12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (15 page)

But it had been worth it. Betsy flinched as her stockinged feet hit a rough spot on the uneven pavement. These stockings would never be the same, that was for sure. But the loss of a pair of shoes and stockings was nothing compared to what she’d gained.

Betsy nodded at a maid sweeping the front door stoop of a house she hurried past. She hunkered down slightly, hoping the girl wouldn’t notice her feet. The less said about it the better. There were some, she thought, that would get right nasty about what she’d done. One in particular who would have a fit if he knew she’d been traipsing about London like this. She quickened her pace, glad the day was overcast and that there weren’t many people out. Luckily, her dress was on the longish side, so she reckoned she could make it into the house and up to her room without running into any of her friends.

Betsy breathed a sigh of relief as she turned the corner and saw that the road leading to the inspector’s house was clear. “Ow,” she yelped as a sharp pain lanced straight into her right heel. She yanked her foot up, which caused her to lurch to one side. “Ow, ow, ow,” she mumbled, trying to regain her balance without actually having to put her foot back down. She managed to steady herself by grabbing onto the wrought iron fence of the house a few doors down from the inspector’s. Leaning over, she dug a pebble out of her flesh, gave it a good glare and tossed it onto the road.

“Betsy? What’s goin’ on ’ere?”

The familiar voice rattled her to the quick. Betsy whirled around, forgetting that one of her feet was still a good two inches off the ground. She stumbled heavily to one side. Smythe lunged for her, catching her before she completely crumbled.

“Bloomin’ Ada,” he cried, “what’s ’appened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She struggled to regain her footing, but he kept a tight grip on her waist.

“Ya don’t look fine,” he accused, frightened that she was ill. He examined her closely, his gaze starting at the top of her head and moving slowly down her slender figure. “Cor blimey,” he yelled, “where in the ruddy blue blazes is yer shoe?”

Betsy tried to think of how to answer. “Well, it’s a bit complicated.”

He reached over and tugged the hem of her dress up. “Where’s the other one? Betsy, you’ve no shoes on!”

“Yes, I know that,” she replied.

“What in the blazes is ya doin’ out ’ere without yer shoes?” he demanded. “It’s not the dead of winter, but it
ain’t ’igh summer either. Now you just wait ’ere and I’ll nip along to the ’ouse and fetch ’em for ya.”

“They’re not in the house,” she admitted.

He studied her for a moment and then his eyes narrowed. “Then where are they?”

“Well…” She hesitated. “If you really must know, they’re in Soho. I gave them to an old lady in exchange for information.”

“Would you care for a glass of sherry before dinner, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked the inspector as soon as he’d taken off his coat and hat. “Mrs. Goodge said it’ll be a few minutes yet.”

She wanted to find out what he’d learned before he sat down to eat. Sometimes, she’d noticed, he tended to get a bit drowsy on a full stomach.

“A lovely idea,” he said, heading for the drawing room. He plopped down in his favorite chair while Mrs. Jeffries poured them both a glass of Harveys. The custom of sharing a glass of sherry with his housekeeper helped him to relax after a day’s work. From the inspector’s point of view, it was absolutely necessary. Talking about the case did so help him to clarify matters in his own mind. Sometimes he wondered how he’d actually solved so many murders, but as Mrs. Jeffries frequently pointed out when he began to doubt his abilities, he’d been born with an “instinct” or “inner voice” when it came to catching
murderers. But inner voice or not, it really did help to have someone to talk with.

“How did your investigation go today?” she asked cheerfully.

“Very well,” he allowed. Then he admitted, “Actually, I don’t know if I learned anything important or not. As you know, this early in an investigation I tend to get a bit muddled, but I’m sure I’ll make sense of it eventually.”

“You always do, sir,” she assured him. Gracious, she was going to have to dig it out of him tonight. “Did you go back to the Grant house?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, taking a quick sip. “I got full statements from everyone, even the servants. Mind you, Mr. and Mrs. Modean weren’t there.” He frowned. “They weren’t at the hotel either, but Constable Barnes and I shall have another go at seeing them tomorrow morning. We intend to get there quite early, before they go out for the day.”

“They haven’t left the hotel?” she asked.

“No, no. We’ve a man on duty there. The manager would let us know if they’d tried to check out. They were merely out when I went there, that’s all.”

“Do you expect them to be able to shed any light on this matter?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “On the surface it would appear that they simply had the misfortune to be in the wrong drawing room at the wrong time. But after what I found out today, I’m not so sure that’s the case.

“Indeed? I take it, then, you were able to learn something useful, sir?”

“I do think so, Mrs. Jeffries.” He put his glass down on the table next to him and, leaning forward slightly, told
her every little detail about the interviews with everyone from the Grant household.

Mrs. Jeffries was a skillful listener. It was one of her greatest talents. She never interrupted and never asked questions before he’d finished speaking. By the time he’d completed his narrative, her own mental list of questions was at the ready. She fired her first shot. “So the tin was out in the garden for at least ten minutes,” she said. “Anyone could have tampered with it.”

“True.” He pursed his lips. “But I’m not so sure it would be as easy as it sounds. According to the kitchen staff, none of the guests went back to the garden after they’d all come inside.”

“Meaning that none of them would have had the opportunity to poison the mints,” she said slowly. “But surely there’s more than one way out to the garden.”

“There is a side door,” he acknowledged, “but it was locked tight and no one seems to know where the key is.”

