Ratko gave a low chuckle. “Besides, even if you did find one who could do the job, these Lincolnshire blokes would very likely expect to be paid.”
Peter’s expression made it clear the subject of bounced paychecks was closed. He explained to me that “Yellowbelly” was a name the folk of Lincolnshire wore proudly. Something to do with the color scheme of an eighteenth century stagecoach line. He then turned back to his men with a dramatic flourish.
“Lads, I’ll pay you in cash tomorrow morning, as soon as the banks open. Hang on.” His voice edged into anger. “I just bought a bloody factory and paid for you lot to move house. Cost a few quid, that. Stop worrying. They love me in this town. Don’t they, lass?” He squeezed my shoulder. “She’ll tell you how I charmed the local press this morning.” He lifted his pint. “I’ll advertise for a reader at the University in Lincoln.”
I jumped in. “Actually, um, I’d love that job.” I tried not to sound desperate. “It would give me something to do.”
Peter studied my face, then grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Lass, you’re hired. I’ll discuss pay with Henry and Vera. It’ll be a bit dodgy since you’re a foreigner, but so is Ratko, and we manage to pay his exorbitant salary.”
“When the bloody check don’t go all bouncy-wouncy,” Ratko said.
Hoping to move on from the touchy subject, I turned a bright smile on Ratko and asked where he was from.
“I was born in a country called Yugoslavia,” he said in a tone that conveyed equal parts nostalgia and anger. “A country that is no more. I’m a Serb.” He leaned in and gave me a menacing glare. “Do I scare you, Duchess?”
I kept my smile in place. I feared any reaction was likely to set off more belligerence. Luckily Alan took the microphone and announced the start of the weekly quiz. Regulars joined up in teams to field a series of general knowledge questions. Prizes consisted of drinks, paid for by the losers. It all turned out to be rather fun, and provided the added bonus of pre-empting the karaoke.
Alan conducted the quiz with suitably smarmy pizzazz. But I agreed with Peter that something about Alan was “off.” Everything he said seemed to be scripted, and his feigned affection for the much older Brenda couldn’t be entirely believable, even to her.
But the “lads” began to treat me as one of the pack after I brought the team to victory by correctly naming the presidents depicted on Mount Rushmore, all of the Great Lakes, and the names of Scrooge McDuck’s three nephews. The victories—and accompanying beers—did much to lift the mood.
But as we started the final round, the table went deadly quiet. Liam’s scarlet locks seemed to stand on end. Davey’s eyebrows looked ready to do battle—and I might have imagined it, but I thought I saw a knife flash in Ratko’s hand.
I felt a presence move behind me, but was afraid to look.
“Let’s toss for the next round,” said a voice above my head. “Heads Peter buys me a pint.” A coin bounced onto the table.
I froze as a two-headed shilling clattered on the tabletop. I turned around to see the smirking, one-eyed face of Barnacle Bill.
Chapter 18—Getting Sorted
“I’ve got a question for you lot,” the old sailor said in a voice loud enough to silence Alan. “Is Peter Sherwood going to pay me what he owes me, or am I going to have to take it out of his bloody hide?”
Ratko jumped to his feet. Peter rose more slowly, but his easy smile had faded. I feared a brawl, but the two persuaded the old sailor to step outside.
A few minutes later, Peter returned, without Ratko or Barnacle Bill. His voice strained with false cheer as he tossed a ten pound note on the table.
“I’m knackered, lads, but that should cover a few more rounds.” He turned to me. “Duchess, stay if you like, but you may not find another escort until these degenerates get tossed out at closing time.”
I followed him outside, looking with trepidation for Barnacle Bill. But Peter put a reassuring arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, lass, that old pirate’s gone. He and I are sorted. He talks tough, but he knows I’m the one who paid his fine this morning.”
It was odd about the English and “sorting” It was as if proper categorization—perhaps with some cosmic “Sorting Hat”—could send one’s troubles off to their respective Griffindors, Hufflepuffs and Slytherins and make all things right.
But Peter didn’t look sorted. His mood was tense as we made our way home through the drizzle. When we got back to the office, he looked like a trapped animal.
