12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (22 page)

Witherspoon shook his head sadly. James Underhill, for all his faults as a human being, had been a man who’d understood the compelling lure of visual beauty.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Witherspoon started and whirled around. “Oh, hello, Constable,” he said to Barnes. “I see you got my message.”

Barnes, his mouth gaping in wonder and his expression awed, stepped further into the room. “Yes sir,” he muttered. “I got here as quickly as I could. Have you ever seen the like, sir?”

“Not outside a museum,” Witherspoon replied honestly. “It’s quite a spectacle, isn’t it?”

“Are they all real, sir?” Barnes asked. “I mean, are they valuable…or copies or what?”

“I’m not sure,” Witherspoon replied. “But from what we know of our investigation into Mr. Underhill’s finances, I can’t quite see them being valuable. According to both his solicitor and his bank manager, he’d not much money.”

“Maybe this is why,” Barnes said, grinning and jerking his head toward the far wall. “Could be the man loved art more than anything.” He sobered quickly. “What are we doin’ here, sir? The lads have already searched the place. They found nothing of interest, sir. No notes, no threatening letters, nothing which gives—”

“Precisely,” Witherspoon interrupted with relish. “That’s the whole problem. There should have been. Underhill
conducted his business from here—he didn’t have a proper office and he was a broker or an agent of some sort. At least enough of one to make a living at it and be able to afford all this.” He swept his arm in an arc that included the paintings.

“I see what you’re gettin’ at, sir.” Barnes nodded in understanding. “There should have been ledgers and bills of sales or invoices. But there aren’t.” He slowly turned and surveyed the room, and then he walked quickly to the desk in the corner. He opened the drawer, reached inside and pulled out a slender sheaf of pristine white notepaper. “Nothing here but his stationary. How did the man conduct his business?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” Witherspoon said cheerfully, remembering what Wiggins had inadvertently said the night before. “There’s also another matter we need to investigate.” His manner darkened perceptibly as he remembered the rather frightening message that Smythe had given him. Really, he wasn’t sure he liked his staff being the recepients of such terrifying information. Even if they were just passing it along to him. He’d never forgive himself if one of his household were ever hurt or endangered by Witherspoon’s profession. But right now wasn’t the time to concern himself with that matter. It would be investigated thoroughly as soon as he and the constable finished here. Then again, he thought, maybe there was nothing to it. Perhaps his coachman had merely been accosted by one of those odd people who seem to come out from everywhere whenever they read about a murder.

“What other matter, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Huh? Oh.” He smiled apologetically at the constable.
“Nothing, Barnes. I mean, I’ll tell you all about it on our way to the Grant house.”

“We’re going back there, sir?”

“Yes, we’ve got to have a word with Arthur Grant. But before we do that, I suggest we look for a key.”

“To what, sir?” Barnes asked.

“To Underhill’s office,” the inspector replied.

“But he didn’t have one, sir.”

“That’s just it, Constable. He has to have kept his paperwork somewhere. There has to be a room or a cupboard or a file cabinet or something.”

“Maybe he kept it in his head,” Barnes suggested.

“I doubt that, Barnes,” Witherspoon replied, his attention caught by a lovely painting of a windswept beach. “His clients would no doubt have demanded receipts and invoices.”

Barnes wasn’t so sure. But nevertheless, he and the inspector set about looking for a key.

Mrs. Jeffries absently picked up her teacup and took a sip. Behind her, Mrs. Goodge closed the oven door with a bang. The housekeeper smiled to herself. The cook was still sulking because of the inspector’s interruption last night. She’d been the only one of them who hadn’t been able to get her information out in the open with their dear employer sitting there.

Mrs. Jeffries was actually quite proud of the staff. They’d done splendidly. Betsy, her eyes innocently wide, had asked the inspector how the hunt for Irene Simmons was proceeding. Witherspoon, after blustering a moment, had finally admitted that it wasn’t going well at all. The murder of James Underhill was taking all of his time.

“Oh well, sir,” Betsy had said, “I suppose then the bit
of gossip I’ve picked up won’t do you any good.”

“Gossip?” Witherspoon had popped up in his chair like a marionette having his string pulled. He was well aware of the importance of gossip. “About Irene Simmons? By all means, Betsy, do tell me what you’ve heard.”

The maid had outdone herself, making up a convuluted tale of back-fence whispers, shop assistants who’d heard this and that and delivery boys who’d stopped her on the high street because she worked for the inspector. Betsy had managed to get the whole tale of Morante’s disappearance and connection to Irene straight into the inspector’s listening ears.

“You see, sir,” she’d concluded brightly, “everyone knows you’re the most brilliant detective in all of Scotland Yard. That’s why they’re always stopping me and telling me things. You know how it is, sir. They want to be important but none of them wants to come to you themselves. They’re afraid of looking foolish.”

Mrs. Goodge slapped a round of bread dough onto the flour-covered marble slab on the far end of the table. Making a fist, she punched it hard enough to rattle the teapot.

Mrs. Jeffries winced. “Now, now, Mrs. Goodge, we’re going to have another meeting this evening. You’ll be able to tell us your bits and pieces then. You mustn’t upset yourself.”

“Who says I’m upset?” She rolled half the dough on top of itself and kneaded it with the palm of her hand. “It just seems to me the inspector didn’t have to go runnin’ up to bed before I had a chance to say my piece.”

“But it was after ten o’clock. He was getting very tired.”

