12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (3 page)

“She’s an artists’ model,” Nanette continued. “But Irene is a good girl, a decent girl. She is from a good family. They once had a bit of money, but when her parents died, she and her grandmother lost everything. I gave her a job working for me in zee shop…”

“I thought you said she was an artists’ model,” Wiggins asked.

“She is. But she only got her first modeling position a few months ago. A Spanish artist named Gaspar Morante happened to come into zee shop. He took one look at Irene and asked her to pose for him. He didn’t offer her much money, but I told her to do it because I knew it might lead to other work. To be honest, my own business hadn’t been so good.”

“So she doesn’t work for you now?” Smythe asked.

“Only occasionally,” Nanette replied. “Her
grandmère
is quite ill. Irene needed to make money to pay for her medicines and zee doctor.”

“So now she’s makin’ a livin’ posin’ for pictures?” Mrs. Goodge asked, her tone clearly indicating her thoughts on that kind of employment.

“She is a decent woman,” Nanette declared with a sniff. “She does not pose in zee nude even though zat ridiculous Englishman offered her a hundred pounds.”

Mrs. Jeffries reached over and patted Nanette’s arm. “No one is saying your Miss Simmons isn’t a perfectly nice woman…”

“That’s right,” Wiggins interrupted. “And even if she took all her clothes off, we’d still go out and look for her.”

“Really, Wiggins,” the cook snapped. “Please watch your tongue.”

Wiggins blushed a fiery red. “Sorry. What I meant to say was that no matter what Miss Simmons does for employment, we’d look for ’er if she’s missin’. No one deserves to be ignored just because they might be poor or different or…well.” He looked helplessly at the housekeeper. “You know what I mean, Mrs. Jeffries.”

“Of course we do, Wiggins, and I must say, you’re absolutely right.” She smiled approvingly at him and then turned to Nanette. “Do continue with your story. Miss Simmons came to have tea with you last week,” she prompted.

“It was quite late in zee afternoon. Irene, she was excited because she’d received an offer of employment. She was to go zat night and discuss the terms with zee artist. I walked her to zee corner, to zee omnibus stop, and waited with her till it came. Zat was the last time I saw her.”

“Do you know where she was going?” Betsy asked. “Do you have an address?”

“To a house on Beltrane Gardens. Zat’s why Irene was so excited. The address was very fashionable, and she was sure she’d get a good wage,” Nanette explained. “But she never came home. Zee next morning, her
grandmère
came down to zee shop and told me Irene’s bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“What did you do?” Betsy asked.

“As I told you, I went to zee police. I was afraid there’d been an accident. But Irene, she wasn’t in any of zee hospitals and zee police hadn’t found any bodies without zee names.”

“Huh?” Wiggins said.

“She means unidentified bodies,” the housekeeper clarified.

“Zat’s right. There were no unidentified bodies.” Nanette pursed her mouth in disgust. “I even gave them zee address of zee house Irene went to, but zhey did nothing. Zee man who owns zee house told zem Irene never arrived. He is lying.”

“Why do you think ’e’s lyin’?” Smythe asked.

“Because I know Irene,” Nanette declared. “I know she went to zat house. She needed zee work so badly she wouldn’t have dared not gone. Zat’s how I know he is lying…zat stupid old man. He’s lying about Irene and zee police will do nothing…” Nanette broke off and launched into French with such speed and fury that everyone around the table was rather glad they couldn’t understand what she was saying.

When the storm had passed, she got a hold of herself, wiped her wet eyes and said, “Please forgive me, but Irene is very dear to me, like a sister. I’m alone in zhis country. She and her
grandmère
aren’t just my neighbors, but my family. I know zat Mr. Grant is lying. Why, he even
claimed he hadn’t sent zee note asking Irene to come. But he had sent it…I saw it with my own eyes.”

“You saw it?” Mrs. Jeffries said. There were a dozen different explanations as to why the girl hadn’t arrived at the house, but for now, they’d accept Nanette’s assumption that the girl had indeed arrived at her destination that evening.

“
Oui
,” Nanette cried, “and there is nothing wrong with my eyes. Irene did not write zat note to herself.”

