12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (21 page)

“But why would Morante agree?” Wiggins asked.
“Didn’t ’e ’ave ’is own paintin’ to worry about?”

“Morante was desperate for money,” Hatchet clarified. “His own work wasn’t selling very well, so he agreed to do the copying.”

“And he didn’t know what he was doin’ was forgery?” Luty said incredulously.

“I suppose he ought to have known”—a smile flitted around Hatchet’s mouth—“but as it’s quite common for artists to train in their craft by copying the old masters, somehow I imagine that they don’t quite see it in that light. Be that as it may, Morante did the paintings and took the money. But when Underhill came to him again, about two weeks ago, with another client who wanted to do the same thing, he got suspicious.”

“About what?” Mrs. Goodge yelped. “Sounds like good sense to put a valuable painting in the bank vault and hang a copy on the wall.”

“It is,” Hatchet said softly. “But Morante was suspicious that Underhill’s clients weren’t the rightful owners of the paintings at all. In short, he accused Underhill of having him paint forgeries and either selling them outright to unsuspecting buyers or using the forgeries while he stole the originals.”

Smythe’s breath hissed sharply through his teeth. Now it was starting to make a bit of sense. “How long ago was it that Irene Simmons last posed for Morante?”

Puzzled, Betsy shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”

“It was just over two weeks ago,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I found that out today when I went back to Nanette’s for another chat. As a matter of fact, her posing for Morante was the last job she had before she received the mysterious note summoning her to the Grant house on the night she disappeared.”

“Maybe she overheard somethin’ she should’na?” Wiggins suggested somberly. “Maybe she overheard Morante and Underhill havin’ a go at each other over forgin’ them paintings?”

Mrs. Jeffries eyed the footman speculatively. She’d been thinking along those very lines herself. “I think you might be on to something,” she mused, half thinking aloud as she spoke. “If Morante knew that Irene had overheard his conversaton with Underhill, that would give him not only a motive to kidnap her, but also a reason for getting rid of Underhill. Irene Simmons could go to the police. I don’t know what the penalty for art forging is, but I expect it’s most unpleasant. But more importantly, if it was ever learned that he’d copied paintings, his own work would be impossible to sell. No reputable gallery or agent would have anything to do with him.”

“But how could he have gotten the poison into that tin of mints?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “I know we’ve already agreed that the killer didn’t have to be at the Grant house the day that Underhill ate the mints, but he’d have to be able to get close enough to Underhill to tamper with his mints somehow. I don’t see how Morante could have done that, not if he was openly squabbling with Underhill.”

“But maybe he wasn’t openly at odds with him,” Mrs. Jeffries continued, her voice reflecting her growing enthusiasm for this solution. “Perhaps he pretended that all was well between them; perhaps he even apologized for their ‘argument.’ Then, all he had to do was buy a tin of mints, doctor a few of them with a solution of cyanide and then slip them into Underhill’s coat pocket whenever he pleased.”

“But when could he have done it?” Betsy asked.
“Morante disappeared the same day Irene did and that was a week before the murder.”

“He could have done it at any time,” the housekeeper replied, absently brushing an errant bread crumb off the tabletop. “Underhill carried his mints in his coat pocket. All Morante would have had to do was find an opportunity to make the switch. It could have happened anywhere—a restaurant, an art gallery, anywhere. No one would be any the wiser. Then, all Morante had to do was wait until Underhill ate the poisoned mints. That would explain the time gap between his kidnapping of Irene and the death of Underhill.”

Luty angled her head to one side and sighed dramatically. “I hate to be drapin’ crepe on yer idea, Hepzibah, but like you’ve said yerself, hadn’t we better git us some facts before we go makin’ wild guesses that might have us runnin’ around chasin’ our tails and not the killer?”

Taken aback, Mrs. Jeffries simply stared at her. “You think my theory is flawed?”

