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

Mary Grant regarded the two policemen calmly. If, as her stepson claimed, she’d been “ruffled,” the inspector thought, there was certainly no sign of it now.

“Mrs. Grant,” he began, “I’d like to ask you a bit about your relationship with Mr. Underhill. I understand from your son…”

“My stepson,” she corrected. “He’s Neville’s son, not mine. As to my relationship with James Underhill…” She shrugged. “It was purely business.”

“Business? But young Mr. Grant claims Underhill had known you and your sister since before you were married to Mr. Neville Grant.”

“That’s correct,” Mary replied. “But it was still basically a business relationship. He helped dispose of my father’s art collection when he died.”

“Yet he was an invited guest in your house,” Witherspoon reminded her.

“Only because Arthur asked me to invite him,” she replied. “In any case, it wasn’t really a social occasion.
The Modeans were only here for business reasons. They’re hardly the sort of people I would consider friends.”

“But I was under the impression”—the inspector cleared his throat—“that Mr. Underhill was your sister’s fiancé.”

Mary Grant smiled grimly. “This is rather awkward, Inspector. I’m not in the habit of discussing personal business with the police, but given the conversation you’ve already witnessed between Helen and I, I suppose I’ve no choice but to explain.”

The Inspector wished someone would. His interview with Arthur Grant hadn’t made much sense either.

“James Underhill was not Helen’s fiancé,” Mary said bluntly. “She would like to think they were engaged, but I assure you, they were not.”

“How can you be so sure?” Barnes asked softly. He flipped back through the pages of his notebook. “Miss Collier clearly stated that Mr. Underhill and she had discussed the matter of marriage when they were out in the garden yesterday afternoon. And that she’d agreed to wed the man.”

She sighed dramatically. “I don’t doubt that she said just that. She may actually believe it happened. But the truth is, James hardly spoke to her when we were out in the gardens. Oh, they may have vaguely discussed marriage. James may have even dropped a hint or two about it yesterday afternoon. But an official engagement? No. As I said, our relationship with the man was one of business.”

“What about Miss Collier’s relationship?” the inspector pressed. She’d been most adamant on the subject, although not particularly coherent. She had been very difficult to question. She’d kept dissolving into tears. Still, the one
thing they had managed to get out of her was that she and James Underhill had decided to marry. Yesterday afternoon. Right before Underhill was murdered. The inspector had rather admired the way she’d popped into the drawing room as soon as they’d finished questioning Arthur. Red faced and teary eyed, she’d demanded they listen to her.

“Relationship?” Mary smiled sadly. “The only relationship Helen had with James Underhill was in her imagination. My sister makes her home with us. But she comes and goes as she pleases. I don’t particularly know how or why she developed this affection for Mr. Underhill, but I assure you, it wasn’t mutual. He wouldn’t have proposed to her. Not under any circumstances.”

Witherspoon thought that a rather harsh assessment. Miss Collier was past the first blush of youth, but that didn’t mean she was unmarriageable. “Why ever not?”

“Because she’s no money,” Mary replied bluntly. “No dowry, no property, nothing but a small yearly income which wouldn’t be enough to keep her if she didn’t live with Neville and I.”

“Perhaps Mr. Underhill planned to support her,” Barnes suggested dryly.

Mary stared at him a moment and then laughed. “James Underhill loved only one thing in this world, Constable, and it wasn’t my sister. It was art. He’d never have married a virtually penniless woman, even if he was in love with her. James was like one of those dreadfully pathetic opium eaters. Only instead of opium, his need was for beauty.”

“Not money?” Witherspoon queried.

“Money was only useful to him as a means of acquiring art,” she replied.

“Does he have an extensive art collection?”

“Not really.” She shrugged. “He couldn’t afford any truly valuable paintings, but he fancied himself talented at spotting undiscovered genius in others. James was always picking up pieces here and there on the cheap. His collection is quite extensive in size, but nonetheless quite worthless in value, I assure you.”

