Chapter Twenty
The following morning, Aster drove to the Hiverton warehouse near Heathrow. The personnel files she’d pulled on Aisha painted a picture of a capable, dedicated employee. Originally from a small village in India, Aisha had jumped at the opportunity when Nick offered her a position coordinating the muslin production. Now married with two small children, her performance reviews were glowing, praising her efficiency and attention to detail.
As Aster pulled into the car park, she noted with approval the high security fencing and the sturdy gate that required a key code for entry. Her own pin didn’t work, a clear sign that her advice about regularly changing access codes had been heeded. A far cry from the laughably lax security at that other warehouse she’d broken into a few weeks back.
She pressed the intercom buzzer, announcing herself. After a brief pause, the gate swung open with a mechanical hum. Aster drove through, parking her car in one of the designated visitor spots.
The warehouse loomed ahead, a huge, nondescript building that gave little indication of the treasures housed within. Aster made her way to the personnel entrance, where a security guard was waiting to buzz her in.
‘Morning, miss. ID please?’ The guard, a burly man in his mid-forties, held out his hand expectantly.
Aster handed over her driver’s licence, watching as he scrutinised it carefully before cross-referencing it with something on his tablet. Satisfied, he handed it back to her with a nod.
‘You’re all set, Miss Byrne. Aisha is expecting you in the main office. Just follow the yellow line.’
Aster thanked him and stepped into the cavernous space of the warehouse proper. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of new fabric and packing materials. Overhead, the fluorescent lights hummed, illuminating row upon row of towering shelves stacked with bales of fabric.
As she walked, Aster took in the organised chaos of the place. Forklifts zipped to and fro, their beeping reverberating off the high ceilings. Workers in Hiverton livery bustled about, pulling items from shelves and packing them into neat stacks on pallets.
She passed a section dedicated to their licensed products, the ones inspired by the precious textiles unearthed in their family archives. There were tablecloths and napkins, curtains and cushion covers, all bearing patterns and motifs that had once graced the grand estates of the aristocracy. Seeing them mass-produced and ready for distribution to department stores across the country gave Aster a little thrill of pride.
But it was the far corner of the warehouse that drew her eye, the area cordoned off and marked with large signs proclaiming: ‘Authorised Personnel Only’. Even from a distance, Aster could see the bolts of gossamer-fine muslin, their delicate folds seeming to glow under the industrial lighting.
That ethereal fabric, so painstakingly recreated from centuries-old seeds and weaving techniques, was the reason she was here. She needed to find out who was flooding the market with the cheaper muslin of suspicious origin, undercutting Hiverton’s prices and potentially jeopardising the fledgling micro-industry they’d worked so hard to establish in India.
Aster tore her gaze away from the muslin and hurried on towards the offices. She needed answers, and Aisha was her first port of call. The woman oversaw every stage of the muslin production process, from the fields to the factories to the final product that arrived here in England. If anyone could shed light on where the hooky fabric was coming from, it would be her.
Aster reached the door marked ‘Main Office’ and knocked briskly. It was time to sort this mystery out, to protect both her family’s business interests and the livelihoods of the artisans in India who depended on the muslin trade. She squared her shoulders as the door swung open, ready to face whatever revelations lay ahead.
Aisha greeted Aster with a warm smile, but her eyes held a flicker of nervousness. She ushered Aster into her office, offering her a seat and a cup of tea.
‘Thank you for coming, Miss Byrne. I understand you have some concerns about the muslin production?’ Aisha’s voice was steady, but her hands fidgeted with a pen on her desk.
Aster leant forward, fixing Aisha with a probing gaze. ‘I do. We’ve discovered some imitation muslin on the market, and it’s eerily similar to ours. I was hoping you might have some insight into where it could be coming from.’
Aisha’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m afraid I’m at a loss, Miss Byrne. The fabric you mentioned, it’s truly of a similar quality to what we produce?’
Aster nodded, pulling out a swatch of the counterfeit muslin and handing it to Aisha. The woman scrutinised it, her frown deepening.
‘This is… disconcerting. The weave, the texture, it’s nearly identical to ours. But I assure you, every yard of muslin that leaves our factories is accounted for. I oversee the process myself.’
Aster studied Aisha’s face, noting the genuine confusion and concern. She didn’t believe the woman was directly involved, but there was something she wasn’t saying.
‘Aisha, if there’s anything else, anything at all that might be relevant, I need to know. The livelihoods of a lot of people depend on getting to the bottom of this.’
Aisha hesitated, worrying her bottom lip. Finally, she sighed and met Aster’s gaze.
‘There have been some… irregularities, back in the village. People leaving abruptly, without explanation. My family there, they’ve been tight-lipped about it. I’ve tried to ask, but they brush me off, change the subject.’
Aster sat up straighter. ‘Leaving? Do you know who, or why?’
Aisha shook her head. ‘No one will give me a straight answer. Our own production hasn’t been affected, thankfully. We’ve been able to train new workers to replace those who left. But the whole thing has left me uneasy.’
Aster digested this information, her mind whirring. Aisha was right to be concerned. These unexplained departures, combined with the sudden appearance of the imitation muslin… there had to be a connection.
‘Thank you for telling me this. I know it can’t be easy, feeling cut off from what’s happening back home. But you did the right thing in sharing your concerns. I promise, I’m going to clear this up.’
Aisha gave her a grateful, if strained smile. ‘I appreciate that, Miss Byrne. If there’s anything else I can do to assist, please ask.’
Aster assured her she would be in touch and took her leave, her mind already racing ahead. It was clear now that the key to unravelling this mystery lay in India, at the source of the muslin production.