I gave him a kiss. “Whatever it is, let’s forget it until morning, okay?”
But forgetting didn’t seem to be an option. He went to his desk and started pulling out drawers and rummaging for something.
“Anything I can do to help?” I said as his searching grew more frantic. But he hardly seemed to hear.
With him in this state, I didn’t feel right getting ready for bed in front of him. I gathered my things and went to the Ladies’ to wash up and change into my night things. I took another sputtery shower and, in spite of the chill, put on my Versace nightgown and matching robe, as well as a few of my last precious drops of Chanel No. 5. I hoped I could get back the happy, sexy feelings of the afternoon.
But when I returned to the office, it was empty. I opened the heavy doors to the factory and called, “Peter, are you there?”
No answer.
I waited a few minutes, but he didn’t appear. I put my robe and slippers back on and searched the factory, wandering amongst the machines in the spooky dark. I called Peter’s name, again and again, as panic rose.
My voice echoed in the empty dark.
I had to face it. I was alone in the factory.
Peter was gone.
Chapter 19—A Nice Cup of Tea
I woke to a roar like a jet engine. I wondered for a moment if the past twenty-four hours had been a dream, and I was still on the plane. But as my eyes focused, I saw the office door open. A round-faced, middle-aged woman in a blue pants suit and sturdy shoes pushed her way in, wielding an industrial-type vacuum cleaner.
“Oh! Sorry love,” she said, turning off the motor. “He didn’t tell me anybody was in here. I’m doing a bit of Hoovering before the men arrive and muck everything up again. You know how they are.” She had a big, friendly smile. “Can I get you a nice cup of tea before you go home? Mr. Weems will need the office when he arrives from Nottingham. We expect him at half eleven.”
“Home?” I pushed sleep from my brain. “I’m not going home. I’ve only just arrived. That is, I flew in on Saturday…” I sat up and pulled the duvet around me, feeling ridiculous in my revealing Versace silk.
The woman brightened.
“Oh my. You’re the new American author—the Manners Doctor! And me here being so unmannerly.” She stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Vera Winchester. Office Manager.”
As I shook Mrs. Winchester’s hand, the fuzzy brown face of a small terrier-like dog peered from behind her navy blue trouser leg. The little creature barked loudly at me.
“This is too much,” Mrs. Winchester said, apparently to the dog. “I don’t know why he’s nervous around Americans. He barked at Mr. Trask, too.” The little dog inched toward the futon. “Much, say a proper hello to the Manners Doctor.” Mrs. Winchester pulled the vacuum cleaner out of the way and the dog approached me with a businesslike sniff. I reached out and gave him a pat between his ears.
“We thought you’d be staying at the Miller’s, like Mr. Trask. He’s gone, isn’t he? Pity. I quite liked him.”
“You liked him?” Maybe Mrs. Winchester could enlighten me about my mysterious disappearing countryman. “What was he like?”
“Friendly. But then Yanks are, generally, aren’t they? Don’t put on airs. I don’t know why Much behaves so badly around them.”
“Much? That’s the dog’s name?”
“Too Much is what the former owner called him, I suppose because of his eating habits. He came with the building. Peter liked t
he name because of Robin Hood’s comrade—Much the Miller’s son. He’s a good little ratter. I’ve just had him up to the house for the weekend for a visit to the vet and a nice bath.” She turned toward the door. “I’ll get you a cup of tea. I’ve got the kettle boiling in the canteen. What a mess I had to clean in there this morning. Looks as if the ceiling fell in. Good job I got here early.”
My watch said ten-fifteen. Mr. Weems was arriving at half eleven, but was that ten-thirty or eleven-thirty? I had no idea. I jumped out of bed and scrambled into my Burberry outfit, tossing my scattered things into my suitcase as I dressed.
I was annoyed that Peter hadn’t warned me that Mr. Weems used this office—almost as annoyed as I was at Peter’s abrupt disappearance.
I ran my fingers through my uncombed hair and peeked out the door. Luckily nobody else seemed to be working in spite of the late hour.
I made a dash for the loo and tried to make myself presentable as quickly as possible. On the way back to the office, I nearly collided with a pretty, plump young woman emerging from the canteen with two steamy mugs. She wore heavy make-up and slightly too-tight jeans.
