12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (13 page)

“How much?”

“’Ow much ya want?” Betsy shot back.

“No reason to give me coin,” the woman said thoughtfully.

Betsy’s spirits soared.

“He’ll only take it off me afore I kin spend it,” she mumbled. “Likes his drink, he does, and me daughter’s bringin’ by a meat pie for me supper, so I don’t need no food.” She glanced down at Betsy’s feet again and then raised her chin, her face split in another toothless grin. “So I don’t really need yer coin, but I sure could use me a pair of decent shoes.”

The Dirty Duck public house was dark, dank and very much in keeping with its name. Filthy if one bothered to look. Not that seeing the grime was all that easy, Smythe thought, as he stepped into the public bar. The place was too dark to see much of anything at all. Even in the middle of the afternoon. Smythe didn’t consider himself all that picky. He’d lived rough plenty when he was a young man out in Australia, but he’d only set foot in this place for one reason. Luckily, that reason was sitting as big as life smack in front of the poxy little fireplace to one side of the bar.

Smythe made his way across the wooden floor, his feet crunching on the sawdust as he walked toward the table where one man sat alone, a tankard in front of him. The air was musty with the scent of stale beer, cheap gin and unwashed bodies.

“Afternoon, Smythe.” Blimpey Groggins smiled amiably and motioned at the empty bench on the other side of the rough hewn table. “Have a seat. Ain’t seen you in a while.”

Smythe looked at the barman. “Two more over ’ere, please,” he called and then sat down at the publican’s nod. “Afternoon Blimpey. Don’t mind if I buy ya a pint, do ya?”

Blimpey laughed. A round-cheeked fellow with ginger-colored hair, he wore an old, dirty porkpie hat and a ready smile. His brown-and-white checked jacket was topped by a bright red scarf tossed jauntily over his shoulder. “I’m not one to look a gift ’orse in the mouth, son. Ya know that. So, how ya been keepin’?”

“Same as always,” Smythe replied, digging some coins out of his pocket as the barman brought them their beer. “Ta,” he said and handed over the money. He waited till the man left then reached for his glass. “To yer ’ealth, Blimpey.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Blimpey raised his glass and tossed back a mouthful. But he kept his eyes on the coachman. Lowering his glass, he said, “What da ya need, son?”

Smythe grinned. “That’s one of the things I like about ya, Blimp, ya get right down to business.”

“It’s what makes the world go round,” Blimpey replied. “Now, what do you want this time?”

Smythe winced inwardly. One part of him felt downright guilty about this, but another part of him, the practical
part, didn’t see a blooming thing wrong with using his money to do what was right. It wasn’t that he couldn’t find out information about this case all on his own—he could and would. But using Blimpey’s considerable resources was faster and, if he were honest, easier. Besides, if he could help an old friend out with a few extra bob, where was the harm? “Same as always,” he replied.

Blimpey Groggins bought and sold information. He’d once been a thief and a pickpocket. But he’d discovered he could make far more money selling knowledge. As he’d been born with a phenomenal memory and a genuine fear of incarceration or even worse, transport to Australia, he’d changed his occupation when he’d almost been caught helping himself to a few pounds he’d found lying about in a silversmith’s till.

Blimpey took another swig. “Figured that when you walked in here. What kind ya need this time?”

“Just some general bits and pieces for right now,” Smythe said. “Fellow was poisoned—name was James Underhill. I want ya to find out what ya can about ’im,” Smythe began.

Blimpey raised his eyebrows. “Underhill’s dead?”

“Ya know ’im?”

Blimpey shrugged. “Course not, but I’ve heard the name.” He stroked his chin, his expression thoughtful. “Can’t remember where, but I know I’ve heard it a time or two.”

Smythe reconsidered. Blimpey having heard of the dead man cast the victim in a whole new light. “In that case, I’ll need to know all ya can find out and I’ll need it right quick. ’E’s supposed to be some kind of art broker or some such thing—”

“Art!” Blimpey slapped the top of the table. “That’s
it, then. That’s where I’ve heard of Underhill. His name come up when Jiggers tried to fence some paintings from a toss over in Mayfair.”

“Cor blimey, Blimpey, ’ave a care what ya say to me. I do work for a peeler,” Smythe warned. “As much as I appreciate yer ways of doin’ business, I’d just as soon not know the details of any out and out…bloomin’ Ada, you know what I mean.”

“Don’t get yer shirt in a twist, mate,” Blimpey replied. “Sometimes I forget who ya works for. How is the inspector?”

“’E’s fine. Now go on with what you were sayin’,” Smythe ordered. “What about Underhill?”

“Let me think how to say it now.” He grinned wickedly. “All right, then. Let’s say a friend of mine was tryin’ to sell some lovely paintin’s that had come into his possession. Imagine his surprise when he found out they wasn’t what he thought they was. Instead of bein’ some very valuable pictures what were done by some famous Italians a couple a hundred years ago, they was nothin’ but forgeries. Well, my friend, who’d gone to a great deal of trouble to acquire these wonderful works of art, was right narked about them bein’ nothin’ more than copies and so ’e did a bit of checkin’.” Blimpey picked up his drink and took a quick sip. “Seems this weren’t the first time somethin’ like this had happened. After a bit more checkin’, the name of Underhill cropped up.”

Smythe frowned. “You mean this thief was narked because he’d stolen forgeries?”

Blimpey nodded. “Narked enough to dig about and see what’s what. That’s when Underhill’s name come up. But as I remember it, no one could really find out all that much. I mean, let’s face it, Smythe, who ya gonna complain
to? The police?” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

“I see what ya mean,” Smythe muttered.

