12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (20 page)

“He forged paintings.”

“
He
didn’t,” Blimpey replied. “He wasn’t that good. He hired it done. Seems there’s more than a few toffs that breathed a sigh of heartfelt relief when old Underhill got it. Now they don’t ’ave to worry about him spillin’ the beans over one toff sellin’ one of his friends copies and not the real thing.”

“Cor blimey, if what you’re sayin’ is true…”

“It is.” Blimpey frowned, offended to the core. “I don’t give bad information. Not for what you’re goin’ to be payin’ me.”

“Sorry.” Smythe apologized for the slur on the man’s professional dignity. “But there’s somethin’ I don’t understand. If I was to sell ya a paintin’ that’s worth a lot of money and then give ya a forgery of that picture, what good would that do me? I couldn’t sell the paintin’ to someone else. People’d find out right quick if I was doin’ things like that.”

“That’s what I thought,” Blimpey said. “But art’s not like other stuff…seems people don’t ask a lot of questions sometimes. If I was to sell to you and then give you a fake, that means I could keep the real one. But let’s say you was a foreigner, one of them Argentinians or Australians, and let’s say I sold ya the fake and you quite happily took it back to WoggaWogga land or whatever and hung it up on yer wall to show off to all yer friends. None of them could tell the difference now, could they? And if I’ve got the real paintin’ sittin’ in a bank vault or an attic, I can put it in me will that the paintings to stay in the family. A generation or two passes and who’s the wiser? The picture just keeps gettin’ more and more valuable and the people with the fake think they’ve got the real thing too. By the time anyone sorts it out, odds are the toff what commissioned the forgery is dead and buried and not havin’ to worry about it. And don’t forget this—if you owned the forgery and you found out it was a fake, would you tell anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Smythe replied honestly. “What good would havin’ a fake do ya?”

“Plenty.” Blimpey grinned. “You could pass it on to
someone else. People don’t bother gettin’ forgeries done of paintings that ain’t worth a lot of money. And that ain’t all,” he continued. “Seems that Underhill didn’t do it just for the lolly. Rumor has it that he was a bit of an odd duck about paintings and such.” He snorted. “Seems to me the feller was downright daft. Some claim that he kept more than he’d sold and had it stashed away somewhere.” He laughed. “Sounds to me like he was buildin’ a nest egg. Probably goin’ to make one last, grand bunco and then take off. Maybe the bloke wasn’t so daft after all. Art usually goes up in value. A few paintings sold on the sly could keep a fellow in clover for a long time. Course, playin’ about a bit with a paintin’ or two ain’t the worst of the man.”

“There’s more?” Smythe said incredulously.

“You can bet your front teeth there is,” Blimpey said. He looked quickly over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being overheard and then, just to be doubly safe, he leaned across the small table. “Word ’as it that he’d hired some thugs to do a killin’.”

Smythe went utterly still for a few moments. “Are ya sure?”

Blimpey, his expression somber, nodded. “Sure as you and I are sittin’ ’ere havin’ this nice little chat,” he said. “I double-checked that bit, I can tell ya that. Underhill did it, all right. Word is he hired a couple of Mordecai’s boys along about ten days ago. Paid a fair amount for it too. They was supposed to stab a woman and make it look like it was the work of that Ripper fellow.” Blimpey grimaced. “Ugly, that was. Now, there was one I would’na minded seein’ swing by his neck. Too bad the coppers was too ruddy stupid to catch ’im.”

Smythe swallowed heavily. He had to ask. He had to
know. “Did they do it? Did they murder her?”

Blimpey chuckled and leaned back. “Nah, they was goin’ to, but somethin’ went wrong. Far as I know the girl’s still alive.”

“What’s her name?”

“Now that, I can’t tell ya,” Blimpey said. He held up his hand quickly as he saw Smythe open his mouth. “And I ain’t trying to squeeze any more lolly out of ya,” he protested. “I don’t hold with murder, especially women. If I knew the girl’s name I’d not only tell ya, I’d tell ’er too. I may have been a thief and a pickpocket once, but that don’t mean I got no morals. I know what’s right. Separating a toff from ’is coin and sellin’ a bit of information is one thing, but murder is somethin’ else.”

