12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (29 page)

Read 12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art Online

Authors: Emily Brightwell

Tags: #rt, #tpl, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

“She confessed?” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“Oh, yes,” the inspector said, “as soon as we brought in the art expert and the other set of Caldararos, the ones she’d sent out to be cleaned. We’d got those too, you see. So both sets were at the station. As soon as she saw all that, she told us everything.”

“Ya gonna tell us why she murdered Underhill?” Luty demanded.

“To stop him from selling the original Caldararos back to Arthur Grant,” Witherspoon explained. “Mary Grant knew all about how Arthur had sold the ones she’d brought to the marriage—the ones she’d used for a dowry—to Underhill. That was fine by her too. The last things she wanted was Underhill bringing those back to be authenticated.”

“But why?” Betsy asked. “If they was the ones she brung to the marriage, why would she want Underhill to have them?”

“She didn’t. But she didn’t want an art expert authenticating them either,” Witherspoon said. “You see, they were forgeries too. But, of course, that’s where I’d made
my mistake. I thought she’d murdered Underhill because she was angry at him.”

“Angry at him?” Mrs. Goodge repeated.

“Oh, yes. I thought she’d poisoned him because she was in love with him. Gracious, I oughtn’t to admit this, but I really had got it wrong. I thought that’s why she refused to admit to us that her sister was going to marry Underhill. She was in love with him herself.”

“But sir,” Mrs. Jeffries asked softly, “if she murdered him out of jealousy, why would she have wanted to get her hands on the parcel so badly?”

Witherspoon gave an embarrassed shrug. “I thought those paintings belonged to her sister, Helen Collier. It occurred to me that Mary Grant had bought herself a husband with her paintings so why shouldn’t her sister?”

“All right, Hepzibah,” Luty said as soon as the inspector had taken Fred outside. “Tell us how ya figured it out.”

“As I told you earlier, no one seemed to really benefit from Underhill’s death,” she explained. “No one liked him very much, but most of them weren’t better off with the man dead. I couldn’t see how anyone benefitted from his death except Irene Simmons. But she was completely out of the picture as she’d disappeared well before he ate those fatal mints. Last night, when the inspector told me that the poison had been found under Arthur’s mattress, I realized that the mints must have been tampered with that very day. That meant that Irene and Morante couldn’t have done the killing.”

“But ’ow’d ya figure it was her?” Smythe asked.

“I wasn’t sure until this morning,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “It was when the constable told us about the parcel coming up by train from Underhill’s cottage in Kent that it all
fell into place. I understood then that there was only one thing that could be in that package—the paintings. The ones Arthur Grant had paid Underhill to give him back. Then I asked myself who wouldn’t want the original paintings back—after all, if the originals were back in place and authenticated, the sale could go through and the Grants could pay off their creditors. Then I realized that Underhill might have been murdered to stop that from taking place. But why? Who would benefit from those paintings not being authenticated? There could be only one person. The person who’d originally brought them into the Grant household. Mary Grant. She didn’t want an expert seeing them because she knew they were fakes. She knew they were worthless. And she’d do anything, anything at all, to make sure her husband never found out.”

“But the ones she sent out to be cleaned were fakes as well,” Betsy said.

“But that worked to her advantage,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “Once Neville Grant found out what his son had done, he’d disinherit him. That was one of the things she wanted. Her husband is a very sick man. He probably won’t live much longer. He has nothing of value except his art collection. An art collection of real paintings she wanted to inherit. I’ll wager Mary Grant knew full well what Arthur had done. She probably encouraged James Underhill to set up the whole scheme. The last thing she wanted was Underhill sending her paintings back here. If it ever came out that she’d bought her way into this marriage with forged paintings, Neville Grant would have divorced her in an instant.” She smiled quickly at the cook. “We found out from Mrs. Goodge’s excellent sources that Mr. Grant wasn’t adverse to divorce. He was on the verge
of divorcing his first wife, Arthur’s mother, before she so conveniently died.”