“You’ll be the Manners Doctor,” she said. “I’m Meggy Poole.” She handed me one of the mugs. “We gave you milk but no sugar. But I’ve the artificial stuff if you like.” She took a tiny container from her pocket that dispensed a tablet of Splenda.
I accepted the tea gratefully.
“Had a bit of excitement over the weekend, did you?” Meggy hoisted herself to sit on the edge of one of the big tables. “With that smelly old man with the eye patch? Vera Winchester says the ceiling of the canteen fell on him. How did that happen?”
I looked at my Tinker Bell watch. Ten-thirty. No time for chat.
“Peter was quite the swashbuckling hero. I’m sure he’ll be eager to tell everybody the story.”
Meggy gave a throaty laugh. “That won’t be easy since he’s sunning himself on the Croatian Riviera, ain’t he?
I didn’t get the joke. “No. Peter’s right here—or he was last night…”
Meggy’s feet dangled in her sturdy shoes. “He ain’t here now. Rushed to the airport at seven this morning. Him and Ratko. Vera said they’re off to Pula.”
My head pounded. “Peter and Ratko went to…Pula? Is that in Croatia? Why would they go there?” This didn’t make sense. Peter had all those plans for my book publicity this week. The girl must be confused.
“Dunno, but they were out the door when I came in for my shift. Peter said him and Ratko had important business.” She snorted. “Business with some tart, like as not.”
Humiliation and anger constricted my throat as I stared at the Tinker Bell wings pointing to the time. I had to get my things out of the office. Where I was to take them, I didn’t know.
I didn’t know anything except that Peter Sherwood had abandoned me.
Chapter 20—Damsel in the Dungeon
I looked hard at Meggy, half hoping she was making some sort of joke.
“Peter and Ratko—when will they be back?” I tried not to sound hysterical as I set down my tea and worked at stilling my shaky hands.
Meggy shrugged. I could make out a large purplish bruise under her make-up.
“They don’t tell me nothing. No more than he do at home. I’m a mushroom, me: kept in the dark and covered in shite. This lot don’t even pay us half the time. Me friend Jilly’s looking for a new job in Lincoln.” She glanced out the window, where a car was coming up the drive. “That’ll be her now. Oh, no…” Her expression changed as she jumped down from her perch. “It’s Mr. Weems. I’d best be back to work by the time he gets his cuppa.” She grabbed my arm and whispered, “Between you and me, the whole lot of ’em are barking. Everyone but the Professor. He’s a gent.”
I rushed back to the office and managed to stuff the rest of my things into my battered Vuitton cases before Vera Winchester appeared, wearing a tight smile, followed by a bird-like man in thick glasses who looked as if he might burst into tears any minute. Could this tiny person possibly be the man who wrote under the name Rodd Whippington?
“Bugger. We can’t print books without paper,” the little man announced. He walked right past me and set a steaming tea mug on the desk. “We’ve hundreds of pre-orders for my new book. And I need to talk to Mowbray about the cover. Where is he?”
Only now did he notice me and my luggage.
“What in blazes are you doing in my office, girl? It’s after ten in the morning. Don’t you have a home?”
I wanted to say: no, I was homeless—and penniless as well, since I hadn’t been given my promised room or my advance. But I kept a polite silence.
“Henry, this is our new author from America,” Mrs. Winchester said, her voice pitched a bit too high.
For a moment, Henry Weems’ eyes looked as if they might start a fire through the coke-bottle glasses as he stared, first at me, then my Vuitton luggage.
“I thought Peter’s bloody Yanks had gone back where they came from.”
I mustered up enough of my Manners Doctor persona to will myself to smile.
“I’m Camilla Randall, Mr. Weems.” I reached for his hand. “I wrote Good Manners for Bad Times. I’m sorry I’ve inconvenienced you, staying in the office like this. There seems to have been some miscommunication with Mr. Sherwood.”
Mr. Weems continued to stare at my offending suitcases as this information made its way to his brain. Finally he looked back up at me.
