12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (19 page)

Lydia smiled reassuringly at her husband and then turned her attention to the inspector. “James Underhill. It was one of his tricks. Believe me, I know. He did the same thing to me.”

Wiggins spotted her as she hurried up the road toward the train station. He stepped away from the lamppost he’d
been leaning on and dashed out to meet her. “I was afraid you’d changed yer mind,” he said.

“Not likely.” She shrugged. “I like my days out. Don’t get ’em often enough if you ask me.” As she spoke, her gaze was glued to the parcel in his hand. “Can I have it?”

From the eager expression on her face, Wiggins was afraid she’d snatch it and run off before he had a chance to talk to her. “Let’s move over there,” he said, jerking his head toward the railway station. “We’re in the middle of the pavement ’ere.”

“It’s mine, isn’t it?” Cora’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Course it is.”

“Then just give it to me,” she demanded. “I can take it with me.”

“But won’t they ask you questions if you come in with a nice package like this?” Wiggins’s heart was sinking. The girl obviously wanted to be off.

“No. The household is strict, but they don’t go snoopin’ about in my parcels.” She held her hand out.

“’E said I was to watch ya open it,” Wiggins fibbed. He didn’t like lying to the girl. She was suspicious and he didn’t much blame her. Lots of bad things could happen to a girl if she wasn’t careful. “Come on, let’s just step over there and ya can open it and I’ll be able to tell ’im what ’e wants to ’ear and then everybody’ll be happy as larks.”

“All right.” She turned and flounced over to stand next to the station building, taking care to keep to one side of the steps to stay out of the way. “Can I have it now?”

“’Ere,” he said, handing it to her. Frantically, he tried to think of something to keep her from leaving. He had to talk to her. He couldn’t go back to this evening’s meeting
with nothing. And that little bit he’d gotten out of the shopkeeper wasn’t worth repeating.

She stared at the parcel for a moment and then ripped off the paper. Her somber expression changed as the last of the wrapping came away and the delicate pink roses on the top of the tin came into view.

“Oh, my,” she breathed, “these are lovely. I’ve never had anything like it.”

Wiggins was delighted she liked them, so delighted that for a brief moment, he almost forgot their true purpose. “Good, I’m glad you’re pleased…” He amended his sentence as she looked up at him, her expression sharp: “I mean, I can tell ’im you like ’em. He spent a pretty penny on ’em, that ’e did.” Well, he thought, it was true, they had cost plenty. Not that he begrudged them. Thanks to their own mysterious benefactor at Upper Edmonton Gardens, he wasn’t short of cash anymore.

“Who sent them?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t rightly know.”

“What do ya mean, you don’t know?” she demanded.

“I didn’t know the bloke, he just come up and give me a bob to bring ’em to ya.” He stepped away from the building. “Now that I’ve done it, I’ve got to be off.”

She took the bait. “Here, wait a minute. I’ve a few more questions for you. I thought you said he wanted you to watch me open it? Made a big fuss about it, you did. How’s he goin’ to know you watched me if you don’t even know who he is?”

“I’m meetin’ him at the pub this evening.”

“Which pub?” she persisted. A mysterious suitor who had the money to buy a girl expensive chocolates was worthy of a few more minutes of her time.

“I’ve got to go,” he insisted. He started purposefully
down the road. “You can walk with me if you’d like,” he called over his shoulder.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then her curiosity got the better of her and she fell into step beside him. “What did this fellow look like?”

“He was about my height and my colorin’,” Wiggins said cheerfully. “’Andsome bloke, he was.”

“It’ll cost you a shilling, miss,” the man said politely. “But it’s well worth it.”

Betsy gave him her best smile. She’d come all the way over to King Street, specifically to this art gallery, for one reason and one reason only. Information. She didn’t mind spending a shilling to get it, either. But if the old woman had been right, she wouldn’t have to. Her quarry was right in front of her. “I’m sure it is. Are you an artist?”

The man behind the counter blushed. He was quite young, but his light brown hair had already started to recede, his skin was pale and he had a goatee. “Well, yes, I am. I’m only working here so I can earn enough to buy my paint and canvas.”

“Then your paintings aren’t on exhibition?” She feined disappointment.

He laughed. “Me? At Mr. J. P. Mendoza’s St. James Gallery? Not yet. Maybe one day.”

She smiled brightly. “Is Mr. Morante’s work on view today?”

The boy-man gaped at her in surprise. “Morante?”

“Gaspar Morante,” she replied. “Surely you’ve heard of him. He’s a Spanish artist. Quite talented, I’m told.”

“I’ve heard of him, all right,” he shot back. “He’s a friend of mine. I’m just surprised you’ve heard of him—”

“Why?” she interrupted, needing to keep control of the conversation. “Isn’t he any good?”

“I didn’t mean that,” he said quickly, shaking his head in confusion, which was exactly the state Betsy wanted him in. “Alex is real good. He’ll probably be famous one day, but he’s not done much exhibiting.”

