12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (4 page)

“Don’t be absurd.” Underhill stopped. His fingers tightened against the wood. “Modean’s nothing. He’s just a stupid, colonial upstart who thinks because he’s made a bit of money he can buy art and culture the same way he buys mining shares or bonds. The man can barely read. No real education, no breeding, no family. Nothing but money. That’s all they care about in America. Money.” He continued down the stairs.

“Then it’s fortunate for Modean that he has so much of it.” Arthur said gleefully, taking such momentary
delight in reminding Underhill of today’s humiliation that he forgot Tyrell Modean and his American money were causing him a lot of trouble as well. “But rather unfortunate for us,” he amended quickly, hoping that Underhill hadn’t quite realized he was deliberately trying to bait him. Sometimes, Arthur lamented, he frequently let his mouth loose without thinking.

Underhill was no fool. He shot Arthur a withering glare as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Across the wide hall, they could hear the muted voices of the others.

Arthur swallowed nervously and stepped back a bit. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean…”

“Stop trying to goad me,” Underhill warned. “You haven’t the wit for it. In any case, without me, you’re in very deep trouble. Don’t forget that, my friend.”

Grant’s pale face turned even whiter. “But you will help me,” he pleaded, casting a quick glance toward the drawing room. “He’ll toss me out if he finds out. Yee gods, he’ll probably kill me. You promised…”

“I promised nothing,” Underhill interrupted. He was beginning to enjoy himself. The momentary shame at being reminded of Modean’s snub was washed away as he saw Grant cringing like a whipped pup. “This really isn’t my problem at all, is it?”

“It will be if it all comes out,” Grant blustered, his hazel eyes shifting between the drawing room and the man standing in front of him. “If I go down, you go down.”

“Do you really think he’ll believe you?” Underhill sneered, somewhat taken aback that the cowed pup had the nerve to fight back, even a little.

“Perhaps he won’t believe me, but the police will.” Grant appeared to gain courage as he spoke. “It’s not the first time you’ve done it. I know that much.”

Underhill watched him for a moment, his expression amused. “What you know is one thing. What you can prove is something else entirely. You weren’t complaining when you got your money, little man. I suspect the police will be interested in that too.”

Grant’s bravado deserted him completely. He lifted his hand and ran it nervously through his thin, blond hair. “Look, let’s not get silly over this. It’s in both our interests to cooperate with each other.”

Underhill’s lip curled in derision. “You really are a cowardly little whelp, aren’t you? Well, lucky for you I happen to need money. Otherwise, you’d be on your own. We made a deal and I kept my part of it. So if you want my help now, I suggest you keep your mouth shut and do precisely as I say.”

“Arthur.” Mary Grant’s voice interrupted their conversation.

The two men turned and saw the elegant middle-aged woman with graying blond hair and cool blue eyes standing in the doorway of the drawing room. “We do have guests, Arthur,” she said. “Would you and Mr. Underhill like to join us now or will you be having your tea in the hall?”

Arthur gulped. “We’ll be right there, Mama.”

She nodded regally and turned away. Underhill snickered. “You’re more scared of her than you are of him.”

Arthur would have dearly liked to deny it, but he couldn’t. He was frightened of his father. But he was positively terrified of his stepmother. “We’d better go in. She hates to be kept waiting.”

Underhill laughed aloud. He was going to enjoy annoying Mary Grant today. He owed her that much for the way she’d helped humiliate him earlier. But perhaps the pup
was right; perhaps he oughtn’t annoy the lady too much. Not just yet, anyway.

Together, the two men went into the drawing room just as a maid came up the hall pushing an elaborate tea trolley.

“Girl,” Underhill said to the maid, “go out in the garden and see if my mints are there. I think I left them on the table. They’re in a red-and-white tin.”

“Yes, sir,” the maid answered. She placed the trolley carefully in front of where Mary Grant was sitting and scurried off.

“Will your husband be joining us for tea, Mrs. Grant?” Tyrell Modean asked.

“Of course. He only went into his study for a moment. I believe he’s gone to get
The Times.
I think there’s a notice he’d like you to see. There are some old tapestry panels being offered for sale. Neville thought you might be interested in acquiring them for your museum.” She smiled warmly at the handsome American. Her smile slipped a bit when she glanced at Modean’s wife.

Lydia Modean was too beautiful to be liked and too rich to be ignored, despite the fact that she’d once made her living posing for half the artists in Soho.

A thumping came from down the hallway and Mary steeled herself to continue being gracious as her husband, deliberately slamming his cane against the floor, banged into the room.

His thinning white hair was disheveled, his watery eyes glittering with rage. “Call the police,” he thundered. “Someone’s stolen my paintings. My Caldararos. They’re gone!”

Inspector Gerald Witherspoon hoped he was doing the right thing. He slowed his pace as he walked up Holland Park Road. Perhaps he ought to have sent Wiggins or Smythe over to fetch Constable Barnes? But as the constable was off duty, he hadn’t wanted to bother him at home. Especially for something like this. So he’d decided to bring his coachman and footman along with him—unofficially, of course.

Still undecided, because what he was doing was highly irregular, Witherspoon stopped in the middle of the pavement. His two companions stopped as well.

“Is somethin’ wrong, Inspector?” Smythe inquired politely.

