12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (11 page)

Mary sighed patiently, the way one did when dealing with a foolish child who refused to believe that three pieces of cake would make one ill. “I’m sure it’s nice for you to think he was in love with you,” she said. “But dearest, do be sensible. You didn’t really know him all that well. The poor man might have been upset or depressed about any number of things.”

“I’ve known him since before Papa died,” Helen cried. “So I think I would know whether or not he was depressed, and he wasn’t. He was happy.”

Mary’s anguish for her sister was reflected on her face. “Please, Helen, don’t upset yourself…”

“Upset myself! Don’t be absurd. My fiancé is dead. Of course I’m upset. Anyone would be. Anyone except you, and that’s because you’ve no feelings,” Helen flung at her sister. “None at all. James and I were going to be married. He told me so right before he died.” With that, she leapt to her feet and ran from the room.

Mary Grant sighed and turned her attention back to the police. “You’ll have to forgive Miss Collier,” she said formally. “She’s not herself today. Now, sir, will you please answer my question? Helen’s hysterics aside, isn’t it possible that Mr. Underhill chose to take his own life?”

The police had considered and rejected the idea of suicide.

“It’s a bad way to go, ma’am,” Barnes supplied. “If he wanted to kill himself, he’d have likely chosen an easier
way of doing it.” The constable could think of a half dozen better ways of dying other than choking your life out with cyanide.

“I see.” Mary swallowed heavily. “All right, Inspector, perhaps you’d better get on with this. Ask your questions.”

“Er, if you don’t mind,” Witherspoon ventured, “I’d quite like to speak to young Mr. Grant first.”

Confused, Mary stared at him, then smiled slightly as she realized precisely what he meant. “Oh, I understand. You want to question him alone.”

“That’s right.” Witherspoon was too much of a gentleman to ask her to leave. “Is there another room we can use? Perhaps your husband’s study?”

She got to her feet and started for the door. “That won’t be necessary. You can speak to him here.” With that, she nodded and swept out of the room, slamming the door ever so slightly as she left.

Witherspoon turned his attention to the young man, searching for just the right words to calm the fellow so he could get some answers out of him.

But apparently, Arthur had gotten over his nervousness.

He was grinning from ear to ear. “You got the old girl ruffled.” He chuckled.

“Ruffled? I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

“She tried to hide it, but she was as angry as a scalded cat.” Arthur snickered. “She didn’t like being asked to leave. Hurt her pride, that did.”

“I assure you, that wasn’t my intention, sir.” Gracious, the inspector thought, was everyone in this household peculiar? “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with. How long have you known James Underhill?”

The mention of the dead man wiped the grin off Arthur’s
thin face. “A good number of years. I don’t know exactly.” He began drumming his fingers against the sides of his thighs.

“How did you meet him, then?”

“I didn’t,” Arthur sputtered. “I mean, he’s the sort of person who’s always been about the place.”

“I’m sorry,” the inspector pressed. “But I don’t understand.”

“He was a friend of the family,” Arthur said quickly. “He’s been around for ages. Absolutely ages.”

“But I got the distinct impression from your mother…”

“Stepmother,” Arthur corrected, interrupting. “She’s my stepmother.”

Witherspoon raised a placating hand. “All right, your stepmother—that Mr. Underhill was merely a business acquaintance.”

“He is,” Arthur explained worriedly. “I mean, he was. Oh, dash it all, I’m not explaining it very well.”

The inspector agreed. The young man was explaining nothing.

“But you see,” Arthur began, “this is deucedly awkward. He’s from quite a good family. But they’ve no money, not anymore. So James had to resort to actually earning his living. Quite awful for him, really.”

Witherspoon closed his eyes briefly. “I’m sorry, sir. But what does Mr. Underhill having had to earn a living have to do with how long you’d known the poor man?”

“But I’m telling you,” Arthur exclaimed. “That’s how we knew him. He’s sort of an art dealer. My stepmother first met him a number of years ago. He helped her sell off some very valuable paintings that had been in her family for years. When she married Papa, she recommended
he use Underhill to act as a broker when he bought or sold. Papa does dearly love his collection.”

“So Mr. Underhill was more an employee of the family rather than a friend?”

Arthur shook his head. “No…well…but as I said, it was quite awkward sometimes. I mean, before they lost all their money, his family was quite well connected. Quite well off as well.” He sighed. “Poor old James was the last of them and now he’s dead too.”

“Was he here as a friend or an art advisor?” Witherspoon asked. He’d no idea why he thought that point worth clarifying, but he did.

“Yesterday he was here as my guest,” Arthur admitted.

“So he is a friend of yours, then?”

“Well, yes, you could say that.” Arthur clasped his hands together in his lap. “But we weren’t particularly close friends.”

“Then why did you invite him for tea?” Barnes asked dryly.

Arthur hesitated a moment before answering. “He asked me to.”

“He asked to be invited?” Witherspoon wanted to make sure he understood correctly. This young man was a bit muddled in his answers. In his thinking, as well.

“Oh, yes,” Arthur said brightly. “He waylaid me at my club yesterday morning and specifically asked me to invite him to tea.”

Witherspoon stared at him speculatively. “Did he tell you why? Did he give you a reason?”

Arthur shrugged. “Not especially.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “But just between you and me, sir, I think he wanted to see Mrs. Modean. He was quite taken with her.”

