12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (10 page)

“Pinched the inspector’s spectacles, did ya, Hepzibah?” Luty cackled. “You ain’t pulled that trick in a long while.”

“I did think it rather prudent to have an excuse at hand so that one of us could see the inspector this morning,” she replied. “Admittedly, I haven’t had to use that particular
ruse in a good while. But it has stood us in good stead. We now know that Underhill’s death really was murder.” She turned her attention back to the footman. “Were you able to find out anything else?”

Wiggins frowned. “No. Right after I gave him ’is spectacles, he ’ad to dash off with Constable Barnes. I ’eard ’im tellin’ the sergeant they was goin’ back to the Grant house to ask some more questions.”

“Excellent work, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I’m delighted our assumptions were correct.”

“Before you lot start on about your precious murder,” Betsy said hastily, “I’ve got something to report. I’ve found out a bit about Irene Simmons. It’s right interestin’ if I do say so myself.”

“’Ow’d you do that?” Wiggins demanded. “It’s not even gone on eleven o’clock.”

“I was up and out early,” Betsy retorted.

“And you left without a bite of breakfast,” Smythe chided. “You’ll make yourself ill if you start missin’ meals, lass. Besides, I don’t know that you ought to be dashin’ off anywhere without lettin’ someone know where you’re goin’.”

“Betsy did let me know where she was going,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She didn’t want an argument to break out between Smythe and Betsy. The maid was an independent sort and the coachman, for a variety of reasons, tended to be ridiculously overly protective of her. “Please do go on, Betsy. What have you found out today?”

“Well, I was going to go over to the Grant house and have a go at the servants there, see if any of them might have seen Irene. But when I got there the place was dark as a tomb. It was still so early, you see. I didn’t want to
waste the morning so I nipped over to the Battersea Bridge and walked up the river a bit.”

Smythe, who’d just taken a drink of tea, choked. “You was walkin’ along the river? By yourself? At the crack of dawn?”

“Oh, Smythe, don’t be such an old wo—silly,” she sputtered, quickly changing the last word from “woman” to “silly” before she could cause offense to any of the three elderly ladies at the table. “I was perfectly safe. There’s police constables about on Cheyne Walk.”

“What put it into your head to do that?” Mrs. Goodge asked curiously.

“There’s artists there,” Betsy explained, ignoring the disapproving scowl on Smythe’s face. “They go to paint the river in the morning light. I’ve seen them. This morning there was two of them. One was down by the Chelsea Pier, but he was useless. He’d never heard of anyone called Irene Simmons. Got a bit nasty when I asked him too.” She snorted delicately. “He didn’t much like having his painting interrupted, not that there was all that much to interrupt if you ask me. Fellow wasn’t very good. The river looked like an oily old fat snake with a bad case of the pox, and that’s what I told him when he got all shirty with me too,” she said indignantly. “But the second painter was a bit more useful.”

“He knew Irene?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“No, but he knew where I might find out something. He sent me along to a cafe in Soho. I had some really good luck there. The first person I spoke to was able to tell me something. Seems Irene’s quite well known as a model. Anyway, Harriet—she’s the woman who works the counter at the cafe—told me that Gaspar Morante had been in a few weeks earlier. He had some sketches with
him which he was showing to another artist. Harriet couldn’t remember exactly what the sketches were, but they had a woman in them. Harriet picks up a bit of money every now and then posing, so she asked Morante if he was going to do a painting of the picture he’d sketched and if he was, did he need a model.” She leaned forward eagerly. “And you’ll never guess what Morante told her. He said he was going to use the model that had posed for the sketches.”

“I take it the model was Irene Simmons,” Hatchet finished.

Betsy nodded. “Right.”

“Gaspar Morante. Sounds like a foreigner,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Probably one of them dark, swarthy types that are up to no good. Where have I heard that name before?”

“He’s the one that give Irene her first job,” Betsy replied eagerly. “And that’s what’s important. According to Harriet, Morante would probably know everyone who’d ever hired Irene.” She paused to take a breath and realized that the others at the table were gazing at her blankly. “Don’t you understand? Morante might have some idea of who wrote her the note.”

“Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “The note luring Irene to the Grant house was probably quite bogus. We’ve no idea why it was written. It might not have anything to do with an artist…” She faltered as she realized the maid’s reasoning might be right on the mark. Whoever wrote that note knew that Irene was a model. That might be common knowledge at a cafe in Soho, but it probably wasn’t information that was known outside of a rather small circle. Irene Simmons didn’t advertise herself as a model. She obtained work through word-of-mouth. Besides, Betsy
needed to be encouraged, not discouraged. She and Hatchet didn’t have all that much to work with in the way of clues. This idea, weak that it might be, was certainly better than nothing. “On the other hand, you’re probably on to something here. Whoever wrote Irene that note knew she was available for work.”

“That’s what I thought,” Betsy agreed. “I know it’s not much. This man might not have seen Irene in weeks and probably won’t know anything about her at all. But unless Hatchet’s come up with some more ideas, it’s all I’ve got.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Hatchet admitted.

“So what are you going to do now?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Track down this Spaniard?”

“Morante’s got a studio in Soho,” Betsy replied. “It’s right near the cafe. I’ll go there right after we finish up here.”

“By yourself?” Smythe blurted out before he could stop himself.

Betsy rolled her eyes. “It’ll be broad daylight. I’ll be just fine. Now stop interrupting or we’ll be here all morning. I’m not the only one who’s got something to report. Mrs. Jeffries has been to see Nanette. I want to hear what she found out.” She pretended to be more annoyed than she really was. She loved her independence, but she also liked knowing that there were people who cared about her.

“Would you like me to come with you to the man’s studio?” Hatchet offered.

Luty snickered. “What’s the matter, Hatchet, you worried that Betsy’s gittin’ the jump on ya?”

“Don’t be absurd, madam.” Hatchet sniffed. “That would be childish.”

Betsy thought about it for a moment. If she said yes,
then she’d be admitting that going out in the middle of the afternoon was too dangerous for a woman to handle on her own. That could cause lots of future problems with a certain overly protective male of her acquaintance. On the other hand, she hadn’t liked the way some of the men at the cafe had looked at her this morning. “No, that’s all right. I’ll take care to be cautious. I always do. But thank you for offering.”

“That’s quite all right.” Hatchet inclined his head formally. “However, do let me know if you need my assistance. I’m well aware that there are some parts of this city where it isn’t safe for a young woman to be alone, even in broad daylight.”

“Did you find out anything else?” Luty asked.

“Not really.” Betsy covered her mouth as she stifled a yawn.

“I think you’ve done quite well.” Mrs. Jeffries reached for the teapot. “As Betsy mentioned, I went along to see Nanette Lanier this morning.”

“Is her shop nice, then?” Wiggins asked eagerly. He didn’t give a fig about women’s hats, but he did want to know everything he could about the lovely Frenchwoman.

“Very.” With a wry smile, Mrs. Jeffries picked up her cup and took a dainty sip. “I’d rather expected a more modest establishment.”

Mrs. Goodge, noting the half-smile on the housekeeper’s lips, eyed her speculatively. “Just how posh is this shop?”

“Let me put it this way, if I may,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “The cost of one pair of evening gloves would be enough to provide you or I with clothing for the entire year. Nanette wasn’t jesting when she told us she had the latest hat
styles directly from Paris. She does. With French prices too, I might add.”

“Cor blimey,” Smythe exclaimed. “’Ow in a month of bloomin’ Sundays did a maid get the capital to open a fancy place like that? She must be rich as sin.”

“She’s not rich,” Mrs. Jeffries remarked.

“Doesn’t the shop do well?” Hatchet asked.

“Very. If it weren’t for one minor detail, I suspect Nanette would be making a handsome living from the place. As it is, she can barely make ends meet.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled grimly. “Despite the success of her business, Nanette Lanier’s financial position is quite precarious. You see, she’s being blackmailed.”

