Jeffrey Tremaine’s scheme.”
Miss Wickham nodded, her tears continuing to trickle. After an awkward pause during which the others pretended not to witness the woman’s distress, Lord Owen said, “As for the other recent discovery made about Crown Lily . . .” He didn’t, however, go on to supply the explanation, but rather gazed across the way to Trent Mercer.
He and Fox had listened in silence these many minutes. Now they grinned at each other, and Trent said, “The Mercers and the Tremaines were once partners in Crown Lily Potteries. It’s no great secret, and you might already know that. But then the Tremaines forced the Mercers out a couple of generations ago without proper recompense. But more important, during the war, Crown Lily came under dire straits and the Tremaines appealed to the Mercers for help.”
“In the form of money,” Fox put in.
“Mr. Tremaine admitted as much to me,” Lady Phoebe said to their guests, corroborating Trent’s story. “Crown Lily owes money to the Mercers.”
Trent nodded. “Heaps of it. You see, after they left the china business, the Mercers continued to prosper for a while in shipping. They were one of the companies transporting Staffordshire china all over England before the war, and my grandfather was a wealthy man. But just as most of the china companies did poorly during the war, so did the shipping companies.”
“Is that when the Mercers first attempted to recoup their loan money?” Owen asked.
Trent nodded. “Apparently, yes, except that when my grandfather died, records of the loan went missing. I never knew about any of this. But, somehow, my father managed to recover the documents.”
“And wanted the money back?” Percy Bateman suggested.
“No,” Trent corrected hi
m, “he wanted a share in the business, to be made a partner, but Mr. Tremaine refused. Said my father would never be able to have those documents validated. But don’t you see? This is why my father insisted I leave Eton and learn the china trade. He wasn’t going to give up simply because Jeffrey Tremaine proved stubborn. He secretly had a solicitor piecing together the proof he needed.”
“And Mr. Tremaine became nervous.” Fox shoved a biscuit into his mouth and spoke as he chewed. “So nervous, well . . . we all know what he did.”
“I still don’t understand,” Moira Wickham said, somewhat less testily than before. “What is it you’re all getting at?”
“It’s this.” Eva stood and folded her hands at her waist. “Those shares that should have gone to Ronald Mercer will now go to Trent. This will, in essence, make him Crown Lily’s owner. However, he will not, as you can imagine, be running the company—”
“Not yet, at any rate,” the boy interrupted. “I’ll be going back to Eton.” This earned him another grin and a thump on the back from Fox.
“Meanwhile, I’ll be buying in as a financial partner,” Lord Owen told them. “And while, as I’ve admitted, I don’t know much about the china industry specifically, I can lend a certain expertise when it comes to running a business.”
“And the two of you,” Eva resumed, “will step in as Crown Lily’s head design team, if you’re willing.”
“What . . . ?” Percy Bateman spoke the word like a man awakening from a dream.
Moira Wickham’s mouth hung open, until she closed it slowly and swallowed. “You’ll have to replace Gus Abbott, you know. You can’t resume production without a man like him, and where will you find someone with Gus’s knowledge?”
“Let us worry about that,” Lady Phoebe said. “What about Eva’s question? Are you willing? Crown Lily will need you both.”
“You really should say yes.” Lady Amelia stood framed in the doorway. For how long, Eva didn’t know. She’d been so intent on the conversation she had noticed little else. “You do realize if the factory is forced to close its doors, not only will a lot of hardworking people be out of their jobs, but Queen Mary will be frightfully disappointed. Crown Lily china is her favorite.”
A Sinister Service Page 26