“Humph.” She snorted, taking another whack at the dough. “He had plenty of time to listen to Wiggins goin’
on about Arthur Grant and Smythe’s tale of Underhill’s murder plot.”

“Only because Wiggins’s information dovetailed so very nicely with Smythe’s,” the housekeeper replied calmly. Really, it had been quite remarkable how the coachman had managed to get his information said. He’d been quite bold about it, claiming that he’d been stopped on his way out of the stables and told by a man that James Underhill had plotted a woman’s murder. Witherspoon had been amazed. Of course he’d asked Smythe what this informant looked like. Smythe, always a fast thinker, said he couldn’t say. The informant had kept to the shadows of the stable. The only other thing the alleged informant said was that he’d followed Smythe deliberately because he knew he worked for the inspector.

“My information would have dovetailed nicely too.” Mrs. Goodge picked the entire round of dough up, turned it over and slapped it back on the marble. “If I’d had a chance to tell it. And Wiggins’s bits didn’t have anything to do with what Smythe told us,” she continued, taking another swing at the hapless mound in front of her. “He just pretended like it did. All he said was that some silly maid at the Grant house had told him that Arthur Grant was all het up about something on the day that Underhill was killed.” She snorted again. “If I’d had a chance, I could have told him what’s what. I know what Grant was up to. That’s what my sources told me.”

Mrs. Jeffries put the cup she’d just picked up back down. She knew she should wait for the others, but this might be important. “What?”

“You want me to tell you now?” the cook asked. “Without the others?”

The housekeeper hesitated, but finally couldn’t resist the
temptation. “Yes. The day is still young. Tell me what you know. It may influence where I go and who I talk with today.”

Mrs. Goodge smiled slowly. “All right, then. If you think it’s important.”

“I do,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. “I think it’s very important.”

“Well, there’s two things, actually.” Mrs. Goodge plopped the battered dough into a bowl. Wiping her hands on her apron, she sat down next to the housekeeper. “The first was that Mary Grant’s family once had one of the best art collections in the country, but it was sold off piece by piece to keep a roof over their heads.”

“When was this?” Mrs. Jeffries didn’t remind the cook that she’d already shared this information. She didn’t wish to hurt her feelings or interrupt her.

“Years ago, well before she married Mr. Grant. By the time he come along, all that was left was the paintings she used as a dowry.”

“Strange that she’d use such valuable paintings to marry a man like Neville Grant,” the housekeeper mused. “From what the inspector said, Mrs. Grant isn’t hideously ugly.”

“No, she’s not hideous,” the cook said, “but she’s sharp tongued and a bit of a shrew. There weren’t many that would have her, dowry or not. And she was tired of bein’ a spinster. You’d think that would make her more understanding about her sister, wouldn’t you? I mean, she wanted to marry so why shouldn’t Helen want to marry too?”

“Perhaps she didn’t wish her sister to get her hopes up,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. “The inspector did say that
Mary Grant was convinced that Helen’s engagement was all a figment of Helen’s imagination.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Not after what Wiggins told us.”

Puzzled, the housekeeper looked at her. She couldn’t recall Wiggins making any comment about Helen Collier. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you remember what the lad said Cora had told him?” Mrs. Goodge said. “Cora said that a couple of days before the murder, Miss Collier bumped into Underhill at her bank. Well, that proves it, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, that.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “Yes, I remember now. But I’m afraid I still don’t understand. What does that have to do with Helen’s alleged engagement?”

“Everything,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “My sources told me that Helen Collier goes to her bank once a month to withdraw the money she’ll need. She also goes to have a look-see at her paintings. She owns three Caldararos as well. Underhill met her there but I’d bet my next quarter’s wages it wasn’t an accident. I think he met her there so he could see those paintings for himself. Having seen them, I think he made up his mind to marry her so he could get his hands on ’em.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at her for a long moment. “My goodness, you might be right. Of course, knowing what we know of the dead man, he’d want to make sure the paintings were real before he committed himself to marriage. If, of course, he was genuinely considering marriage to the woman.”

“No reason for him not to,” Mrs. Goodge said bluntly. “Underhill wasn’t any spring chicken himself. Man gets to be his age, probably starts wondering who’s going to be taking care of him and doin’ his fetchin’ and carryin’
for him when he gets old. Remember, he was gentry too. But gentry with no money. It’s not like he’d have been welcomed by many women of his own class. Not as poor as he was. Helen Collier did have a small income and three very valuable paintings to her credit. More importantly, she was willing.”

“Yes, quite.” Mrs. Jeffries was quite impressed with the cook’s analysis. “And the second thing you learned?”

“Oh, that.” She waved her hand impatiently. “I heard some gossip that Arthur Grant needed something from Underhill. Needed it desperately. That’s why he invited him around to tea that day. He was waiting for Underhill to broker some kind of deal for him.”

This time, Betsy was prepared. She dodged behind a cooper’s wagon as her quarry crossed the wide pavement of the railway station. He walked right on past the entrance to the cloakroom, stopped in front of the door to the station proper, glanced once over his shoulder and then ducked inside.

She gave him a few moments to get ahead and then dashed in after him. He was heading for the platforms. Betsy started to follow, realized she didn’t have a ticket and then glanced anxiously around looking for the notice board. It was over the ticket kiosk. Lifting her skirts, she rushed toward it, praying a train wasn’t just now pulling out with her prey already on it.