Her mind whirled at the possibilities. “I see,” she replied thoughtfully. “Is it your opinion, then, that the mints were tampered with while they were still in Mr. Underhill’s possession?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think someone waited till he’d set them on the table and then added the poison, or was the deed done some other way?” she suggested. “Perhaps the tin was switched when the victim wasn’t aware of it?”

Witherspoon pondered the idea for a moment and sighed. “Frankly, Mrs. Jeffries, I don’t know. I suppose it could have happened either way. We simply don’t have enough information yet. The servants insist none of the guests went back out to the garden and the side door was locked.”

“Which means that for someone to have tampered with the mints while they were outside, the staff would have had to be lying or not noticed one of the guests going out. Or, the killer would have had a key to the side door.”

“That’s right.” Witherspoon took another sip of sherry. “And I don’t think the servants are lying. Why should they? They’ve nothing to gain by keeping quiet. The staff was preparing a high tea, Mrs. Jeffries. There were half a dozen of them working. Scullery maids, a cook, the butler, a footman. I simply can’t believe all of them would lie about whether or not one of the guests had trotted back out to the garden.”

“What about the key, sir?” she pressed.

“There isn’t one,” he said. “I mean, there was one, but apparently, it’s been lost for years.”

She got up and reached for his empty glass. “Another one, sir?” At his nod, she walked slowly to the sideboard and the bottle of sherry. “Did you have a look at the lock, sir?”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Jeffries. It’s old and rusty looking. I don’t believe that door has been opened in years.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid this case is going to be quite complex. Quite complex, indeed.”

“They always are, sir.” She smiled reassuringly. “And you always solve them.”

Luty and Hatchet arrived just as they finished cleaning up the kitchen. Betsy put the last of the supper dishes in the cupboard, dusted her hands off and, ignoring Smythe’s glinty-eyed look of disapproval, took her usual place with the others at the kitchen table. Obviously, he was still upset over their argument earlier that afternoon. To put it mildly, they’d had words.

“I’m so glad you and Luty got here early,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We’ve a lot to talk about this evening.”

“Good thing I had the kettle on the boil,” Mrs. Goodge said, setting the brown teapot down and then taking her own seat. “We’ll need a cuppa or two by the time we’re all done here. I’ve got a might lot to say tonight.”

“What did you git out of the inspector?” Luty asked eagerly.

“Quite a bit.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “But I think before I tell you what he found out, we ought to see what everyone else has learned.”

“’Ow come?” Wiggins demanded. “Usually we ’ear the inspector’s bits first.” He wasn’t all that keen to report on the day’s activities. He’d not learned a blooming thing.

“Actually, the inspector’s made rather good progress,” she announced. “Who wants to go first?”

“I didn’t hear much today,” Smythe said. “But I’ve got me feelers out and I should ’ave somethin’ tomorrow.”

“I found out that Neville Grant’s not near as rich as you’d think,” Luty said proudly. “That’s why he’s sellin’ his paintings to Tyrell Modean. He needs the cash.”

“How badly?” Smythe inquired.

“Bad enough to sell them Caldararos,” Luty replied seriously. “And he loves them more than just about anythin’. He wanted ’em bad enough to marry just so’s he could git his hands on ’em.”

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Mrs. Goodge put in. “That’s what I found out today as well. That’s the only reason he married the poor woman. She owned those paintings and he wanted them. They were her dowry.”

“Why’d she want to marry ’im?” Wiggins asked. “’E’s old as the hills and not very nice.”

“Because she was sick and tired of bein’ an old maid,” Mrs. Goodge said bluntly. “She and her sister spent most of their life taking care of their father. About ten years ago, old Mr. Collier finally died. But the estate they lived on was entailed so it went to some distant cousin. All Mary and Helen got was their father’s art collection. Helen put hers in a bank vault. Mary gave hers to Neville Grant in return for a proposal of marriage.”

“Cor blimey, that’s right cold-blooded.” Smythe made a face. He couldn’t imagine spending his life with someone he didn’t truly care about. “Was Neville Grant the best the poor woman could do?”

“Yes,” Luty replied. “For a woman of her class and background, I expect he was the best she could hope for. She’s fifty-five if she’s a day. Ten years ago she’d have been pushin’ forty-five. When you git to be that old, there ain’t much for a woman to choose from. Most of the men of her own age are already hitched. If they ain’t and they got money, they could git ’em a young woman.” She snorted derisively. “Course it seems to me if she’d had any sense she’d a sold them paintin’s and taken off for some fun and adventure.”

“I suspect,” Hatchet said smoothly, “that Mrs. Grant may have had a number of reasons for wanting to wed Mr. Grant.”

“What reasons?” Luty asked indignantly. “He’s mean, he’s ugly and he ain’t rich.”

“But perhaps he was less mean, less ugly and a good deal richer ten years ago.” Hatchet smiled slyly.

Luty eyed him suspiciously, wondering what he knew. “And just what do you mean by that?”

Hatchet smiled benignly. “All in good time, madam. All in good time.”

“How bad is Grant’s financial position?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“About as bad as it kin git,” Luty said. “He owes just about everyone. The butcher, the baker, the bank, his wife’s dressmaker. Everyone. Some of ’em are startin’ to press him pretty hard for what they’re owed too. Sellin’ those Caldararos to Modean came just in the nick of time. Otherwise, he’d probably be losin’ his house. Seems most of Grant’s investments have gone sour in the last few years. He’s been livin’ on borrowed money to keep up that fancy house and all them servants.”