“Oh. That’s all right then. I thought you were another of Peter’s tarts.” He dismissed me with a wave. “Pradeep won’t be in until afternoon. He wants a bit of editing on your book—correcting the American spelling and references to customs that are different here. Otherwise, everything will remain the same. We want it ready to launch by September or October at the latest…”
“October?” My head roared. “Peter said we’d launch in two weeks…”
Mr. Weems sighed and pressed his forehead as if his head hurt.
“I suppose he proposed marriage to you, too? And promised you a country house with a gardener and a chef? The man will say anything to pull a bird. Now please, I’ve got a business to run, and a partner who’s swanned off to Serbo-bloody-Croatia.”
He rummaged through the things on Peter’s desk, pushing a huge pile of manuscript envelopes aside. He looked at the return address on one with a scornful snort.
“More Yanks. Why can’t he get us some Brits? Somebody who can promote sales amongst his sisters and his cousins and his aunts? I haven’t time to read this rubbish. None of us has.” He gave the pile another shove, and the envelopes slid onto the floor.
I stooped to gather them, trying to keep my anger and hurt under control. I had to make this man accept me, or I was going to be chucked out onto the streets of Swynsby.
“Peter—that is, Mr. Sherwood—offered me a job reading the unsolicited manuscripts. Would you like me to get started reading these?”
Mr. Weems gave me a look of equal parts scorn and pity.
“I don’t care. Do whatever you like. Major Oak is Peter’s brainchild. If he wants to pay you, it will have to come from his own pocket. We can’t pay the staff we have as it is.” He handed me another pile. “No wonder he’s gone for a beach holiday.” He pounced on the copy of Damsels in the Dungeon and gave it an incendiary stare. “Bugger!” he shouted. “Bugger all. It’s identical. It’s the same cover he put on Dirk Scabbard’s The Naked Nanny, except for the stockings.” His upper lip quivered. “Where is Mowbray? He’s bloody useless…”
I clutched the manuscripts. I figured I might as well read through a few. They’d provide me with something to do while I waited for Peter.
The creep. At least Jonathan had bothered to think up excuses for going off on his escapades. I shouldered my purse, grabbed my laptop and pushed my stacked suitcases in front of me with a kick. But when I opened the door, Tom Mowbray blocked my way. He looked even angrier than his boss. He was flanked by Davey and Liam, re
ady to protect their mate.
Henry waved them away. “Just him,” he said, pulling Tom inside. “You two might try doing some work.” He gave the door a slam.
“Bloody hell.” Liam shook his scarlet head at the closed door. “Looks as if Henry needs a holiday too.” He eyed my burden. “Duchess, can you use a bit of help?”
Davey grabbed both of my suitcases with surprising strength as Liam took my laptop and the manuscripts. We marched out into the noisy factory, where Meggy and two other young women, wearing noise-muffling head gear, operated a guillotine-like device and another that smelled of burning glue.
“Where to, Duchess?” I could barely hear Davey over the roar.
I sighed. “The Merry Miller, I suppose.”
Davey’s eyebrows shot upwards as he put down the suitcases.
“Not wise. Brenda won’t take another Yank for a good long while. What about the White Stag Inn? It’s pricey, but…” he scanned my Vuitton luggage.
“Um, how much is it? I have…” I pulled out my wallet and counted the money I had left. “Twelve pounds and, um, three of these silvery ones.” I held out the coins.
“Your American credit cards are good here,” Liam said.
I took a breath, then blurted the truth. “I don’t actually, um, have any credit cards. I had to shred them…I’m in a program for debt consolidation.”
Slowly I realized everyone was staring. Meggy had shut down her machine and taken off her headphones.
Liam let out a loud guffaw. “You’re skint? Peter told us your mum’s a Countess and you’re married to a telly presenter.”
“My mother died without a penny,” I said, fighting the catch in my throat. It felt so strange to be telling the truth at last. “There’s no money. Not anywhere. Her last husband stole everything she had. And my ex claims to be as destitute as I am since his drinking got him fired. He used to have millions, and I suspect he still does, but my lawyer couldn’t find anything and then I couldn’t pay the lawyer...oh, it’s all so tedious.”
Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Page 7