She pulled out her phone and dialled Nick’s number. Her sister picked up on the second ring.
‘I need to go to India as soon as possible.’
Nick, to her credit, didn’t waste time with unnecessary questions. ‘Okay. Leave it with me. I’ll have your travel arranged within the hour. Just send me the details of where you need to go and who you need to see.’
Aster felt a surge of affection for her ever-efficient sister. ‘Will do. Thanks, Nick.’
As she ended the call and slid behind the wheel of her car, Aster couldn’t suppress a thrill of anticipation mixed with trepidation. She was one step closer to the truth, but she had a feeling that the real challenges lay ahead, in the dusty villages and sprawling cities of India. But she was ready. She would unravel this tangle of secrets, no matter where the threads led her.
An hour later, true to her word, Nick phoned back.
‘I’ve got you sorted,’ she said without preamble. ‘There’s a British trade delegation flying out to India in a couple of days. Jones has got some big event going on over there. I pulled some strings and got you added to the delegate list.’
‘Should I know who Jones is?’
‘The Foreign Secretary. Honestly Aster, for someone as switched on as you, you are completely dead to politics.’
‘That’s because they come and they go and they don’t do anything.’
‘Well, Anthony Jones is doing loads. I swear that man’s department never sleeps. And because they are so busy, they happen to be announcing some initiative or other and I’ve been able to get you a spot on the delegation.’
Aster grinned, picturing her sister’s satisfied expression. ‘Brilliant. Thanks, Nick.’
‘They’re all travelling business-class. Are you happy to go with them, or did you want to fly economy?’
Aster scoffed. ‘Economy? Please. I’ll go first-class.’
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. ‘Aster,’ Nick began, her tone a warning. ‘Need I remind you that you just spent an unauthorised packet on a painting? Fifty-five k pounds to be exact.’
Aster winced, remembering Nick’s fury when she’d discovered the charge to the Hiverton account. ‘That was for the nuns, Nick. You know how important they are to me. To all of us.’
Nick sighed, and Aster could picture her pinching the bridge of her nose. ‘I know. They did so much for Da when he was a lad. I’ve got a soft spot for them too. But Aster, you can’t just go around making huge purchases like that without running it by me first.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. But I really believe that painting is worth far more than what I paid. It’s going to do a world of good for the convent when we get it restored and reappraised.’
‘It had better,’ Nick grumbled. ‘Fine. First-class it is. But Aster, please try to keep a low profile on this trip? The last thing we need is any more unexpected expenses cropping up.’
Aster grinned, knowing she’d won. ‘I’ll be a model of discretion,’ she promised.
Nick snorted. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it. Your tickets and itinerary will be in your inbox within the hour. Keep me posted on what you find out over there, yeah?’
‘Of course. And Nick? Thank you. I mean it.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Just get to the bottom of this muslin mystery, will you? And Aster?’
‘Yes?’
‘Be careful. I know you can handle yourself, but we don’t know what kind of hornets’ nest you might be walking into over there.’
Aster sobered, recognising the genuine concern beneath her sister’s brusque tone. ‘I will. I promise.’
Deciding to bite the bullet, she spoke quickly before she could chicken out.
‘On another subject, Nick, have you ever heard of a Duke of Peveril?’
‘Edward Montclair? Owns half of London. Is that who you mean?’
Aster could hear that she had piqued her sister’s interest.
‘I think so. What do you know about him?’
‘Not much. Something of a party animal, at least he appears as much in Tatler as he does in the Financial Times . Massively wealthy, but not reckless. Why do you want to know?’
‘No reason,’ said Aster appearing disinterested. ‘I saw an article about him and just wondered if you knew him.’
Nick hummed and Aster knew her sister was still curious about her query.
‘Anyway, India. Let me know when I’m good to travel. I want to get out there as soon as possible.’
As she rang off, Aster leant back in her chair, her mind already whirring with plans and possibilities. India. She’d been there before, during her post-university travels. She remembered the vibrant colours, the pungent spices, the crush and clamour of humanity. It had been an assault on the senses in the best possible way.
Growing up on a multicultural street in London, Aster had picked up bits and pieces of various languages. She could get by in Hindi and a smattering of other Indian dialects, a skill that had served her well on her previous visit. She was looking forward to putting it to use again.
Her computer pinged with an incoming e-mail notification. Her tickets, no doubt. Aster smiled. In two days, she’d be winging her way back to the subcontinent, chasing down the secrets behind the mysterious muslin. She could hardly wait.
But first, she had a video to boost. The damning montage of evidence against Marcus Barrie was already out there, picking up attention, but she needed it to go viral, to reach as many eyes as possible.
An idea struck her, and she reached for her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found Jimmy’s number. They’d had such a laugh at the auction house. Perhaps he could give her some tips on how to boost the video’s reach.
She hit the call button, a smile playing about her lips as she waited for him to pick up.
‘Jimmy,’ she said when he answered. ‘It’s Aster. Listen, I need a favour. And I think you’re going to like it. Fancy a night out? I’ll buy the first round.’
She could practically hear his grin through the phone. ‘Aster, love, you had me at “I need a favour.” What are we getting up to this time?’
Aster laughed. ‘Let’s just say it’s for a good cause. I can’t give you all the details just yet, but trust me, you’ll be doing a real solid for some people who deserve justice. Meet me at Whistles in an hour?’
‘I’m intrigued and I’m in. See you in an hour.’
As Aster hung up, she felt a thrill of anticipation. With Jimmy’s social media savvy, that video would be inescapable by morning. Barrie wouldn’t know what hit him.
Smiling grimly, she closed her laptop and headed out to meet Jimmy. One more wrong to right before she turned her attention to the mystery waiting for her in India.