12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (27 page)

She went into her room and walked over to the window. The darkness blanketed her softly as she sat down in the chair and stared out into the night.

Mrs. Jeffries let her mind float free. Bits and pieces of conversations, facts and clues popped in and out of her consciousness willy-nilly. She made no move to sort anything, to categorize or to analyze. She’d already done that with no success whatsover. For a long time, she sat staring out at the London night. This case was absurdly muddled. Nothing was coming to her, nothing at all.

She sat up straighter in her chair and marshalled her thoughts. Perhaps, after all, she ought to try thinking about it in a more rational manner.

“Hadn’t you better hurry, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked anxiously. The others were due to come by for a meeting this morning, and if she didn’t get the inspector out of the house and on his way, their schedule would be thrown off completely. There were any number of things that she wanted to take care of today. Why, her little session in the dark last night had come up with half a dozen things that needed clarifying. “It’s almost nine o’clock.”

The inspector speared the last bite of egg with his fork. “Oh, I’ve plenty of time,” he replied. “Constable Barnes is picking me up here and not at the station.” He eyed the
last piece of toast in the rack consideringly and then reached for it.

“Would you care for more tea, sir?” she asked. She cocked her head as she heard a faint knock on the front door. A moment later, footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Constable Barnes was ushered in by Betsy.

“Good morning, Inspector, Mrs. Jeffries.” He nodded politely to both of them.

“Good morning,” Witherspoon said. “Do sit down, Constable, and have a cup of tea.”

“Thank you, sir.” Barnes took a chair. “I believe I will.”

Mrs. Jeffries poured him a cup and placed it in front of him. She was rather annoyed, but, of course, would never let it show. But now she had both of them camped out in the dining room and Luty and Hatchet would be here any minute. Perhaps if she began clearing up the breakfast things. Turning, she reached for the empty tray from the sideboard.

“We got an answer to our inquiry, sir,” Barnes said to Witherspoon. “The police in Kent searched his cottage. There’s lots of paintings there, but none that fit the description we gave ’em of the Caldararos.”

Mrs. Jeffries picked up the tray and slowly, slowly turned back to the table.

“Gracious,” the inspector said. “That was quick.”

“Not really, sir,” Barnes replied. “You see, they’d already been to Underhill’s house. They’d searched it when we notifed them he’d been murdered.”

Mrs. Jeffries put the tray down on the end of the table.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Witherspoon muttered. He looked at his housekeeper. “Gracious, you’re trying to clear up and we’re in your way.”

“Not at all, sir,” she said hastily. “Do take your time.”

“Where on earth could those paintings have got to?” Witherspoon said plaintively. “They couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air.”

Barnes smiled slyly. “Well, sir, I think we might have an answer to that question. Seems they’ve got a fairly bright young copper down in Kent. After our telegram askin’ about the paintings, he took it upon himself to start askin’ a few questions. Seems on the day before the murder a local delivery van was seen going to the Underhill cottage. He took a large parcel away with him.”

Witherspoon brightened considerably. Now they were getting somewhere. “Where did he take it?”

“He took it, as instructed, to the train station and gave it to the station master.” Barnes took a quick sip of tea. “The station master put it on the next train for London and it arrived that day, sir.”

“Then Underhill must have picked it up and taken it somewhere other than his lodgings.”

“But that’s just it, sir,” Barnes said. “He didn’t. The parcel wasn’t picked up till the next day—the day that Underhill was killed.”

“Perhaps he got it early in the day, before he went to the Grant house?” the inspector suggested.

“No, sir. He didn’t. That’s why I was a bit late, sir. I nipped along to Victoria myself this morning and had a chat with the clerk in the freight office. That parcel got picked up late in the afternoon on the day of the murder. The clerk remembers it clearly. It was fetched by a footman in uniform. That means it was picked up after Underhill was already dead.”

Mrs. Jeffries went absolutely still. Something niggled at
the back of her mind. Something someone had said, something mentioned casually and then forgotten. For she knew instinctively that these misplaced paintings were the key to why James Underhill had been murdered.

“Are you going to arrest Arthur Grant?” Mrs. Jeffries asked the inspector.

“I’m afraid I must,” the inspector replied. He and Barnes both got to their feet.

“But what about the parcel, sir?” she asked. She knew he was getting ready to make a big mistake. “You said yourself that these missing paintings were the key to finding Underhill’s killer.”

“I did?” Witherspoon’s brows rose. “Really? When?”

“Last night, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said hastily. She fervently hoped that between his exhaustion and the sherry, he wouldn’t remember precisely what all he’d said. “Right before you retired for the night, sir. You said, ‘Mark my words, Mrs. Jeffries, those Caldararos are the key to this.’ Well, sir, as you’ve so brilliantly deduced, the missing paintings are probably in that parcel.”