“I was told his work was on display here”—she pointed to the door of the gallery—“and that the artist himself would be here as well. It’s important that I speak to him. I’ve a commission for him.”

“A commission? For Alex?” His eyes narrowed angrily. “Look, I don’t know who you’ve been talkin’ to, but he doesn’t do that kind of thing anymore.”

Betsy hid her surprise. “Well, I’ve been told he does,” she countered, playing the situation by instinct. “If the price is right, that is.”

“You’ve been talking to the wrong people, then. Because it’s not true.”

“Why don’t you let him decide that?” Betsy hoped she wasn’t making a terrible fool of herself.

“I know what you want,” the man sneered, “but you’re not going to get it. Not this time. Now shove off before I call the police.”

“Call the police? For what? Asking a few simple questions?”

“Don’t act the innocent,” he hissed. He leaned toward her menacingly, lifting the wooden partition that separated him from the customers.

“Hey, what’re ya doin’?” Betsy jumped back a pace. She could make a run for it if she had to, but not before she got the most out of this fellow.

With the partition half raised, he hesitated and looked behind him toward the double front doors of the gallery.
Obviously, leaving his post wasn’t what he really wanted to do. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave him alone,” he warned. Slowly, he lowered the partition back into place. Betsy breathed a little easier.

“Like I said,” he continued, his voice harsh with menace, “he doesn’t do it. He never did. Those other times were accidents. He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t do it deliberately. So go back and tell whoever it is you’re working for that it’s not on. Now get out of here.”

Betsy suspected she’d gotten all she could get out of the man. He’d calmed down too much and seemed to have more control over his emotions. She backed away. “All right, all right. Just tell him there’s a job for him if he’s interested.”

“He’s not. Now get off.” He snarled.

“Why don’t you let him speak for himself?” she challenged again. Maybe she could goad the man into telling her where he was.

He laughed harshly. “Do you think I’m a fool? Now get out of here and don’t come back.”

Betsy turned and walked away.

But she didn’t go far. Only to the next corner where she ducked around a lamppost, whirled back toward the direction in which she’d just come and then planted herself there firmly. From where she stood, she could see the front of the gallery. She stood there for a moment, taking deep breaths and thinking about what had just happened.

Alex? Who was that? It had to be Gaspar Morante. Betsy rolled her hands into fists in an agony of indecision. She might be barking up the wrong tree. She’d no real proof that Morante had anything to do with Irene’s disappearance. But she was tired of coincidences. Morante had disappeared from his lodgings on the same day Irene
had. And now this. All she’d done was make a few casual remarks and Morante’s friend had gone from being friendly to threatening. That was odd.

No, she thought, the fellow’s behaviour was more than odd. He’d been scared. She’d seen it in his eyes even when she’d been backing up and getting ready to make a run for it herself. But why was he frightened? What did it mean?

She mentally debated what the wisest course of action would be. She could go back to Upper Edmonton Gardens and tell the others…yes, that’s what she ought to do. Then she glanced up at the sky. The sun was moving steadily westward. It was getting late and the gallery closed at six. She couldn’t make it all the way back home, explain what had happened and then get back here before her quarry got away. She couldn’t risk it.

Betsy took a deep breath and made her decision. There was really only one sensible course of action. Surely Smythe and the others would understand.

A woman’s life might be at stake.

“Can’t say that there’s many mournin’ the feller,” Blimpey said casually as he lifted his tankard and took a long sip. “Underhill weren’t popular.”

Smythe nodded, encouraging Blimpey to go on.

“Bit of a toff,” Blimpey continued, “but as crooked a gent as has ever walked this earth. Came from a right good background,” he said eagerly. “Like I said, a toff he was. This is where it gets interestin’—that’s usually who he was swindling. His own kind.”

“He was a swindler?” Smythe said.

“Not in the sense that ya normally think of it. He was kinda special in what ’e did.” Blimpey wiped his mouth
with the sleeve of his jacket. “Let me tell ya what I found out. Seems he was an artist’s agent of some sort.”

“I already knew that,” Smythe said dryly. He forced himself to concentrate on his companion. But it was ruddy hard. His mind kept wandering back to Betsy. What was she up to now? She’d been blooming secretive about what she was doing today and he didn’t like it.

“Yeah, well, what you don’t know is that he wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up. Most of his clients or customers or whatever didn’t know it, either. But some of ’em did.” Blimpey grinned and leaned forward eagerly. “And that’s why his services were in such demand. The word is there’s more than a few of ’em that asked the late Mr. Underhill to procure them a picture, and sometimes it’s a picture just like one they already own…if you’re gettin’ my drift.”

Smythe wasn’t sure that he was. “You mean they want to buy a copy of their own painting from him?”

“No, no.” He waved his hand impatiently. “Look, here’s the way it works. Say you’ve got a nice painting and it’s worth a lot of lolly. Then say you want to sell that painting but you don’t really want to sell it ’cause you like it and it’s worth so much cash. More importantly, it’s likely to be worth even more if you can hang onto it for a few years. That’s where Underhill came in. Seems he knew how to make sure you could sell your painting and keep it too.”