Smythe shut his mouth. Blimpey would tell him the girl’s name if he knew it. Too bad he didn’t. “Can you find out?”

Blimpey looked offended. “Is the Thames a river? Of course I can find out. I just couldn’t find out before I had to meet ya ’ere now.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “For yer information, I’m already workin’ on it. It’s not goin’ to cost you a ruddy bob. As soon as I know who the lass is, you’ll know too, and for that matter, so will the coppers.”

Taken aback, Smythe stared at him with something akin to admiration. “Fair enough,” he murmured. “Is there anythin’ else?”

“Not yet.” Blimpey downed the last of his drink. “I’ll have more by tomorrow. Got to be on me way,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll send one of me lads with a message when I’ve more for ya.” He nodded brusquely and turned toward the door.

“Blimpey.” Smythe stopped him.

“What?”

“Be careful. Mordecai’s boys are a pretty rough lot.” They were worse than rough, Smythe thought. They were killers. Most of them did it for money, but some of them did it because they liked it.

Blimpey grinned. “I’m always careful, Smythe. That’s why I’m still alive and kickin’. Don’t worry. I can handle Mordecai and his lot.”

“They’re killers, Blimpey,” he warned.

“And for the most part, they’re dumber than tree stumps.” Blimpey laughed. “Don’t worry, me friend. When the day comes that I can’t outsmart a thug like Mordecai, I’ll give up the game and retire to me country cottage.”

Betsy missed supper, but she did manage to make it back to Upper Edmonton Gardens before the meeting started.

Smythe, his face thunderous, was pacing the back hall. “Just where in the bloomin’ blue blazes ’ave you been?” he demanded.

“I’ve got a good reason for being late,” she told him tartly as she took off her hat and coat and dashed for the kitchen, “and I’ll thank you not to glare at me like that.”

“You missed supper,” he hissed, outraged that not only was she late, but she didn’t look in the least repentant for worrying him half to death.

“I’m the one who’s going hungry tonight,” she shot back, “so don’t fret about it.”

“Fret about it?” he snapped. “I’m not frettin’, lass, I’m ruddy furious. I’ve been worried sick about ya.”

The look in his eyes took the wind out of her sails. Suddenly contrite, she dropped her voice as they came in to the kitchen proper. “I didn’t mean to be late,” she
explained, “and I’d not have you concerned for me, Smythe. But it couldn’t be helped.”

“Good evening, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries called. She, like the others, was already seated around the table. “Mrs. Goodge has kindly kept a plate of food in the oven for you. Would you like to eat while we have our meeting?”

“No.” Betsy smiled in relief. The thought of going without supper had been a bit depressing. She was hungry. “I can wait till afterward. I’m ever so sorry to keep everyone waiting, but it couldn’t be helped. I think I might have a clue as to Irene’s whereabouts.”

“Excellent, Miss Betsy.” Hatchet beamed. “I too learned something interesting which may help us to find the young lady. Which of us should go first, do you think?”

“Hold yer horses, now,” Luty chimed in. “Who says you get to go first? I’ve found out plenty today too and it’s about the murder.”

“Well, I’ve got my bits and pieces to tell as well,” Mrs. Goodge put in, “and if I do say so meself, they’re pretty interestin’.”

“So do I,” Wiggins added.

From the eager expressions on everyone’s faces, Mrs. Jeffries suspected they all had something to report. “Why don’t we take it in turns,” she suggested. “As we’ve all agreed that there is a strong possibility the murder and Irene’s disappearance are linked, I suggest we hear what Betsy and Hatchet have to say first.” She smiled at Betsy. “Why don’t you start? We’re all rather curious as to why you were so late.”

“All right. You know how yesterday I found out that that artist who first hired Irene, Gaspar Morante, had up and disappeared?” she began. “Well, what I forgot to
mention was that I had a clue as to how I might find out where he’d got to.”

Smythe snorted. “Forgot to mention it, did ya?”