“So you’re suspicious of this, er…Mr. Grant because you think he lied to the police,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“He is lying! It was his notepaper. It had his name and address on it. Neville Grant. Thirty-four Beltrane Gardens, Holland Park.”

Smythe sucked in his breath. “Cor blimey, that’s right near ’ere.”

“Does Irene have a sweetheart?” Betsy asked softly.

“
Non.
” Nanette shook her head. “There is no one. Several young men have been interested, but Irene is devoted to her
grandmère.
She would never desert her to run off with someone.”

“Maybe somethin’ ’appened to ’er after she left the Grant ’ouse?” Wiggins suggested. “You said yourself it were evenin’. Maybe somethin’ ’appened to ’er after she come out?”

“I don’t believe zat,” Nanette said emphatically. “If she’d been there and gone, zhen why would zis man keep lying to zee police? He claims she was never there at all and I know she was.”

“Perhaps someone was playing a trick on her?” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.

“I thought of zat,” Nanette replied, “but zhen again, why wouldn’t Grant admit she’d come to the door and
zhey’d sent her off? But he said she was never there. I know she was. I saw her get on zee omnibus.”

“That doesn’t mean Irene didn’t get off somewhere between the stop and the Grant house,” Betsy pointed out. “Perhaps she stopped off to buy something at the chemist’s?”

“Impossible,” Nanette insisted. “She hadn’t enough money.”

“None at all?” Mrs. Goodge asked suspiciously.

“None.” Nanette snorted delicately. “I had to loan her zee fare for zee omnibus. Zee next day, Madam Farringdon, one of my customers, came into zee shop. She mentioned zat she’d seen Irene on zee omnibus zee night before. Of course I questioned her, because I knew by zat time zat Irene hadn’t come home. Madam said zat Irene and she had gotten off zee omnibus together and even walked up Holland Park Road. Madame left her at zee corner of Beltrane Gardens. That’s only a very leetle distance from zee Grant house. What could have happened to Irene? It was a public street and she only had to walk a leetle ways to her destination.”

“Had it gone dark by then?” Smythe asked.

Nanette nodded. “Yes, but when Madam Farringdon left Irene, she didn’t have far to go.”

“’Ow was Miss Simmons plannin’ on gettin’ ’ome?” Wiggins asked.

Nanette shrugged. “I lent her money for a hansom. I didn’t want her on zee streets too late at night. Why?”

“I was just wonderin’,” he mumbled.

“Will you help me?” the Frenchwoman pleaded. “Her
grandmère
is frantic with worry, and so am I. I can pay you for your trouble.”

There was an immediate chorus of protests. But it was
Smythe’s harsh tones that stood out. “We ’elp people because it’s right, not because we’re wantin’ to make a bob or two.”

“We’re not a private inquiry firm.” Mrs. Goodge sniffed.

“Please excuse me.” Nanette’s pretty blue eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“None is taken,” Mrs. Jeffries said calmly. There were a number of things to consider before they leapt into this venture. The main one being that they might not have any more luck in locating this poor woman than the police had. “But before we can agree to assist you, we really must discuss it among ourselves.”

Nanette leapt to her feet. “I’ll step outside in zee garden for a few minutes. Will zat give you enough time?”

Taken aback, Mrs. Jeffries could only nod. She’d rather thought they might have the whole evening to discuss the matter, but as Nanette was already scurrying toward the back door, there wasn’t much she could do about it. She waited till she heard the door close before turning to the others. “What do you think?”

“We should ’elp ’er,” Wiggins said quickly. “Poor lady’s in a state, worryin’ about ’er friend.”

Mrs. Goodge sighed. “Well, it’s not a murder,” she began, “but finding this model is better than sittin’ around here twiddling our thumbs.”

“I don’t know.” Betsy glanced toward the back hall and shook her head. “We’ve never really done anything like this and if the girl’s been gone a week…”

“You think she’s already dead?” Smythe said bluntly.

“I’m not saying that,” Betsy explained. “But there’s something funny about the whole thing.”

