12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (24 page)

Betsy’s lungs hurt as she hurried to keep her quarry in sight. He’d gotten off the train at Reigate and she, keeping well behind him, had followed suit.

But he must have been feeling quite confident he wasn’t being followed, because he never once looked over his shoulder as he left the station. Since leaving the town proper, Betsy had trailed him a good half mile now, first down a country lane and then onto a footpath through a copse of trees. The trees grew close enough together that she couldn’t see all that far ahead, but she could still hear his footsteps echoing in front of her.

She stumbled over a tree root snaking across the foot path, righted herself and plunged onward, scrambling none too delicately toward a point ahead where the trees had started to thin. She stopped suddenly as she realized she couldn’t hear his footfalls against the path. Her heart
pounded in her ears. Her breathing sounded loud enough to wake the dead as she stood still and listened. A moment later, she heard him start to move.

Betsy’s whole body sagged in relief. She’d feel a right fool if he’d suddenly turned tail and come back this way. She’d feel even more foolish if it turned out he wasn’t leading her anywhere except his own home.

“Maybe someone was playing a joke on your coachman,” Barnes said softly. He and the inspector were back at the Grant house, waiting in the living room while the butler went to fetch Arthur Grant. The inspector had just told the constable the disturbing information he’d learned from Smythe.

“That’s certainly possible, I suppose,” Witherspoon replied. He kept one eye on the entrance to the drawing room. “But Smythe seemed quite convinced the man was sincere. True or not, though, we must investigate it.”

“Too bad it’s Mordecai.” Barnes grimaced. “None of his lot will ever turn on him. Too many that’ve tried are dead.”

“Well, we can’t prosecute on rumors,” Witherspoon said dejectedly, “but on the other hand, according to what Smythe was told, this young woman wasn’t murdered.”

“But she’s still missin’.” Barnes didn’t like that. He didn’t like it one bit. Unlike the inspector, he wasn’t too sure that Mordecai’s boys had failed in their mission. As a gang leader, Mordecai wasn’t quite as stupid as some of the others operating out of the east end or the docks. The constable wouldn’t put it past the thug to put the word out that they’d failed when in reality, there was some poor woman at the bottom of the Thames trussed up like a Christmas goose.

“The butler said you wanted to see me,” Arthur Grant said as he entered the drawing room. “I can’t think why. I’ve already told you everything I know about this dreadful business.” He stalked across the room and came to a halt right in front of Witherspoon.

The inspector noticed the man’s face was haggard and thin, his pale complexion now almost a dead white, and there was a decided twitch in his right eye. “I’m afraid we’ve a few more questions we must ask you,” he told him.

“Questions? That’s ridiculous. What else could I tell you?”

“Where did Mr. Underhill conduct his business?” Witherspoon asked, thinking he might have to be careful in how he broached this interview. Arthur Grant looked as though he might faint.

“Conduct his business?” Arthur stammered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”

“He couldn’t have done business out of his lodgings, sir,” the inspector explained. “When his premises were searched there weren’t any invoices or records or ledgers or anything at all to support the notion that he made his living as an artists’ agent or broker.”

Arthur stepped back a pace. “Why are you asking me? I didn’t have anything to do with Underhill’s business. His coming round here on the day he died was purely a social call. We were social acquaintances, nothing more. I know nothing of his business affairs, absolutely nothing.” As he spoke he stepped farther and farther away from the two policemen.

“I’m afraid that’s not true, sir,” Witherspoon said, his gaze shifting slightly to one side as he spied Neville and Mary Grant standing in the drawing room door. “We
know for a fact that you were doing business with Mr. Underhill. That’s the reason you invited him here that day. Have you ever been to Mr. Underhill’s lodgings?”

Grant hesitated briefly. “Only once.”

“When was that, sir?” Barnes asked, looking up from his notebook.

“A few months ago.” Arthur’s eye spasmed furiously. “I went round for tea one afternoon. James had some new paintings he wanted to show me.”

“Only once, sir?” Witherspoon shook his head. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Arthur insisted, his voice rising shrilly. “Why shouldn’t I be sure?”

“Have you been there since Mr. Underhill was murdered?” Barnes asked calmly.

“No,” Arthur cried. “Absolutely not. Who told you I was there? If it was that pie-faced old hag of a landlady of his, she’s lying.”

“But she isn’t lying, sir,” Witherspoon said mildly. “Why would she? She’s no reason to tell us anything except the truth. Now, why don’t you tell the constable and I why you claimed to be a policeman and then spent the afternoon searching James Underhill’s lodgings? What were you looking for?”

“Nothing,” he blurted out. Then he clamped his hand over his mouth. “I wasn’t looking for anything.”

“But you admit you were there?”

“I’m not sure,” Arthur wailed. “Maybe I was. I don’t know. I’m confused.”

“Should we bring the landlady here to identify him, sir?” Barnes asked the inspector.

Arthur looked from one policeman to the other, his expression frantic. He still hadn’t noticed his father standing
behind him. “You don’t have to do that. All right, I’ll admit it. I was there. I did tell her I was a policeman. But that’s all I did. I didn’t kill him.”