“It’s jest fine, for a theory,” Luty replied. “But hadn’t we better stick to facts? First of all, we don’t know for sure Irene heard anything when she was at Morante’s, and even if she did, seems to me a lot of time passed between the eavesdroppin’ and the disappearance.”

“But I’ve explained the time gap,” Mrs. Jeffries protested, though Luty made a valid point. Perhaps she oughtn’t be so eager to accept a theory just because it made sense on the surface.

“You’ve explained why there was a week between the kidnapping and the murder,” Luty agreed, “but that don’t explain why Morante waited to git his hands on Irene. If I recall rightly, you all said Irene was supposed to have overheard this conversation two weeks ago. That would
mean that Morante, knowing that model had heard everythin’ and had the power to ruin him, let her flit about London free as a bird while he did nothing. Then almost a week after her hearin’ this damagin’ information, he decides to kidnap her. Seems to me that’s a bit like closin’ the barn door after the horses have run off.”

Mrs. Jeffries’s shoulders slumped. Luty was right. The theory, lovely as it was, simply had too many holes in it. “I see your point. I’m basing my theory on unproven assumptions. Furthermore, my theory doesn’t explain why Morante would kidnap Irene. Why not just murder her as well?”

“That don’t mean you ain’t right,” Luty said quickly. “Jest because it’s dumb don’t mean people don’t do it. Could be this here Morante feller’s as thick as two short planks and it took him a week to do his plottin’ and his plannin’ to git his hands on the girl. I’m jest sayin’ we’ve got to be careful, that’s all. As to why he’d kidnap Irene and not kill her…” She shrugged. “Well, lots of men are kinda squeamish about doin’ somethin’ like that to a woman.”

“You’re being very kind, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But you’ve no need to try and spare my feelings. My idea is really quite silly. Morante may know something about the murder and Irene’s disappearance. I believe it’s in our interest to try and find him, but other than that, well, we’ll just have to wait and see what he knows.”

“This information does provide the necessary link between the murder and the disappearance,” Hatchet said. “I think we can safely assume the two events are definitely connected. But I agree with you, Mrs. Jeffries. I think we’d better wait until we locate Morante before we make anymore theoretical assumptions.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Smythe said flatly. He was as confused as everyone else. But he wasn’t going to worry about it yet. They’d sort it out in the end. They always did. “Seems to me Mrs. Jeffries might be on the right track after all.”

“And how do you know that?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She was a bit put out because the bits and pieces she’d picked up today were beginning to pale into insignificance compared to the others.

“Because I found out from my sources that James Underhill is a killer himself,” he replied, his tone disgusted. “ ’E ’ired a couple of thugs to murder a woman. Paid plenty for it too, only somethin’ went wrong and the woman’s not dead. That’s why I’m thinkin’ there might be somethin’ to Mrs. Jeffries’s theory. Seems to me that this Morante feller could’ve found out the same.”

“Do you know who this woman was?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Not yet,” the coachman replied, “but I’m workin’ on it.”

“It’s probably Irene Simmons,” Wiggins guessed.

“That’s what I’m thinkin’,” Smythe agreed, “but I won’t know for sure until tomorro—” He broke off as footsteps sounded on the back stairs. Everyone turned toward the hall just as the inspector, with Fred at his heels, bounded into the kitchen. “Gracious,” he said, coming to a halt at the doorway. “I didn’t know we had company.”

Mrs. Jeffries rose quickly. “Luty and Hatchet only stopped in a few moments ago, sir.”

Witherspoon’s face mirrored his delight. He quite liked the eccentric American and her butler. “I say,” he said cheerfully as he hurried toward the table, “do you mind
if I join you? I could do with some company this evening. This horrid case I’m working on just won’t let me relax.”

Inspector Witherspoon was in fine form the next morning as he stepped out of the hansom in front of James Underhill’s lodging house. He’d slept like a baby, eaten a huge breakfast and was brimming with new ideas about this case. Odd, how just an hour or two spent in convivial conversation with one’s household could send the mind moving in so many interesting directions. Why, he thought, as he marched up the walkway to the front door, he’d not have considered coming back here if it hadn’t been for an odd comment made by Wiggins.

