12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (16 page)

“The whole town knows about it too,” Mrs. Goodge added eagerly. “It’s common gossip. But the Grants, Mrs. Grant in particular, has expensive taste and they’ve been livin’ above their means for years. Guess it finally caught up with them. According to what I heard, they’re so hard up for money that Mrs. Grant was pressing her sister to sell her art collection as well.”

“Maybe that’s why she was so set against Helen Collier’s engagement to Underhill,” Mrs. Jeffries mused, remembering the information she’d gotten out of the inspector. “If the marriage took place, she’d never get her hands on those paintings. Oh dear, I’m getting ahead of myself again. Does anyone have anything else to contribute?”

Wiggins cleared his throat. “Like I said, I don’t ’ave much to say. With the inspector and the police bein’ at the Grant ’ouse today, I couldn’t get too close. There might ’ave been a bit of comin’ and goin’ amongst the servants, but the only one I got near enough to talk to was a shirty little footman who weren’t ’alf full of ’imself. But ’e didn’t know much. ’E weren’t even there when the murder ’appened. Mrs. Grant ’ad sent ’im off on an errand.”
He gave an embarrassed shrug. “It’s not much, but it were the best I could do today.”

“Not to worry, lad,” Smythe said kindly. “We all ’ave our bad days. I didn’t find out much either. But tomorrow’ll be better for both of us.”

“Right then,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “Before I get on to the inspector’s bits and pieces, I want to tell you what I learned from Dr. Bosworth.” She told them of her meeting that day with the doctor, omitting only that she’d been invited to dinner. Then she charged right in to the rest of what she’d gotten out of their employer.

“I don’t quite understand.” Hatchet frowned. “Didn’t you just tell us that the servants said no one had come through the kitchen?”

“True,” she replied. “But there is a side door. It was locked when the inspector tried it, but that doesn’t mean it was locked yesterday afternoon. The inspector said he looked at the lock and it didn’t appear to have been opened recently, but can one really tell? Even a rusty lock can be opened with the right key.”

“I’m gittin’ confused,” Luty muttered. “The servants didn’t see anyone go out to the garden, the key to the side door is missin’, Tyrell Modean snubbed Underhill, Mary Grant or Helen Collier is lyin’ about whether she was or wasn’t engaged to the victim…land o’ Goshen, this is gittin’ too muddled for a body to know whether they’re comin’ or goin’. Why don’t we take this one suspect at a time?”

“I don’t think we ought to bother,” Mrs. Goodge put in. “We’re putting the cart before the horse. We don’t know that any of the people at the Grant house when Underhill died really are suspects. We don’t know for a fact that the mints were tampered with at the Grant house.
They coulda been doctored well before that afternoon.”

“That’d be a bit risky,” Wiggins muttered.

“Not really. Underhill never shared,” the cook insisted. “We just heard that. He was famous for not handin’ them mints around. Seems to me the killer must have known this. Them mints coulda been poisoned ages ago. When you think of it, it’s a real good way of murderin’ someone. All the killer had to do then was wait until Underhill ate the right one.”

Nanette Lanier locked the outside door and hurried off toward the intersection, her expression preoccupied. As soon as she’d turned the corner, a figure stepped out of the shadows and crossed over to unlock the door Nanette had so carefully locked.

Moving quickly, he stepped inside and shut the door. The hallway was in total darkness. He stepped onto the bottom stair, wincing when it creaked in the quiet of the night. But there was no choice. None at all. It had to be done.

He took a long, calming breath and climbed to the first floor landing. Pausing there, he scanned the area, making sure that no one was in Nanette’s flat. But behind the closed door of her quarters there was nothing but silence.

He continued up the stairs. On the third floor, he stopped and listened, wanting to see if he could hear anyone following him. He still wasn’t sure it was safe, even with Underhill dead. But he heard nothing.

He moved to the door. There was a faint light coming from underneath it. But he’d expected that. She slept with the lamp burning now. Taking a key out of his pocket, he gently eased it into the lock, turned it slowly and grasped the handle when he heard the faint click of the mechanism
sliding into place. Cautiously, he eased into the room, sticking his head in first to make sure it was empty.

There was no one inside the tiny drawing room. To his left was a small kitchen and on the far side of the room, behind the shabby settee, was the door that led to the bedroom. Without giving himself time to think about what he was doing, he closed the door and tiptoed quietly into the kitchen.

There, on the rickety old table next to the cooker, sat the bottle. He gave it a shake. As expected, it was almost empty. He cast a quick glance at the bedroom door. He didn’t want her coming in and catching him.

He put the bottle down and reached into his pocket, taking out another, identical bottle to the one on the table. He put it down and then removed the stoppers from both of them. He poured the contents of the one he’d brought with him into the other, almost empty bottle.

By the time he’d finished his task and returned both bottles to their rightful place, the one on the table now full and the one in his pocket now almost empty, his face was covered in a sheen of sweat.

By the time he made it safely back down the stairs and out into the chilly night, his whole body was drenched.

“I found out something today,” Betsy said when they’d finally finished nattering on about the wretched mints. “And I know it’s not about the murder, but we are still supposed to be lookin’ for Irene Simmons.”

“Of course, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said cheerfully. “We’re all most interested.”