“Then what were you looking for, sir?” the inspector pressed. “Why would an innocent man go to a dead man’s lodgings under false pretenses unless he had something to hide? What were you looking for that day, sir?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur cried passionately. “He told me he hadn’t kept them in his rooms but I didn’t believe him. Then when I saw he’d been telling the truth, that they weren’t there, you see, I knew they had to be somewhere. I knew I had to find them. I’ve got to find them. So I thought there might be a key. If I don’t, I’m ruined. Absolutely ruined.”

Neville stepped into the room, for once not thumping his cane loud enough to rattle the windows. But his son wasn’t aware of his father’s entrance. Arthur’s gaze was focused on the two policemen in front of him.

“Ruined, sir?” Barnes said gently. “In what way? Why don’t you just tell us the truth, sir? It’ll go easier on you in the long run.”

Arthur blanched at the constable’s comment. “I didn’t kill him,” he screamed. “I didn’t kill him. I don’t care what anyone says. I didn’t do it. I was going to pay him what he wanted. I had the money. I’d borrowed it from Aunt Helen.”

“For God’s sake, boy, shut up!” Neville thundered, poking his son in the back with his cane. “Don’t say another word.”

Arthur let out a squawk and whirled around. “Father? You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t do it.”

“
Shut up!
” Neville banged his cane against the floor.
“Do you hear me, boy? Be quiet.” He looked at the inspector. “Are you arresting my son?”

Witherspoon was quite taken aback. All he’d planned on doing was asking a few questions. “No. But we would like to ask him some more questions.”

Neville stared at the policeman speculatively, as though he was weighing his choices. “Does he have to answer them?”

“Your son cannot be forced to answer our questions,” the inspector replied. He’d no idea why the Grants were reacting like this, but both the father and the son now appeared almost frantic with worry. Witherspoon couldn’t readily see that he had any evidence to connect them to Underhill’s murder, but considering their suspicious behaviour, he decided to carry on. “However, we can ask him to accompany us to the station to help us with our inquiries.”

Everyone in the room knew what that meant. Arthur would, in fact, end up under arrest.

“I see.” Neville flashed a quick look at his son. “Tell them the truth, boy. Tell them now.”

“The truth?” Arthur’s voice shook. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Father…”

“Arthur, don’t be such an imbecile,” Neville snapped. He gestured at Witherspoon and Barnes. “They already know you were cooking up some silly scheme with Underhill. Now go ahead and tell them what it was so they’ll go away and leave us in peace. Whatever it was you were planning can’t be nearly as serious as a murder charge.”

Arthur’s mouth opened and closed, as though he were trying to speak, but no words came out.

Betsy dodged behind a tree and stared at the clearing. Two hundred feet ahead she watched the man she’d been following disappear through the door of a cottage—quite a large cottage, double storied and possibly with an attic on top, but nevertheless a cottage. A wooden fence, boards missing in spots, encircled an overgrown garden. The lawn was tufted with tiny hillocks, weeds sprouted in the flower beds and the stone walkway was cracked in several places.

The outside had once been white but was now a dull, dismal gray. Shutters, one of them hanging askew, banked the windows on either side of the door. No smoke came out of either of the chimney pots on the roof.

Betsy’s heart thumped against her chest as she tried to decide what to do. Walking boldly up to the door and demanding entrance might not be too smart, she thought, casting a quick glance around at the surroundings. This place was all by itself out in the middle of nowhere. If the man got stroppy, she might be in trouble. Goodness knows, she’d not passed another living soul for a good half hour, so if she got in trouble, screaming her head off wouldn’t do any good.

But she had a feeling about this place. Following the man from the gallery had been a risk, but now that she was here, she was almost certain she was on to something important. But what to do about it? Betsy surveyed the area. The clearing was a good two hundred feet long and at least that much wide. She couldn’t sneak up to the house from the front, but maybe there would be a bit more shelter from the back.

Betsy moved quietly from tree to tree, making her way around the house and keeping her eyes peeled to make sure she wasn’t seen. When she found herself standing directly in line with the corner of the house, she decided
to move closer. The trees were thinning off up the hillside, useless as hiding places. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the hem of her skirt and dashed across the clearing toward the side of the house.

Reaching it, she flattened herself against the wood and took a long, deep breath of air into her lungs. Along the side, there were two more windows. Both of them were shut, but even from where she stood, she could see that the curtains on the one closest to where she stood were wide open.

Betsy eased away from the building and edged closer to the window. She kept her head cocked to one side, listening hard for the sound of voices. Her foot hit a patch of mud and made an ugly squishing sound as she crept down the side.

Finally, she reached the window. She bent her knees and ducked down so that her head was under the sill. Slowly, carefully, Betsy raised up until she could see over the edge.

Her eyes widened and her heartbeat quickened. She’d been right to follow him. She’d been right all along. It had been a kidnapping and the proof of it was right in front of her.

Irene Simmons. A young, dark-haired woman sat less than five feet from where she stood. Betsy was sure it was her. The description they had of Irene matched this woman completely.

What to do now?

Through the window, Betsy heard the telltale squeak of a door opening. Then footsteps as someone came into the captive’s room.

Betsy pulled back out of view, flattening herself against the wall. What was she going to do? She had to do something.
That poor woman was at the mercy of some fiend.

Holding her breath, she took another quick peek. Her mouth gaped open in surprise at what she saw.

Irene Simmons, kidnap victim, appeared to be locked in a passionate embrace with a tall, dark-haired man. Irene wasn’t resisting the man. As a matter of fact, from where Betsy stood, it looked as if the girl was participating wholeheartedly.