Mrs. Jeffries rather agreed with the maid’s assessment.
But she didn’t want to give her opinion until everyone had been heard from. “Smythe, what do you think?”

Smythe leaned back and folded his arms across his massive chest. “Betsy’s right. Somethin’ strange is goin’ on. But I don’t think the girl’s dead. I think someone’s got ’er.”

“You don’t think she’s dead? Goodness. Why?” Mrs. Jeffries was curious as to his reasoning.

“Because Nanette’s already been to the police about this and even though she claims they ain’t doin’ nothin’ about it, they probably are. Since this awful Ripper case, they’re under a lot of pressure when it comes to missin’ young women. Maybe they haven’t brought this Grant feller in for questionin’, but you can bet your last farthin’ they’re watching the morgues and the ’ospitals.” Smythe shrugged. “Probably watchin’ ’im, as well.”

“What are you sayin’?” Wiggins scratched his chin.

“I’m sayin’ ’er body ’asn’t turned up,” Smythe replied softly. “And there’s not many places in a crowded city to hide a corpse.”

“What about the river?” Mrs. Goodge put in quickly. “That’s a good place to get rid of it.”

Smythe shook his head. “It woulda floated up by now and someone would’ve seen it.”

“So what do you think’s happened?” Betsy prodded.

“I think she’s been kidnapped,” he said seriously.

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure she would go that far, but there was enough to Nanette’s tale to warrant a futher look. “What do you all think? Should we agree to help find this young woman?” She looked around the table at the others.

“I think we ought to,” Betsy declared. “We can find out if she went into the Grant house if nothing else.”

“I’m for it,” Smythe agreed. “Mind you, I don’t think
we’re goin’ to have much more luck than the police…”

“Of course we will,” Mrs. Goodge scoffed. “We’ve got ways of findin’ things out that the police don’t.”

“That’s true,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. They were quite good at digging out information. Even Mrs. Goodge, who never left the kitchen, could find out just about anything about anyone who was important in the city. But then, the cook had a veritable army of people marching through her domain. Tradesmen, delivery boys, costermongers, chimney sweeps and laundrymen. She kept them well supplied with sweet cakes and tea while she ruthlessly pumped them for every morsel of information there was to be had. “We’re agreed, then. We’re going to help?”

Everyone nodded. Wiggins got to his feet. “I’ll just nip out and get Miss Lanier.”

Mrs. Jeffries raised her hand. “Not yet. I think we ought to bring the inspector into this.”

“What for?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “He’ll not be able to do anything the police haven’t already done.”

“On the contrary. According to what Nanette told me earlier, a police constable has gone to the Grant house twice requesting information. They didn’t even get inside the place.”

“So what good would it do to get the inspector involved?” Smythe asked.

Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “Ah, but he’s not a constable, is he? It’s a far different matter when an inspector shows up on your doorstoop and starts asking questions. If nothing else, it will put the cat among the pigeons…”

Smythe chuckled. “I see what you’re gettin’ at.”

“I don’t,” the cook demanded.

“Simple, Mrs. Goodge. If someone in that house knows anything about Irene Simmons, the inspector showin’ up
and askin’ a few questions might loosen a few tongues.”

“I say, Mrs. Modean is quite a lovely lady, isn’t she?” Arthur Grant said to his companion as they paused at the top of the stairs and watched the couple below entering the drawing room.

James Underhill shrugged and patted the pocket of his elegant black jacket, checking to see that he had his box of mints handy. Damn, they were gone. He’d probably left them out in the garden earlier. “She’s beautiful, but hardly a lady. She was a model before Modean married her. I ought to know. I’m the one who introduced them.”

Grant gave Underhill a knowing smirk. “I fancy you wouldn’t say something like that within earshot of her husband.” He was satisfied when he saw a quick flush creep up Underhill’s cheek. The man didn’t like being reminded of their earlier meeting with the American. “Modean doesn’t appear to like you very much.”

“We’ve had dealings before,” Underhill muttered. He started down the stairs, one well-manicured hand clasped lightly onto the polished mahogany banister.

“He seems a cultured sort, for an American.” Arthur fell into step next to Underhill.