“Cor blimey.” Wiggins gazed at her in admiration. “You’re really somethin’. Figurin’ all that out with just a few bits and pieces.”

“Don’t give me too much credit,” she told him. “Without the information all of you worked so hard to get, we’d have never discovered the truth. Don’t forget, Wiggins, it was you who told us about the footman who wasn’t at the house on the afternoon of the murder. That was on the day when you were sure you’d not found out anything worthwhile and that turned out to be a vital clue.”

“But how did you know that Mrs. Grant had searched Underhill’s pockets?” Betsy asked.

“I was guessing there,” she said. “But I remembered how the inspector had told me that none of the servants could recall letting Underhill into the house that day.” She faltered a bit and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “And, well, I’ve done the same thing myself with the inspector.”

“Mrs. Jeffries, you’re goin’ all red in the cheeks,” Wiggins pointed out.

Luty snickered. “Met him at the door so you could search his pockets, huh?”

“Only because I needed to borrow his spectacles,” she explained. “You know, for when we need a good excuse to go to the station or the scene of the crime the next day. But that’s what made me think that might be what happened. When you want to have a good look through someone’s pockets, you make sure you get to the door before the butler does.”

“Absolutely, madam,” Hatchet concurred. “No self-respecting butler would let the lady of the house take a gentleman’s coat.”

They talked about the case for another half hour, until the inspector, with a very tired Fred at his heels, came in from his walk and went up to bed.

Luty and Hatchet said their good nights after promising to come back the next morning for the delightful task of reliving the case from start to finish. Mrs. Jeffries went to make sure the back door was locked, Wiggins took Fred up to his room and Mrs. Goodge started to clear the table.

“I’ll do that,” Betsy volunteered. “You and Mrs. Jeffries go onto bed. I can tidy up.”

“Thanks, dear,” the cook said gratefully as she headed for her room. “I’ll tell Mrs. Jeffries you’re finishin’ up down here. She could do with a good night’s sleep herself.”

Betsy cleaned off the table, rinsed out the cups and saucers and emptied the last of the tea down the drain.

She’d just reached over to turn down the lamp when she heard footsteps on the stairs. “Oh, it’s you. I thought you’d gone to bed.”

“I come down to see if you needed any ’elp,” Smythe said. “It didn’t seem fair for you to ’ave to do all the tidyin’ up.”

“I don’t mind.” Betsy picked up the small lantern the household used at night.

“Betsy, I’m sorry I’ve been so…so…”

“Cold?” she supplied. “Is that the word you’re lookin’ for?”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, desperate to make things up with her. “But I was so scared when ya didn’t come ’ome, lass. It took me a day or two to get over it.”

She stared at him in the semidarkness. The way he’d acted towards her had hurt her feelings. Hurt her worse than she’d like to admit, and one part of her wanted to get
him back. But on the other hand, she hated being at odds with him.

“Look, I know you’re right annoyed with me,” he began.

“I’m not annoyed anymore,” she interrupted. “I can even understand a bit how you felt. I wouldn’t like walkin’ the floor and worrying myself sick over you, either.”

He broke into a broad grin.

“But I’ve done it a time or two and I’ve not treated you like you’ve got the plague just because you made me a bit anxious.”

He spread his hands helplessly. “I said I was sorry.”

“I don’t want you making a habit of this,” she warned, raising her hand to stop him. “The next time I might not be so forgiving.”

“I won’t,” he promised. He reached for the lantern. “’Ere, let me get that for ya. Would you like to go out with me tomorrow?”

“Out where?” But it was a silly question. She’d go anywhere with him.

“To the photographic exhibit at the Crystal Palace,” he said, taking her elbow and heading for the hall. “But there’s just one thing.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“We have to take Wiggins with us.”

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Berkley Prime Crime titles by Emily Brightwell

THE INSPECTOR AND MRS. JEFFRIES