Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (9 page)

Alan leaned over the table to whisper to Peter as Brenda came bustling toward us. “Word to the wise,” he said, “Me Brenda’s on the warpath. You stuck her with a rubber Gregory as well. You’d better make it good or there will be hell to pay.”

Brenda’s expression was icy as she stood by the table, looking as if she might throw us all out. I assumed “rubber Gregory” was Cockney slang for a bounced check, and Sherwood, Ltd. had given her a bad check, too.

I did hope the same thing wouldn’t happen with my advance.

Peter seemed unfazed by Brenda’s anger. He gave her a grin and handed her a large banknote, then ordered another round, plus pies, and a couple of pints for the two of us. At least Peter’s personal cash seemed to be flowing freely. I looked again at his pricey watch and shoes. Brenda and his employees had a right to be angry about the bad checks, but it did seem to be a minor problem. Peter was obviously good at making money. And it sounded as if he intended to find me a more upscale home than the Merry Miller.

Until then, it would be something of a romantic adventure to share his office-digs. I snuggled against him as he pulled me close.

But his employees didn’t seem happy about my new position as the boss’s consort. Davey continued to glower from under his feral brows; Liam seemed overly engrossed in rolling a cigarette; and Tom avoided eye contact altogether. Only Ratko gave me a smile, but it held a hint of mockery.

Brenda brought the beer and pies, still in her silent huff. From the stage, Alan raised his beer to Peter in a gesture of thanks.

Taking a pie, Ratko spoke to Peter. “Alan’s been asking when you’re going to decide on some manuscript by a lady friend of his. He says she’s hammering him for an answer. Is it bollocks?”

Peter sighed. “I can’t imagine how it wouldn’t be, but I haven’t had time to read it. Did you see that stack of rubbish on my desk? Which one is hers?”

“Some Robin Hood thing,” Ratko said. “Alan claims she’s an American author he met in the States. Probably some slapper from the East End. If she even exists.”

“Alan says she’s made a life work of studying the old Robin Hood ballads,” said Liam, his red dreadlocks shaking in disagreement. “With our Robin Hoodish logo and all, he thought we should have a Robin Hood book.”

“Yes, but not a rubbish Robin Hood book. I’ve already turned down two—both from gormless Americans. You’d think after Kevin Costner’s fiasco and Russell Crowe’s snoozer, they’d leave the Robin Hooding to us Brits.” Peter gave Liam a sharp look. “And since when is Alan an expert on book publishing?”

“The Baron’s an expert on everything,” Davey said with heavy sarcasm. “I suppose you believe his story that he studied at Oxford, too?”

“I ain’t saying a word against a man when I’m drinking his beer,” Liam said. “I can look at the lady’s manuscript. It would make a nice break from the pervy shite.”

Peter shook his head. “I can’t spare you. I need you get the new Dirk Scabbard to Davey by midweek, and there’s the summer Dominion catalogue to proof. What I need is to hire someone to handle the slush. Pity nobody in this town can read or write.”

Hire someone. To read the slush pile. I perked up. Gainful employment would solve a good deal of my troubles—and maybe quiet that ever-lurking panic. But before I could speak, Davey grabbed Peter’s arm.

“Watch it,” Davey said, with a furtive glance at the closest table, where a gang of hefty young men were discussing football scores at high volume. “Don’t insult the Yellowbellies on their own turf. They’re bigger than us.”

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.

“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.

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 the 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?”