12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (8 page)

“We are gettin’ started,” Mrs. Goodge interrupted, “and as we don’t even know for sure that Underhill’s been murdered, I agree with Betsy. It isn’t fair that the men can go out and about at night lookin’ for clues and we can’t.”

“But you never leave the kitchen,” Wiggins protested.

“That’s not the point,” the cook replied stoutly.

“Really, everyone,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “Let’s calm down a moment. There’s no need for us to be interrupting one another and making accusations. Betsy”—she looked at the maid—“I quite agree with Smythe. It is important that we get started right away. We are investigating two possibly separate matters. If he can find out a few more facts about either situation, I think he ought to go.” She glanced at Wiggins. “But I quite agree with Mrs. Goodge as well. It isn’t fair that a female can’t walk the city streets at night the way a man does. Now, can we please put our attention back to the immediate problems at hand?”

“I know what I’ll be doin’ tomorrow,” the cook said.
“I’ll be getting my sources primed and while I’m at it, I’ll find out what I can about Irene Simmons.”

“What do ya want me to do?” Wiggins asked.

“Get as much information as you can from the servants in the Grant house. Find out who was there, what their relationships to one another are and if any of them had a reason for wanting Underhill dead,” she said crisply. “Also, see if any of the staff knows anything about Irene Simmons.”

“Cor blimey.” Wiggins blinked in surprise at the enormity of his task. Then he saw the teasing glint in the housekeeper’s eyes. “Oh, I get it. Find out what I can.”

“That’s right.” She laughed.

“What’ll you be doin’, Hepzibah?” Luty asked curiously.

“To begin with, I shall wait up for the inspector and find out what he’s learned this evening,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Tomorrow, I do believe I’ll make a couple of calls.”

“To who?” Smythe asked.

“Dr. Bosworth and Nanette Lanier.”

“I can see why you want to talk to the good doctor,” Hatchet said, “but why are you going to see Miss Lanier? Hasn’t she already told you everything she knows about Miss Simmons’s disappearance?”

“Indeed she has.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “But I want to find out what she knows about James Underhill.”

Witherspoon’s ears were ringing by the time he finished taking Neville Grant’s statement. The man didn’t believe in speaking below a roar. He winced as the drawing room door slammed shut violently behind Grant.

“He wasn’t very helpful, was he, sir?” Barnes asked,
glancing down at his notebook. “Perhaps one of the others will be more forthcoming.”

“Excuse me, sir.” Constable Martin stuck his head into the room. “But the American gentleman wants to know if he and his wife can leave now.”

“Could you just send them in here, please?” the inspector instructed. “I’d like to take their statements before they go.”

“Yes, sir,” the constable replied.

“You’re going to interview them together, sir?”

“I’m not sure I ought to be questioning them at all.” Witherspoon rubbed his eyes and fought back a yawn. “They’ve probably got nothing to do with the fellow’s death, even if it is a murder. Neville Grant told us they only arrived from America recently, so I don’t see how they could have disliked Underhill enough to poison the fellow.”

A few moments later, Constable Martin ushered in the Modeans. The inspector introduced himself and Barnes. Tyrell Modean—a tall, dark-haired man with gray sprinkled at his temples and a rugged, tan complexion—was a good ten years older than his beautiful, auburn-haired wife. Lydia Modean wore a bronze-colored day gown that rustled faintly as she crossed the room. The dress was simple with only a decorative fichu of cream lace at the base of her slender throat. But from the cut of the fabric and the way it fitted against her slender frame, it was obviously expensive, even to Witherspoon’s less-than-experienced eyes. She wore no jewelry save for an ornately filagreed gold wedding band. The inspector noted her husband wore one just like hers.

When she spoke, his surprise was obvious. “You’re English?”
he asked. He’d assumed that, like her husband, she was from America.

“Born in Bristol,” she replied with a slight smile.

“Excuse me, Inspector, but how long is this going to take?” Tyrell asked. “It’s been quite an ordeal for both of us.”

“I appreciate that,” Witherspoon answered, “but there are a few questions I need to ask. I’ll be as quick as possible. Why don’t you both have a seat?” He gestured towards the settee.

Modean looked for a moment as though he were going to refuse, then he sighed, took his wife’s arm and gallantly seated her before sitting down himself. “What do you want to know? All we can tell you is what we saw.”

“That’ll be fine, sir. Do go ahead.”

“We’d just sat down to have tea when all of a sudden, Underhill started making these noises, kind of a coughing sound. At first I thought he’d swallowed the wrong way or was just coughing to clear out his throat. Then I realized the poor devil was choking. I jumped up and tried to help.” He shrugged defeatedly. “Slapped him on the back and got his collar undone, but nothing seemed to do any good. He just kept wheezing and coughing and making these god-awful noises. I thought he must be having a fit of some kind. His body was jerking so hard he fell off the settee. We got him onto his back, but that didn’t do any good either. He just thrashed about for a few minutes and then died.”

“I see,” Witherspoon said slowly. “Was today the first time you’d met James Underhill?”

“No.” Modean shook his head. “I’d met him a number of years ago. We didn’t really travel in the same circles, but I had run across him before.”

“James Underhill introduced the two of us,” Lydia Modean put in quickly. “It was several years ago. Tyrell bought some Flemish watercolors from him.”

“You’re an art dealer, sir?” Witherspoon asked, thinking him a gallery owner from America.

Modean laughed. “I’m a businessman, Inspector. I’ve a number of irons in the fire back home. Banking, hotels, investments. My vocation is making money, but my great love is art. That’s why we’re here. I’m negotiating with Mr. Grant to buy three Caldararos.”