Witherspoon made a mental note to have a look at Underhill’s collection himself. “You’ve stated your relationship with Mr. Underhill was strictly business, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Did you acquiesce to your stepson’s request to invite Mr. Underhill to tea because of the pending sale to Mr. Modean?” Witherspoon asked.

“When Arthur asked if he could invite James to tea, I thought it a good idea to have him come. James knows much about what a piece is really worth. Actually, I wanted Neville to have a chat with James before he sold the paintings,” Mary explained. “I wasn’t sure the American was going to pay what they were really worth. My husband is a bit naive when it comes to art.”

Witherspoon tried to hide his surprise. Neville Grant didn’t look in the least naive about anything. “Did your husband talk with Mr. Underhill?”

“No,” Mary admitted with a sad smile. “There wasn’t time. James was late. By the time he arrived, my husband and Mr. Modean had already come to an arrangement.”

“You mean that Mr. Modean now owns the paintings?” Witherspoon asked.

“I’m not sure.” She stiffened slightly. “Neville refused to discuss it with me.”

The inspector didn’t know what to ask next. He was getting very muddled, very muddled indeed. But, mindful of his housekeeper’s always sound advice, he trusted his
“inner voice” and pressed on, asking any question that popped into his head. “Do you know if Mr. Underhill had any enemies?”

“Enemies?” Mary looked amused by the question. “I dare say, sir, he probably had many of them. He wasn’t a particularly charming man. I don’t think Mrs. Modean liked him all that much, and I’m quite certain her husband had no use for him. He virtually snubbed him yesterday afternoon.”

“Did you know that James Underhill was in the habit of eating peppermints?” Witherspoon asked.

“Everyone knew it, Inspector. He was continually popping those wretched things in his mouth. He never offered them to others, either.”

“Did he eat any when you were out in the garden before tea?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, her expression thoughtful as she cast her mind back. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t know. Frankly, I was too busy being a proper hostess to Mr. and Mrs. Modean to pay much attention to James.”

“If you weren’t watchin’ him, ma’am,” Barnes asked softly, “how can you be so certain he didn’t become engaged to your sister?”

She cast the constable a glance that would wither apples. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question, Mrs. Grant,” the inspector said defensively.

“It’s not at all reasonable,” she argued. “I wasn’t paying much attention to him, but Helen was sitting right next to Mrs. Modean and I most assuredly was paying attention to her. The woman was my guest.”

“Couldn’t Miss Collier and Mr. Underhill have slipped off for a few moments without your realizing it?” Witherspoon persisted. He’d no idea why he was pressing this
particular point so hard, but for some odd reason, he was compelled to find out if Helen Collier’s engagement was a figment of her imagination or a reality. It might have some connection to why someone had killed Underhill.

“I suppose so, Inspector,” she admitted, “but I don’t think it’s likely.”

“But you don’t know for sure that it’s impossible,” he pressed.

“Of course not, Inspector. As I said, Helen is a grown woman, not a two year old. I don’t watch her every moment of the day. However, my sister came out to the gardens a few moments after I’d taken Mrs. Modean out there to enjoy the sunshine. That was about five past four in the afternoon. James Underhill arrived with Arthur a few minutes after that. As far as I recall, Helen didn’t get up from her chair until we came into the house for tea. So unless she and James discussed and agreed to marry in the few moments between my escorting Mrs. Modean out of the drawing room and Helen’s arrival out in the garden, I don’t see how this proposal could have taken place.”

“But Miss Collier says she came inside before the rest of you,” Witherspoon said. “She had a headache. She also said that Underhill escorted her to the bottom of the front staircase and that it was during this time that they finished making their plans to marry.”

Despite the directions she’d been given at the cafe, it took Betsy half the afternoon to find what she hoped was the right street. Morante, apparently, didn’t much care that none of his friends appeared to know his exact address.