“Blackmailed!” Luty echoed eagerly. “By who?”

“James Underhill.”

Smythe whistled softly. Betsy’s pretty mouth parted in surprise, Wiggins’s eyes widened to the size of treacle tarts and even Hatchet was taken aback.

The only one who didn’t appear shocked was Luty. “I ain’t surprised,” she commented. “Never did much believe in coincidences. I figured Underhill dyin’ and Irene Simmons disappearin’ had to be all muddled up together somehow or other.”

“How very astute of you, madam,” Hatchet said sarcastically. “Unfortunately, the rest of us aren’t nearly as perceptive as yourself, so if you don’t mind, can we let Mrs. Jeffries go on with her report?”

Luty, to her credit, didn’t respond to her butler’s sarcasm, though she did snicker a little as soon as he’d turned his attention back to the housekeeper.

“Now, as I was saying,” Mrs. Jeffries continued briskly, “Underhill was blackmailing Nanette.”

“Why didn’t Nanette tell us?” Betsy asked, feeling horribly
confused. Pity, really, she had a lot of plans of her own for doing some discreet digging about both the murder and Irene.

“Because she didn’t think her problem of being blackmailed by Underhill had anything to do with Irene’s disappearance,” Mrs. Jeffries explained.

“Did Underhill know Irene?” Wiggins asked.

“Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, Underhill got Irene her first modeling position.”

“But Nanette told us that Irene got started ’cause Gaspar Morante ’ad walked in and seen ’er behind the counter.” Smythe raised an eyebrow. “She’s changin’ ’er story now?”

“Morante was the artist,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But he didn’t walk into the shop. As far as Nanette knows, he’s never been in. It was Underhill who got Irene the work. He spotted the girl when he went to collect his money from Nanette.”

“Why didn’t she tell us the truth right from the start?” Wiggins complained. “All this lyin’ is gettin’ me confused.”

“It is annoying,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “But I think you’ll understand when you hear the rest.”

Inspector Witherspoon didn’t like to be unkind, but Arthur Grant reminded him a bit of a nervous rabbit. The fellow couldn’t seem to sit still for more than two seconds. His behaviour was in marked contrast to his stepmother’s.

Regal as a queen, Mary Grant sat on the settee next to her sister. She hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash when the inspector had told them that their late guest had been poisoned. Her expression had softened momentarily at Helen’s involuntary gasp upon hearing the news. But after a
quick, sympathetic glance at her sister, she’d turned back to stare at the inspector and Barnes, her expresssion calm and composed. “How very unfortunate,” she murmured. “What kind of poison was it?”

Witherspoon hesitated. There was no reason not to tell them. All three of them had witnessed the victim’s death. They’d seen how fast he’d died. As there were very few poisons that acted that quickly, there was no point in trying to keep it a secret. “Cyanide.”

“I don’t see why you’ve come back.” Arthur whined and chewed on his lower lip. “We told you everything last night.”

“I’m sure you did, sir,” Witherspoon said patiently, “but at the time, we didn’t know Mr. Underhill was a victim of foul play.”

“Are you sure you’re not mistaken?” Mary Grant asked.

“I assure you, madam,” Witherspoon said. “The postmortem was quite thorough. Cyanide is not difficult to detect.”

“I don’t doubt that, Inspector,” she replied. “What I meant was, are you sure it was foul play? Underhill could just as well have committed suicide as been murdered.”

“James would never have taken his own life.” Helen sobbed. “He had too much to live for. We were going to announce our engagement.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Helen,” Mary chided her sister, gentling her expression a fraction. “Your engagement was hardly official. I don’t think you ought to be telling all and sundry you were his fiancée. It doesn’t look very nice, especially as he had the bad taste to die in our drawing room during high tea.”

“You don’t understand. I loved him.” Helen shoved a
handkerchief over her mouth. “And he loved me.”

Witherspoon looked at Barnes, hoping the constable could give him some clue as to what to do next. A woman crying always made him feel he ought to help in some way. But Barnes appeared unperturbed and merely continued scribbling in his little brown notebook.