Betsy quietly opened the back door and slipped out. She glanced around her, making sure that one of the others wasn’t lurking about on the small, square back terrace or in the communal gardens directly ahead of her. Satisfied that she was unobserved, she scurried to the side of the house, crept along the walk and out the gate leading to the street. She wasn’t being secretive, just cautious. She wouldn’t put it past Smythe to try to come with her. Or failing that, she wouldn’t put it past the man to put Wiggins up to trailing her. Betsy didn’t want or need either of them dogging her heels. She could handle this on her own.

Coming out onto the pavement, she cast one fast look over her shoulder and hurried down the street. She patted the pocket of her short gray wool jacket, making sure she had money enough for a hansom cab if her business kept her out after dark. Reassured by the hefty weight of the coins, she smiled and picked up her step. She had a plan. A plan to find out precisely what had happened to Irene Simmons. Perhaps, she thought, as she hurried to the omnibus stop, she’d find out who murdered James Underhill while she was at it.

Smythe stood in the kitchen and scowled. “What do ya mean, ya don’t know where she’s gone?”

Wiggins, who was pulling on his boots, shrugged. “But I don’t,” he said. “After we finished our meetin’ I nipped upstairs to get me jacket and when I come down again, everyone was gone.”

“I’m still here,” Mrs. Goodge said as she came out of the cooling pantry carrying a bag of flour. “And I’ll thank you two to get on your way. The grocer’s lad should be here any time now and I want to find out if he knows
anything. After that I’ve got a costermonger and the rag and bones man stopping in.”

“Have you seen Betsy?” Smythe asked as he and Wiggins edged toward the back hall. “She didn’t say she was goin’ out so soon, and I was wantin’ to make sure she didn’t nip off to Soho on ’er own.”

Mrs. Goodge allowed a soft smile to play about her lips for a moment. The man was crazy in love with the girl, that was certain. Betsy, whether she’d admit it or not, was just as balmy about him. Too bad the two of them were so pigheaded and stubborn about it. Sometimes Mrs. Goodge felt like giving them both a good cuff around the ears. For every step forward they took, they went two steps back. Love really was wasted on the young. “Don’t fret, Smythe. Soho’s not the black pit of sin. She’ll be fine. Betsy’s got a good head on her shoulders. Go on, now, out with the two of you. We’ve a murder to solve, and my sources will be here any minute. They’ll not talk much with you lot hangin’ about. Off with you.”

Smythe, knowing when he was beaten, scowled and headed for the back door. “When Betsy gets ’ome,” he called over his shoulder to the cook, “ask her to stay put, will ya? I’d like to ask ’er somethin’.”

“Are you goin’ to ask ’er to the Crystal Palace?” Wiggins asked excitedly. “I ’eard it’s the last week for the Photographic Exhibition. I bet she’d love to go. I sure would,” he hinted. “There’s a diorama and a military band and…and…”

“Yes, I’m goin’ to ask ’er.” Smythe grunted irritably as he stepped out the back door. Blast, he didn’t like the idea of her going to some studio in Soho. Annoyed that she’d slipped out before he could talk to her, he was also wracked with guilt. He’d planned on taking Betsy to the
Palace alone. But he knew how badly Wiggins wanted to go. The lad had talked about the exhibition for days now. Only the boy probably hadn’t the money to go before it closed. Wiggins put a good portion of his wages in his post office savings account. Mrs. Jeffries had seen to that, and it was a good thing too. Money slipped through the footman’s fingers like water. Smythe was torn. He wanted an evening or an afternoon alone with Betsy, but if he didn’t take Wiggins, the boy wouldn’t get to go. Blast, Smythe thought as he stomped toward the gate at the side of the house, what good did it do him being rich as sin if he couldn’t help his friends? “Why don’t ya come with us?”

“Ya mean it?” Wiggins yelped, his face bright with pleasure. “But I really shouldn’t…it’ll cost…”

“Don’t worry about the cost, lad,” Smythe said brusquely as he opened the gate. “I’ve had a good turn or two at the races lately. It’ll be on me. Now, where ya off to?”

Wiggins grinned. “I’m goin’ back to the Grant house to see if I can find one of them ’ousemaids. The red-haired one was right nice lookin’. ’Ow about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’ll try the pubs and the cabbies in the area,” he lied. “See what I can pick up. What time are we meetin’ back ’ere?”

“Mrs. Jeffries said right after supper,” Wiggins replied. “Luty and Hatchet are supposed to be here too.”

They swung around a corner. Smythe started to cross the road. He stopped when Wiggins called to him. “I thought you said you was goin’ to the pubs?”

Smythe jerked his chin toward the hansoms lined up on the other side of the busy intersection. “I’m just goin’ to
’ave a quick word over there,” he replied. “I’ll see you back at ’ome tonight.”

Wiggins waved and continued on his way, his mind already on the red-haired housemaid.

Smythe waited till the footman was well up the road before crossing over to one of the hansom cabs. “Do ya know a pub called The Dirty Duck?” he asked the cabbie.

The driver laughed and looked Smythe up and down. “Reckon I do, mate. But it’ll cost a bit. It’s over by the docks.”

“That’s all right.” Smythe swung himself inside. “I know where it is. But if ya can get me there quick, there’ll be an extra bob or two for yer pocket.”