Taking a deep breath, Betsy stepped off the pavement and onto busy Dean Street. Nimbly dodging a whitechapel cart, she ignored the shouts of the driver and plunged straight toward the entrance to the alley. Gaining the other side, she stopped and peered down the narrow, dark lane. A shiver climbed her spine as she read the small sign attached to the side of the building. Adders Row. Shaking her head, she wondered why an artist, someone who captured beauty, would have a studio in such an ugly, mean-looking place. She supposed it must be because it was cheaper to live here than in most other places in the city.

She headed in, her gaze darting quickly along the row of tiny, derelict houses looking for the one with the “henna-colored window sills.” The fellow at the cafe, the one who’d given her the directions to Morante’s studio,
hadn’t had a proper house number. Betsy only hoped sending her along to this nasty little street wasn’t his bohemian idea of a good joke. He’d gotten a lot less friendly when she’d told him flat out she wasn’t interested in posing for him.

But then she saw the house. It was halfway down the alley, propped against its neighbor like a drunken sailor. The once-white paint was a dull gray, the brickwork along the tiny footpath leading to the front door was crumbling and the windows were covered with a thick layer of grime.

Except the ones on the top floor. Betsy noticed they were sparkling clean. And they had bright henna-colored sills. Taking another fortifying breath, Betsy went up the walk, made a fist and banged on the door.

Nothing.

She pounded again and then plastered her ear to the wood listening for the sound of movement.

“He’s gone, dearie.”

Startled, Betsy leapt back so fast she stumbled, righted herself and then whirled around to see who’d spoken. Shocked, she gasped and was instantly ashamed of herself. A woman, practically bald, old and pink-eyed like an albino, stood grinning at her. She was bent almost to her waist from age. One gnarled hand clasped a heavy walking stick. “Scared ya, did I? There’s no use yer knockin’ anymore. He’s gone.”

“Who?” Betsy asked. She knew who she’d been seeking, but she’d found in the past that pretending to be a bit stupid frequently got a lot of information out of people.

“Whoever it is yer lookin’ for,” the woman cackled. She moved her stick forward a few inches and followed that action with a tiny step.

“What makes you think I’m lookin’ for anyone? Maybe I was just lost,” Betsy said.

The old woman shook her head, dislodging the motley shawl from her shoulders and sending it skittering onto the dirty cobblestones. “If ya was lost you’da stayed out there”—she pointed toward Dean Street—“and asked one of them peelers for directions. He not pay ya, then? You wouldn’t be the first to come round lookin’ for what she’s owed and I don’t reckon you’ll be the last.”

Betsy decided to try another tactic. “That’s right.” She deliberately shifted her accent back to the one she’d been born with, the one she’d worked so hard to lose. “’E’s not paid me a bloomin’ bob and I’m tired of waitin’ for ’im. You know where ’e’s gone?” She jerked her head at the house and put her hands on her hips.

The woman cocked her head to one side and examined Betsy speculatively, her gaze taking in the clean wool jacket and neat broadcloth dress. “Come here.” She motioned her toward her, keeping her gaze lowered to Betsy’s feet as she walked over to the old woman. “Don’t look to me like you’re hurtin’,” the woman mumbled. “Them shoes cost a pretty bob or two.”

Unable to stop herself, Betsy glanced at the woman’s feet. She grimaced in disgust. They’d once been a sturdy pair of proper black walking shoes. But now they were old, scruffed and badly cracked. The sole of the right shoe was tied with a piece of dirty string to keep it attached to a cracked leather upper. She bit her lip, wondering how much money she had with her. Too bad she hadn’t taken the time to count it properly. Instead she’d just snatched it out of her top drawer in her hurry to get out of the house unnoticed. She silently debated with herself for a moment
and then glanced up at the afternoon sky. The day was gray and overcast, though it was still mid-afternoon; the dark would come quickly. Now though, it was still light and Betsy needed information. She wasn’t
that
far from home. She could always take an omnibus. “I’m not ’urtin’,” she said, “but I want what’s mine. I worked for it.” She smiled slyly at the old woman. “I tell ya what, ya look like ya could use a bit o’ coin. If ya tell me where ’e’s gone, I’ll make it worth yer time.”