12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (17 page)

“Don’t go on about it,” she said wearily. She didn’t regret what she’d done. Well, perhaps just a bit. But she didn’t want to talk it to death either. After all, she was the one who’d be wearing her old, worn out shoes till she got her next quarter’s salary.

“All right, lass, I’ll not say another word.” He’d find a way to buy her some new shoes.

“Good.” She favored him with one of her wan smiles. “What are you going to be up to tomorrow?” She wished she were working on the murder too. Despite Luty’s dark predictions, she had a feeling that Irene Simmons was fine. She didn’t know why, but that’s how she felt. Not being really involved in the murder investigation was beginning to niggle her a bit. Not much, but a bit.

“Oh, just out and about diggin’ up what I can,” he replied. “I’m trying to find out more about Underhill’s dealings. Seems to me like we don’t know much about the bloke. Not even what kind of a ’ouse ’e lives in.”

“Wiggins said he’d take a gander at Underhill’s lodgings.”

“I thought ’e were goin’ back to the Grant ’ouse.”

“He is,” Betsy replied. “But then he’s going to have a snoop around Underhill’s rooms.” She sighed. “It feels a bit strange not being involved like the rest of ya is.”

“You’re doin’ somethin’ important,” he pointed out. “As we said before, Underhill’s dead. This girl might still be alive.”

“I know,” she replied. “I know it’s important. But it still feels a bit odd. I guess I’ll have another go at Soho tomorrow. Talk to a few more artists. This time, though, I’ll hang onto my shoes.”

“Betsy,” he began and then hesitated. “Be careful. I mean, Soho isn’t the best area of London.”

Betsy laughed. “I’m always careful, Smythe. You know that.”

As they’d arranged, Witherspoon met Constable Barnes at the hotel early the next morning. This was most definitely an establishment that catered to the rich.

Settees and balloon-backed chairs, upholstered in rich brown and green leather, were placed comfortably around the huge lobby. Long velvet curtains festooned the windows, dampening the noise from the busy street outside. A long oak-paneled reception area, behind which an army of smartly uniformed young men worked busily, stretched along the length of one wall. Bellmen and housemaids, laden with silver trays and hoisting huge carpet bags, went back and forth willy-nilly across the elegant rose-and-green patterned carpet.

Witherspoon started for the lift. But he’d not taken two steps when a soft voice called his name.

“Inspector Witherspoon.”

Turning, he saw Lydia Modean standing next to a potted
fern. Quite a large fern, he thought. He was sure she hadn’t been standing there a moment ago.

“Good morning, Mrs. Modean,” he said politely. “The constable and I were just on our way up to see you.”

“I know,” she replied. “The manager said you’d been by yesterday. I’m sorry we missed you.” She cast a nervous glance towards the lift. “I knew you’d be back this morning. That’s why I came down. I’d like to have a word with you before you speak to my husband.”

“Of course, madam,” he said.

She gestured toward the settee behind her. “If you’d be so kind, Inspector. We can sit here.”

As they sat down, the inspector noticed that Mrs. Modean had positioned herself in such a way that she could see anyone coming down the central staircase or getting out of the lift. Barnes took a seat on the chair opposite and whipped out his notebook.

“Do you have to write it down?” she asked quietly.

Witherspoon was rather perplexed. They didn’t
have
to write anything down. “The constable is taking notes, Mrs. Modean,” he said gently, “not writing an official report.”

She looked relieved. “Good. I mean, I don’t even know if what I’m going to tell you has anything to do with this dreadful business.”

“Why don’t you just tell us, madam?” he said, giving her a reassuring smile. “And then we’ll decide if it needs to be ‘official.’”

Lydia drew a short, sharp breath and looked away. “I’ve known James Underhill for a long time,” she said, turning back to the inspector. “Since I was eighteen. I hated him.”

Witherspoon deliberately kept his expression blank. Though it was jolly difficult to think of this delicate creature
hating anyone. “I see, madam. Would you tell me why?”

“This is hard, Inspector. Very hard.” She swallowed. “To understand my feelings, you have to understand my circumstances.”

“The same could be said for all of us,” he said gently. “But please do go on.”

“I came to London when I was eighteen. I had a job as a governess to a family in St. John’s Wood. My own family was poor but well educated. That’s why I was able to obtain the position. My father had been a schoolmaster before he became too ill to work, and I had to make my own way in the world. But I digress, sir. You’re not interested in my personal misfortunes. As I said, I worked as a governess to a family named Peake. They were decent people, not unkind, but not unduly generous either. But I was very young, Inspector, and like many young women, I was silly and vain. My head was easily turned.” She smiled sadly. “One day I was taking my charge for a walk in the park. A man approached me. He said I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and asked if I would be willing to consider taking a position as an artists’ model. Naturally, I told him no. I thought that was the end of the matter. But I was a fool. I should have told my employer about being accosted in the park the moment I got home. I shouldn’t have even allowed this man to speak to me.” She closed her eyes briefly.

“Gracious, madam, I don’t see how you could have prevented it,” Witherspoon said.

“I could have walked away,” she said. “And I should have. The least I should have done was to go before he spoke to me in such intimate terms. Because my charge, Charlotte, told her mother what had happened. Oh, she
was just a child of nine. She wasn’t being malicious or deliberately trying to get me into trouble. But Mr. and Mrs. Peake were very angry. They told me in no uncertain terms that I was never, ever to carry on that kind of conversation with a strange man while in their employ. Especially when I had their daughter in my care. If I was approached again, I was to walk away.”