Witherspoon smiled fondly at his housekeeper. She was so very devoted to him. Obviously, she hung on his every word. Quite fortunate that she did too. He couldn’t remember
all that much about last night. He’d been dead tired. “Yes, well, I do believe I’m right, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said. “The missing paintings are the key to this whole business. But as the constable has just told us, the parcel is gone.”

Mrs. Jeffries almost lost her nerve. If she was wrong, she’d be making a terrible fool of herself and worse, making an even bigger one of the inspector. An error at this junction could ruin everything. But if she did nothing, then the evidence—the only real evidence of the crime—could be destroyed.

“I know, sir,” she said slowly. “But surely you know how to find it. Oh please, sir. Do let me in on it. Do let me see if I’m right.”

“Pardon?”

She stared at him for a moment. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry, sir. I quite forgot myself.” She threw her hand up in a supplicating gesture. “I know you can’t really tell me what you’ve planned. Please forgive my boldness, sir. I’m afraid I got carried away. I know I’m just your housekeeper, just a silly woman…”

“Really, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon said in alarm. “You’re not in the least silly and you’re not just my housekeeper—you’re a very valued friend. Er…what uh…what kind of plan did you think I had in mind?”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Barnes. She was treading on thin ice here, very thin ice indeed. The constable was no fool. But when their gazes met, the only thing she saw in his eyes was a faint amusement and perhaps, just perhaps, a bit of admiration.

“Well, sir, I naturally assumed you’d carry on along the lines of what we discussed last night.” She smiled innocently. “You know, when we were talking about your list
of suspects and how everyone, but most especially Arthur Grant, all needed Underhill alive and not dead.” They had mentioned that aspect of the case, but only in passing.

“Yes, I recall saying that.” Witherspoon nodded encouragingly.

“And you also mentioned that no one at the Grant house could remember letting Underhill into the house that day,” she continued. “Well—I mean, it’s quite obvious, isn’t it, sir? There’s only one person who could have let him in, and that person deliberately met him at the door, deliberately ushered him inside before any of the servants could answer the door. That person then searched his pockets and found the freight bill for the parcel. Having done that, that person gave the freight bill to a footman with instructions to pick up the parcel and take it somewhere safe.”

Witherspoon stared at her in amazement. “I’m afraid I don’t recall saying any of that,” he admitted. But the idea did make a bizarre kind of sense. If a servant had answered the door, they’d have taken the man’s coat and hung it up. But none of them had done it. Yet someone had hung Underhill’s overcoat up in the cloakroom. Furthermore, in this investigation, there was only one household with a uniformed footman in it.

“You didn’t say it, sir,” she said briskly, “but you certainly implied it during our chat last night.” She snatched up the tray. “But perhaps I misunderstood…”

“No, no, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon said quickly. “I didn’t mean any such thing.”

She gave him a cheerful smile, praying he’d understand what the next obvious step might be. She couldn’t push any further. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad I’m not completely
wrong in these things. I do rather like to think I’ve learned a bit from you, sir.”

“If I might make a suggestion, sir,” Barnes said softly. “I think that before we arrest Arthur Grant, we might have a word with the footman at the Grant house.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave the constable a dazzling smile.

“Would you pass me the jam pot, please?” Betsy asked Smythe. She didn’t really want any. It was just an excuse to speak to him. Except for a grunt or two when she’d said goodnight before going up to bed last night, he’d not spoken to her. Betsy thought he was being awfully silly, but it bothered her nonetheless.

Wordlessly, he pushed the earthenware bowl in front of Betsy’s plate.

“Thank you,” she said. He grunted in reply.

“You’re not in a ’appy mood this mornin’, are ya?” Wiggins asked the coachman. He looked up as the housekeeper flew into the kitchen.

“Quick,” she said, looking at Wiggins. “I want you to follow the inspector to the Grant house. Don’t let him see you, but stay with him. He may go somewhere else. Go with him if he does, but do stay out of sight.”

“I’ll get the carriage,” Smythe offered. “If he’s on the move, he may try to grab a hansom. I’ll make sure I’m there instead. I can always tell ’im I was takin’ Bow and Arrow out for their exercise and ’appened to be passin’.”

She was touched by their faith in her. Neither man bothered asking questions. They simply got up and prepared to do precisely what she’d asked. If she was wrong, she’d feel awful. Worse, she’d feel as though she’d let them down. “Excellent idea, Smythe,” she said.

“Is things comin’ to a head, then?” Mrs. Goodge asked eagerly. “Is there goin’ to be an arrest?”

“Either that,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted, “or I’ve made the world’s worst mistake.”