“Mr. Underhill was an art dealer?” the inspector commented.

“I wouldn’t really say that.” Modean leaned back against the cushions. “I think ‘art dealer’ is a bit more formal for what he actually did. The man didn’t own a gallery or anything like that, Inspector. He’s more what one would call an art broker. By that I mean that he seemed to always know who was buying and who was selling.”

“Was Mr. Underhill involved in your negotiations with Mr. Grant?” Witherspoon asked.

“Absolutely not,” Modean replied bluntly. “I don’t know why Underhill was here today, but it had nothing to do with us.” He shot his wife a quick glance. “I just assumed he was a guest of the Grants.”

“I see,” the inspector murmured. “You were invited for tea?”

“Right. But as Grant and I had business to discuss, Mrs. Grant asked us to come early.”

“Exactly what time did you arrive, sir?” Barnes asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Four o’clock, dear,” Lydia said. “You and Mr. Grant joined us in the garden about four-fifteen.”

Witherspoon wasn’t sure precisely what he ought to be asking. It was decidedly awkward questioning people when one wasn’t even sure a murder had taken place. “So Mr. and Mrs. Grant were there, as were the two of you. Anyone else?”

It was Lydia who answered. “Helen Collier, Mrs. Grant’s sister, was also there, as was Arthur Grant and, of course, Mr. Underhill.”

“Arthur Grant?” The inspector vaguely recalled seeing a pale, fidgety young fellow when he’d first arrived. “Is he Mr. Grant’s grandson?”

Lydia’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Arthur is his son, Inspector. By his first wife.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I suppose Mr. Arthur Grant’s antecedents are really neither here nor there.”

“Inspector,” Tyrell said, “I don’t really know what else my wife or I can tell you. We arrived here at about four, I spent ten minutes in the study with Mr. Grant discussing business, then we sat in the garden with the others until tea was served. We’d only been in the drawing room a few moments before Underhill died. It was a perfectly ordinary, civil, if somewhat boring afternoon. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a rather trying day. I’d like to take my wife back to the hotel.”

Witherspoon concentrated hard, trying to think if there was something else he ought to ask, but nothing came to mind. “Of course, sir.”

Modean and his wife stood up. She sagged against him gently and he put his arm around her shoulders. “If you need to ask us anything else, we’ll be at your disposal. We’re at the Alexandra in Knightsbridge.”

It was quite late by the time the inspector came home that night, but Mrs. Jeffries waited up for him. She took his hat and coat. “I dare say, sir, you must be exhausted. Wiggins and Smythe told us what happened.”

“I am a bit tired,” he admitted.

“Would you care for some tea before you retire, sir?” she asked. “I’ve just made a fresh pot.”

“That would be lovely, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon agreed eagerly.

“Let’s go into the drawing room, shall we?” The housekeeper led the way, clucking sympathetically as she ushered him into his favorite chair and poured his tea.

“I say, Mrs. Jeffries, I went out in such a rush after Miss Lanier’s visit that I forgot to ask if there was any word from Lady Cannonberry.”

Lady Ruth Cannonberry was their neighbor—a very special friend of the household and, most important, the inspector. She’d been gone now for more than a week on a duty visit to relatives. Inspector Witherspoon missed her dreadfully. “We had a short note saying she’d arrived safely but her plans hadn’t changed.” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “She’ll be back next week.”

Mrs. Jeffries continued. “Now, sir. What do you think has happened? Wiggins and Smythe both seemed to think you’d decided this Mr. Underhill had been murdered.”

“I’m not certain of that,” Witherspoon replied. “But the death was suspicious enough that I began an immediate investigation.”

“Yes,” she agreed, watching him carefully. “Wiggins told us about Dr. Bosworth’s idea. What do you think, sir? Was the man poisoned?” She was quite certain that Bosworth was right, but her main goal right at the moment
wasn’t to establish the facts in the case—it was to get her employer talking.

“We won’t know for sure until after the postmortem.” Witherspoon took a sip of tea, sighed in satisfaction and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes.

Alarmed, Mrs. Jeffries quickly said, “What do your instincts tell you, sir?” She firmly squashed the nagging guilt that crept up on her. The poor man was tired. His face was pale, his thin brown hair disheveled and behind his spectacles, his eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. Even his mustache seemed to droop in weariness.

“Huh?” He blinked. “Oh, sorry, must have dozed off. What did you say?”

“I asked what your instincts told you about this case, sir.”

He hesitated. Unlike his housekeeper, he wasn’t certain he trusted his instincts all that much. Sometimes they played him false.

“Come now, sir, you mustn’t be modest with me. I know you must have some feel for what happened to James Underhill. You’re far too brilliant a detective not to have sensed something from the atmosphere surrounding the man’s death. Please do tell me.”

Pleased by her faith in him, he smiled. Perhaps he was simply tired tonight. It had been rather a long day. His “inner voice” or instincts were really quite sound. Quite sound, indeed. After all, as she’d just reminded him, he was a brilliant detective. One of Scotland Yard’s finest. He’d solved any number of tricky murders. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but it’s my considered opinion that the man was murdered. As a matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”

“How very astute of you, sir.” She reached for her cup. “Do go on.”

Suddenly, the inspector wasn’t as tired as he’d been only a few moments ago. “Well, I must say, one of the things that led me to my conclusion was the way the rest of the guests in the house behaved,” he explained eagerly. “Not one of them seemed in the least upset that he was actually dead. As a matter of fact, they were more annoyed at being inconvenienced than anything else. That’s always a pertinent clue, I think. Whether or not people actually cared about the victim. I sensed that no one really liked James Underhill and it’s often been my experience that people who aren’t well liked frequently end up murdered.”