“I take it you were accosted a second time?” Witherspoon asked, though he was fairly sure he could guess the answer.

“The following week. He came right up to me and started chatting like we were old friends.” She laughed bitterly. “I told him to go away. But he didn’t. To make matters worse, he followed me home.”

“But surely your employers couldn’t hold you responsible for this man’s ungentlemanly behaviour,” Witherspoon exclaimed.

“Oh, but they could and did.” She shrugged. “I suppose I should have been flattered. When they sacked me they did tell me it wasn’t my fault I was pretty. But that’s neither here nor there.” She waved a hand dismissively. “The end result was that I found myself alone in London with very little money and very little prospects of getting another position as a governess.”

“But surely they gave you a reference,” Barnes blurted.

“They did,” she replied. “But I’d gotten the job through the post, due to my father’s influence. They’d never seen me before they hired me.” She blushed selfconsciously. “Mrs. Peake told me privately that if she’d seen me she’d never have given me the position.”

“Please don’t be embarrassed, Mrs. Modean,” Witherspoon said gallantly. “You are a very beautiful woman. I suppose you were in a position where your appearance
tended to be an obstacle to gainful employment.” They both knew to what the inspector referred. Most wives would take one look at Lydia Modean and immediately find a dozen reasons not to hire her, regardless of how qualifed or well educated she was. Odd, the inspector thought, it was really the first time in his life he’d realized that being too attractive could cause one terrible difficulties.

“That’s correct.” She smiled, grateful for his understanding. “I couldn’t go home. My father had died and my mother had been taken in by relatives. There wasn’t room for me. So I tried to find work. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Of course, I ran out of money. I was just about to be turned out of my lodgings when the man who’d been the cause of all my troubles accosted me again. Only this time, when he asked if I was interested in a position, I told him yes. It was James Underhill. He got me jobs. Lots of them. I’ve posed for dozens of artists. That’s how I met Tyrell.”

“So your husband knows about your er…former occupation?”

She nodded. “Oh yes, he knows. He’s bought a number of the paintings in which I was the model.”

“Then I don’t see why…” Witherspoon trailed off, not sure precisely what the right phrase should be.

“Why I wanted to meet you down here? Why I’m telling you all this? Why I don’t want Tyrell to hear? It’s very simple, Inspector. James Underhill was trying to blackmail me.”

“But you’ve been living in America.”

“He contacted me the day after we arrived here,” she stated. “He demanded ten thousand pounds or he’d tell Tyrell about my past.”

This time it was Barnes who asked, “But ma’am, you’ve just told us your husband knew. I’m assumin’ that means he didn’t much mind.”

“He didn’t mind,” she insisted. “At least he didn’t mind the legitimate artists. Not even the nudes.”

“Nudes?” The word escaped the inspector’s lips before he could stop it. “Oh, gracious, excuse me, Mrs. Modean. I meant no offense.”

“None is taken,” she replied.

“Then if your husband wasn’t concerned about the uh…unclothed modeling jobs…” Witherspoon dithered ridiculously.

“He was going to tell Tyrell about the other one. The job I took when I was absolutely desperate.” She closed her eyes and sobbed softly. “I posed for…for…”

The inspector was a policeman. He knew precisely what kind of pictures Mrs. Modean had posed for. “I think I know what you’re trying to tell us, madam. Er, were the uh…pictures photographic plates or paintings?”

“It was only one and it was a plate. Underhill had it.” She closed her eyes briefly. “It would hurt Tyrell unbearably if he found out. He’s been so good to me. I love him so much. I’d do anything to spare him pain.”

“Did you pay Underhill?” Barnes asked. He’d recovered faster than the inspector.

“No, I don’t have that kind of money,” she admitted. “But I was going to give him all the cash I had in exchange for the plate. But he was killed before I had the chance.”

Wiggins knew he was taking a terrible risk, but he didn’t think he had much choice. He stopped at the edge of the strip of pavement on the side of the Grant home and peered down its gloomy length. If the layout of this house was like most Wiggins had seen in this part of London, then the kitchen, scullery, storerooms and the larders probably butted onto this side of the house. Halfway down the length of the walk, he could see an open door.

Wiggins took a hesitant step, grasped the package in his arms tighter and told himself not to be such a lily-livered coward—he was here to do a job and thanks to his own ingenuity, he had the means to get himself inside. If he was real lucky, he could do a bit of chatting with whoever happened to be about the place. If his luck run out, then the worst that could happen was he’d be given the boot. No, he reminded himself, getting booted off the premises wasn’t the worst that could happen. Running into a copper that knew him or even, Wiggins gulped, running into the
inspector himself made that pale in comparison. He’d just have to take care and look sharp.

Moving briskly, he started down the walkway. Coming to the doorway, he stuck his head in and saw that it opened into the scullery. A young woman, hardly more than a girl, was standing at a double sink just to the left of the doorway. She didn’t notice Wiggins as she was up to her elbows in washing the mountain of pots, pans and crockery in the stone sink. He waited till she’d rinsed a bowl and sat it carefully on the wooden rack. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, miss,” he said.

Startled, the girl jumped back. “Who are you?”

“Sorry.” He gave her his best smile. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on ya. My name’s Wiggins.”

She cocked her head to one side and studied him. “If you’re lookin’ for work, it’s not on. There’s nothin’ goin’ here.”