Witherspoon knocked on the front door. Of course, Smythe’s information was also important, the inspector told himself while he waited for someone to answer the door. Between his coachman and his footman, he’d come up with quite a number of things to do this morning.

The door opened and a middle-aged woman, her face set in grim lines, peeked out. “Yes?”

He doffed his bowler hat. “Good morning, madam. I’m Inspector Witherspoon. Are you the landlady of this establishment?”

“I am.” She opened the door wider. “The police have already been here,” she accused. “They said they were finished and I could rent his rooms out.”

“Oh dear,” Witherspoon replied. “You haven’t cleaned them out yet, I hope?” There was no need to clarify what they were talking about. Both of them knew it was Underhill.

“I’ve been up there,” she said, jerking her chin toward the staircase behind her, “but that lazy Feniman hasn’t come round yet and I can’t move that stuff without him.
He claimed he’d be here at eight, and just look, it’s gone past nine and the shiftless fool still isn’t here.”

Silently thanking the hapless Feniman for his tardiness, the inspector stepped past the landlady into the foyer. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a quick look around before you remove his things.”

“Help yerself.” She shrugged. “Though I don’t know why you coppers can’t get it right the first time.”

Witherspoon started up the stairs. “I’ll try not to inconvenience you, madam.”

“You’ve already inconvenienced me,” she snapped. “Feniman was here the second time your lot come around to search and he had his wagon with him. If that peeler hadn’t wasted the whole afternoon, I’da had them rooms cleaned and rented by now.”

He stopped and turned to look at her. “Second time, madam?” he queried. “But the police have only been here once.”

She shook her head in denial. “There was one here the other day, claimed he was with Scotland Yard.”

“What did he look like?”

She shrugged. “Scrawny feller. Pale skinned, he was. Had wispy blond hair. He was here searchin’ them rooms for a good two hours. Jumpy, he was. He about went through the ceiling when I come in to ask him if he was finished.”

Witherspoon’s heartbeat accelerated. He quickly cast his mind to the faces of those involved with this case. After a moment, he suspected he knew who had been in the victim’s rooms. “Thank you, madam,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful. However, in the future, if someone else claims they are the police, would you please be so kind
as to send for me before you allow them into the late Mr. Underhill’s rooms?”

“How many more coppers do you expect’ll be around?” she yelped. “I’m wantin’ to rent them rooms out.”

“I don’t think anyone else will come,” he said hastily. “But in the event someone does, please contact me immediately.”

She shrugged and wandered off down the hallway, still muttering about the lazy Feniman and the bloody coppers. The inspector continued up the stairs. The door leading to Underhill’s quarters was open. He stepped inside and slowly let his gaze survey the sitting room.

The room was quite beautiful. Not just nicely appointed or adequately decorated, but stunningly lovely.

Brilliant jewel colors of a large Persian carpet covered polished hardwood floors. The settee and love seat grouped invitingly around a small rosewood table were upholstered in a deep, rich rose fabric that went beautifully with the color of the flowers in the cream-and-pink chintz curtains. In the far corner a Queen Anne armchair stood next to a dainty seventeenth-century single drawer desk, the top of which was bare. But it wasn’t the elegance of the quarters that made one stop and take pause. It was the paintings. Dozens of them—they covered the walls so thickly one couldn’t really make out what color the wallpaper might be. There were large ones in glittering gilt frames, small watercolors surrounded by simple wood and some that had no frames at all.

Shaking his head in wonder, the inspector advanced into the room. There was no one particular style or period to the collection. Bright, colorful landscapes hung next to somber portraits from the eighteenth century. Pastoral
scenes, sailing ships, raging seas, Italian madonnas and even one or two nudes that made the inspector blush hung in uneven rows along all four walls. The room had been aesthetically designed to appeal to both the eye and the mind.