Betsy ignored him. “Anyway, today I found out a bit more. Not just about him disappearin’, but about the way he’d disappeared as well. He left his studio about five o’clock on that day, took off in a ratty old Bachelors Brougham and hasn’t been seen since.”

“Was it his carriage?” Smythe asked, getting interested in her information in spite of bein’ so niggled at the girl that he couldn’t think straight.

“He doesn’t own it.” Betsy shook her head. “That’s why the neighbors noticed it when he drove off. Wasn’t much of a driver, either.”

“What’s so odd about him goin’ off in a brougham?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Lots of people do that, even ones that aren’t all that rich. Carriages can be hired, you know.”

“But Morante’s as poor as a church mouse,” Betsy objected. “He barely makes ends meet. Then all of a sudden he up and takes off in a carriage of all things, even a ratty old one like the one he was driving that night. What’s more, he left with people owing
him
money. Two days after he went, a gallery owner showed up at his studio wanting to pay Morante for selling one of his paintings.”

“Did anyone have any idea where Morante went?” Hatchet asked.

“No, but that brings me to where I was today,” Betsy said. “The old woman I talked to gave me the name of one of his friends, another artist. But when I went to see him today, he got all het up and started acting right strange. He kept going on about someone called Alex and saying that ‘Alex doesn’t do that anymore.’ So I decided
the fellow was acting so odd and rattled that maybe I ought to keep an eye on him.”

“Keep an eye on ’im ’ow?” Smythe asked.

“I waited till he left work,” Betsy clarified eagerly, “and then I followed him. That’s why I was so late this evening. He didn’t get off till six. I know something odd’s going on too, because he kept looking over his shoulder and acting like he was expecting to be followed.”

“You
were
following him,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out.

“But he didn’t know that.” Frustrated, Betsy frowned. “I made out that he’d scared me off.”

“Scared ya off?” Smythe yelped. “What’d ’e do to ya?”

“Nothing, just got a bit shirty when I started asking about Morante.” Betsy waved at him impatiently. “It wasn’t me he was afraid might be following him, I know that. He never saw me, I made sure. But he was still walking like a man keeping one eye out for the grim reaper.”

“What makes you think this man will help you find Irene?” Luty asked. “Seems to me there could be half a dozen reasons why this Morante skedaddled out of town.”

“His name isn’t Gaspar Morante,” Hatchet said smoothly, his full attention focused on Betsy. “Well, it is, but that’s only part of it. His real name is Alessandro Gaspar Morante de Montoya. That’s probably why the man you spoke with referred to him as Alex.”

“How did you find that out?” Betsy was impressed.

Hatchet grinned. “The same way you do, Miss Betsy, with my wits and my brain.”

Luty snorted.

“I also found out that Morante seems to have come into some money recently,” Hatchet continued seriously.

“From sellin’ his paintings?” Wiggins guessed.

“Well, one could say that.” Hatchet hesitated. “The rumor I heard was that Morante copied old masters, which were then sold as the genuine article.” He sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “The man he worked for was James Underhill.”

There was a long moment of silence as everyone digested that piece of information.

“And now that Underhill’s dead,” Smythe mused, “Morante’s back to bein’ as poor as a church mouse. That lets him out as a suspect. A man doesn’t kill the goose that’s layin’ the golden egg.”

“In most cases, your reasoning would be quite accurate,” Hatchet said. “But we can’t eliminate Morante as a suspect…”

“I didn’t even know he was on the list,” Mrs. Goodge grumbled.

“…because according to my sources,” Hatchet continued, “Morante had no idea he was doing forgeries.”

“No idea? But how is that possible?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. This case was certainly getting complex. If it took any more twists or turns, she might be reduced to writing out a cast of characters and a full complement of motives just to keep everything straight in her own mind.

“Underhill had duped Morante into doing the forgeries,” Hatchet explained. He leaned his elbows on the table and steepled his hands together. “Supposedly, he went to Morante and told him he had a client who wanted copies of several paintings done. The client was going to put the originals in a bank vault for safekeeping and hang the copies up in his home. It sounds a reasonable enough sort of plan. Especially as Underhill was a broker known to have wealthy clients.”