“No, no. I just needed to have a bit of a think. Was Miss Lanier absolutely certain of the address?” he asked. Perhaps he ought to have sent Miss Lanier to the police station, but she’d been so desperate, so distraught. He really hadn’t had the heart to refuse her request. Especially when she’d gone on and on about what a brilliant detective
he was and how she’d remembered his kindness and sensitivity from that awful Slocum murder. Then she’d started to cry and—well, to be honest, he’d have agreed to anything to get her to stop. So here he was, trotting along to some man’s house and preparing to ask a few uncomfortable questions. He hoped this Mr. Grant would be civil about it. Witherspoon brushed his doubts aside. Surely he wasn’t stepping out of line merely by making a few inquiries. After all, he was a police officer and a young woman had gone missing.

“Miss Lanier was certain of the address, sir,” Smythe replied. He hoped they’d done the right thing in having Nanette throw herself upon the inspector’s good nature. Cor blimey, he’d hate to see the inspector get the sticky end of the wicket over this, especially as it was really their problem, not his.

But none of the household had been able to resist, as Mrs. Jeffries had put it, “putting the cat amongst the pigeons.” If nothing else, it would get the servants at the Grant house gossiping and speculating. Always a handy situation when it came to solving cases, Smythe reckoned. “Number thirty-four, Beltrane Gardens. It’s just up there, sir,” he said.

Witherspoon stiffened his spine and charged ahead. Best to get this over with.

“No one’s stolen anything, Neville,” Mary said calmly. She smoothed the folds of her elegant brown tea gown. “Arthur suggested I send the Caldararos out to be cleaned before Mr. Modean’s expert has a look at them.”

“Who told you to do that?” Grant grumbled, more out of habit than anger. Mary, for all her shortcomings as a woman, was a jolly fine household manager. The paintings
had become a bit scruffy. He was just surprised that his half wit of a son had the foresight to suggest it.

Mary was unperturbed. “The frames were getting quite dirty. Now do sit down and have tea. Cook has surpassed herself this afternoon.” She surveyed the loaded trolley with a critical eye. There were two kinds of sandwiches, tongue and ham. Tea, of course, in the silver-plated pot as well as a smaller silver pot of coffee. A plate of balmorals sat beside a tray of fancy biscuits. Next to that was an urn of heavy cream, a perfect madeira cake and a Victorian sponge. She nodded, satisfied that her kitchen wouldn’t shame her in front of her guests.

“Everything certainly looks lovely,” Lydia Modean said quickly. She glanced at the others in the room. Nobody looked like they were having a very nice time.

Arthur Grant was perched on the edge of a chair, his fingers nervously scratching the silk lapels of his elegant gray frock coat. Neville Grant, dressed less formally in a black morning coat and wing-tipped collar, had thumped over and flopped down on the settee. Mary Grant was sitting behind the tea cart, her mouth curved in a slight smile, her eyes glittering coldly.

Lydia avoided looking at Underhill. Watching the man smirk at her when they’d been outside had been bad enough.

“Have you enjoyed your visit?” Arthur Grant asked timidly.

“Very much,” Tyrell replied graciously, though he’d already answered that same query out in the garden. “London is a beautiful city.” He patted his wife’s hand. “I do believe that Johnson was correct when he wrote, ‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, for there is in London all that life can afford.’”

“You’ve read Samuel Johnson?” Underhill inquired archly. “How fascinating. I hadn’t realized one could acquire a classical education in your part of the world.”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Tyrell merely shrugged. “San Francisco has many fine educational establishments. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to acquire much formal education. I’m basically self-educated. Like so many
successful
”—he stressed the last word ever so slightly—“men of my country, I relied upon myself, not my family, to make my way in the world.”

Underhill flushed angrily as the barb struck home. Everyone in the room knew he’d dissipated the fortune his family had left him. A series of disastrous investments had forced him to sell the once extensive Underhill art collection as well as the family estate. The only thing left was a small cottage out in some unfashionable part of the countryside. Underhill now made a living using the only skill he had. An eye for art. He hung about the fringes of the art world, brokering deals and acting as an art agent.

“And you, Mrs. Modean?” Arthur inquired hastily. “Are you enjoying your visit?”

“Yes,” she replied. “But I’m anxious to go home.”

“You don’t miss England, then?” Underhill asked. “I should think you’d miss your old friends.”

“My wife loves San Francisco,” Tyrell interjected smoothly.

Underhill ignored Modean and kept his attention fully on Mrs. Modean. “But surely you must miss the cultural aspects of our great city. I believe you were once quite involved with the art world yourself.”

Lydia stared at him for a moment, debating on whether or not to be openly rude. “I was an artists’ model,” she replied calmly, giving her husband a quick look. He gave
her a warm smile. “And to be perfectly honest, I’m afraid I’m not as enamored of London as Tyrell. I prefer the ‘cultural aspects’ of San Francisco. Last Saturday we went to a sale of supposed ‘Old Masters’ at Christie’s. There wasn’t anything worth mentioning in the whole lot.”

“I don’t know, my dear,” her husband said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I would have liked to have had that Morland.”

“Why?” Lydia countered bluntly. “You didn’t like it.”

“No,” he agreed, “but Morland’s work has continued to rise in value and it would have made a nice addition to the collection for the museum. Too bad that other fellow got his hands on it.”

“Did it sell for a lot of money?” Arthur asked.

Tyrell shook his head. “Not really. A few hundred pounds.”

“Three hundred and thirty-six pounds,” Underhill muttered. He knew precisely what everything in that collection had sold for. He’d been there. “If it wasn’t much money, why didn’t you buy it?”

“I didn’t want it that badly,” Tyrell answered, looking him straight in the eye, “and the other fellow did.”