“I’ll see what more I can find out about the fellow,” Blimpey said easily. “Anything else ya need?”

“Quite a bit,” Smythe said. He didn’t completely understand whether Underhill was supposed to be a forger or a thief but decided it would be better to let Blimpey sniff about a bit before he worried about it anymore.

“Good. Nice to know I can count on you to give me a bit of business.” Blimpey finished off his drink and looked pointedly at his empty glass. “If we’re goin’ to be here awhile, I could use another round.”

“Order us another,” Smythe said, “because there’s a lot I’ve got to tell ya yet.”

“It’s goin’ to be complicated, is it?” Blimpey waved at the publican. “Complicated costs.”

“Don’t worry about the lolly,” Smythe replied. “I’m good for it.”

“I wasn’t questionin’ that,” Blimpey assured him. “I was just wonderin’ how fast you’re goin’ to be wantin’ some answers. I might have to put one of me boys on it and that’ll cost a bit more, that’s all.”

“Put whoever ya need to on it.” Smythe waved a hand dismissively. “’Cause I want answers quick and there’s a whole bunch of people I need to know about.”

“Which one of them do you believe, Inspector?” Barnes asked softly.

“I’m not sure,” Witherspoon replied. He kept his eye on the closed drawing room door, not wanting either Miss Collier or Mrs. Grant to pop in while he and the constable were trying to decide which one of them was a liar. “What
do either of them have to gain by lying? That’s the question, Barnes.” He sighed. “But, of course, at this point in the investigation, it’s too soon to answer that question.”

“Well, you can have another go at Miss Collier,” Barnes said. “Why did you want to question her again?”

“Because she was so hysterical this afternoon, I wasn’t able to get a complete statement out of her.” He frowned anxiously. “I do so hope she’s calmed down a bit.”

“We’ll know in a moment,” Barnes whispered as footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Helen Collier swept into the drawing room. Her face was swollen from weeping, she carried a crumpled handkerchief in her hand and her mouth trembled as she struggled to hold back her tears.

Witherspoon cringed. Drat. She didn’t look in the least calmed. Perhaps speaking to her now wasn’t such a good idea after all. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he said gently, “but, as I’m sure you realize, there are a few questions I neglected to ask when we spoke earlier today. But perhaps it would be best if I came back another time. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“No, Inspector.” She wiped her eyes and lifted her chin. “That won’t be necessary. I want to help. I’ll do whatever I can to bring James’s killer to justice. Ask me anything you like.” She took a deep breath, straightened her spine and then walked over to the settee. Sitting down, she folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him expectantly.

For a moment, the inspector couldn’t think of one single thing to ask.

It was the constable who came to his rescue. “Could you tell us if you know of anyone who disliked your…uh…fiancé?”

Grateful, Witherspoon nodded at Barnes and then focused his attention on Helen Collier. It wouldn’t do to be swayed too much by pity. But she was either genuinely distressed by the man’s death or one of the best actresses in the world. In the past few years he’d learned to be a bit careful of believing in appearances. Gracious, he’d seen murderers weep and wail over the corpses of their victims and then turn right around and do it again. Not that he thought everyone was prone to such behaviour. Oh no, but he’d learned to be cautious in his judgments. Miss Collier might appear to be most distraught, but that didn’t mean she could be eliminated as a suspect.

“Disliked him? You mean socially?”

“Did he have any enemies?” the inspector clarified.

“James had no enemies,” she declared.

“None?”

“None, Inspector,” she replied. “I’ve no idea why anyone would want to kill him. He was a gentleman.”

“Your sister insists that your relationship with Mr. Underhill was a business—not a social—relationship.”

“Must we go over this again?” Helen sighed wearily. “That is how we first met. James took care of selling my father’s art collection when he passed away. I’ll admit that Mary dealt with him more than I did. But the relationship wasn’t merely business, despite what my sister would have you believe. For God’s sake, he’s escorted the both of us to galleries and museums. He’s been here a dozen times for dinner or tea. I don’t know why Mary keeps insisting it was only a business relationship. That’s simply not true. We stopped at his country house a few weeks back on our way back from the north. I don’t understand it.”

“It’s quite natural for people to try and distance themselves from murder victims,” Witherspoon said softly.
“Did you know that your sister wouldn’t approve of your engagement to Underhill?”

“It made no difference whether Mary approved or not,” Helen declared. “I live in this house, Inspector, because it’s convenient. But I’ve my own money. Papa made sure of that.”

Witherspoon tried to keep from looking as surprised as he felt. Mary Grant had specifically claimed that her sister lived here because she had no money. Now Helen was saying just the opposite. But which of them was telling the truth? As he’d have to do some more digging to know the answer to this query, he decided to try another tactic. “Could you tell us what happened yesterday afternoon?”

“I’ve already made a statement.”

The inspector didn’t want to remind her that she’d been so hysterical she’d not made any sense. “We’d like you to go over it again,” he said tactfully. “There might be a detail or two that you can recall now.”

“The Modeans had been invited to tea.” She shrugged. “Neville wanted to sell his three Caldararo paintings to Mr. Modean. They were going to make the final arrangements yesterday afternoon.”

“So you went out into the garden when the Modeans arrived?” he persisted, hoping to get her to speak freely.

“No, Mary took Mrs. Modean into the garden,” she replied calmly. “Mr. Modean went into the study with Neville. I went out into the garden a few minutes after Mary and Mrs. Modean and then James and Arthur came out.”

“Why didn’t you go out with your sister and Mrs. Modean?” Witherspoon asked.