“Especially me.” Hatchet gave her a wide smile. “As I too have learned something that may shed some light on the young lady’s disappearance.”

Betsy cleared her throat. “Well, I started thinkin’ that maybe we ought to backtrack a bit here.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Betsy. How very clever of you,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She wished Betsy would get on with it and then immediately felt ashamed of herself. Irene’s disappearance was every bit as important as finding Underhill’s killer. “Presumably that’s why you’re trying to track down this Spanish artist. Were your efforts today fruitful?”

“I’m not really sure. But I went to his studio in Soho.” Betsy paused and waited. All eyes were on her. She wanted their complete attention for her next revelation. “And I found out he disappeared the same day that Irene did.”

“Actually, it was the very same evening,” Hatchet added. “And under most unusual circumstances.”

Betsy gasped involuntarily. She’d sacrificed a pair of shoes to find out this information and here Hatchet not only knew it, but he’d got the better of her to boot. Well, blow me for a game of tin soldiers, she thought resentfully. She shot Smythe a quick glance and her eyes narrowed angrily as she saw the grin dancing around his mouth. Unable to stop herself, she kicked him under the table.

“Ouch!” Smythe yelped. “Oh, sorry,” he said, not wanting to embarrass Betsy even though the minx blooming well deserved it, “got a sudden cramp in me foot. Go on with what you were tellin’ us, Hatchet.”

Hatchet, to his credit, seemed to realize that he’d stolen Betsy’s thunder. “Forgive me, Miss Betsy,” he said gallantly, “I interrupted you.”

“Ya interrupt me all the time,” Luty muttered. “I don’t hear ya askin’ for my forgiveness.”

“Really, madam.” Hatchet sniffed disdainfully. “That
charge is so uncalled for it does not even merit a response. Now, Miss Betsy, please go on.”

“Thank you,” Betsy said primly. “Well, as I was saying, I went to Soho and found out that this Gaspar Morante had taken himself off most unexpectedly. And what’s more, I wasn’t the only one who’s been round looking for him, either. Seems that several people have been trying to find him, and one of them was James Underhill.”

“Underhill,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Are you sure?”

Betsy nodded. “Oh, yes. He was there on the day he was murdered. That morning. When Morante didn’t answer the door, Underhill went round asking the neighbors if they knew where he’d got off to. But no one did, of course. My source says Underhill was right upset too, tried to break into Morante’s house but a couple of lads threatened to go get the policeman from over on Dean Street if he didn’t leave.”

“I’m glad to see your information tallys somewhat with mine,” Hatchet began. “I—”

Enjoying her moment in the limelight, Betsy continued eagerly. “Did you find out about Morante? You know, how he was asking questions about Irene Simmons on the night before she disappeared?”

“What kind of questions?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“He wanted to know where the girl lived,” Hatchet put in. He’d restrained himself admirably, or so he thought, but really, he’d something to contribute here as well.

“Right,” Betsy agreed. “And then the next day, Morante’s gone and she’s gone. I think it’s a bit more than a coincidence. I think if we can find him, we’ll find her.”

“If she’s still alive,” Luty said darkly.

“Thanks for not tattling on me,” Betsy said softly as she and Smythe cleared up the last of the tea things. The kitchen was empty save for Fred, who refused to go up even with Wiggins as long as there was a chance a morsel of food might come his way.

“Humph.” Smythe snorted faintly. “It’s one thing for me to get irritated with you, lass. But I’ll not have the others tearin’ a strip off ya. Though it were foolish, Betsy, givin’ that woman yer shoes.”

Betsy smiled. “I’ve seen you do almost the same.”

He bit his tongue to keep from telling her it was different for him. He could afford it. She couldn’t. He knew her gesture hadn’t just been done to get information out of an old woman. Betsy had done it as much out of pity as anything else. But now the lass hadn’t a decent pair of work shoes left. Only her Sunday best and a pair of old ones that he knew had holes in the soles.

Blast it anyway, he thought grimly, he’d money enough to buy her a whole shop full of shoes and he couldn’t. Sometimes he despaired of being able to tell her the truth. Or any of the others, for that matter. He was a rich man. He’d come back to England five years ago with a blooming fortune. On a whim, he’d stopped in to see Euphemia, Inspector Witherspoon’s late aunt and a dear friend of his. Euphemia, God rest her soul, had known she was dying. She’d willed her house and fortune to her only living relative, the incredibly naive Gerald Witherspoon. She’d begged Smythe to stay on in her home and keep an eye on her nephew. Smythe, under the guise of being a coachman, had agreed. Then Mrs. Jeffries and Betsy had come and everything had changed. Before you could snap your fingers, they were investigating murders and looking out for one another and becoming almost like a family. In the
meantime, his fortune had grown like weeds in a flower bed and he was even richer than before. But he couldn’t say one word about it—all he could do was secretly help the others when they needed it. If he told them the truth, everything would change. They’d feel differently about him. They wouldn’t treat him the same. He wouldn’t be one of them. Smythe wouldn’t risk that. He wouldn’t lose the only family he’d known in years. Most especially, he wouldn’t risk losing Betsy. He clenched his hands into fists, frustrated because the woman he cared about would be trotting about London with blooming holes in her shoes. “I’ve done things like that before,” he admitted, “but it isn’t always wise.”