12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (23 page)

There were three trains leaving in the next half hour, two locals and an express. She dithered for a moment, wondering which he’d be on and then made up her mind. She bought a ticket for the one leaving right away and raced for the platform at a run, telling herself that the worst
that could happen is she’d have to go through this again tomorrow if she was wrong. But to her way of thinking, he’d been in an awful hurry to get out to the platform and this was the only train there.

After boarding, Betsy cautiously made her way down the length of the cars. She spotted him in the next to last carriage. Holding a bundle on his lap, he sat in the seat closest to the window, his nose buried in a newspaper.

Betsy smiled as she took a seat not far away. Now that she knew where he was, keeping him in her sights should be easy.

“What kind of deal?” Mrs. Jeffries prodded.

“That’s the funny part,” Mrs. Goodge said eagerly. “Arthur Grant doesn’t have any money, so he couldn’t be doin’ any buyin’.”

“Maybe he was selling one,” the housekeeper suggested.

“He doesn’t own any of ’em,” the cook replied promptly. “I found that out when I was checkin’ with my sources about the family in general. There’s a valuable art collection, all right,” she continued, “but it belongs to Neville Grant. None of it belongs to his son.”

“His mother didn’t leave him anything?”

“Nothing.” Mrs. Goodge pursed her lips. “Not so much as a picture frame. She didn’t share her husband’s passion for art. As a matter of fact, she and Neville Grant were reported to be at odds over his spending the family money on buying paintings. One of the rumors I heard claimed that they was squabblin’ about it so much that if Arthur’s mother hadn’t up and died when she did, Neville was goin’ to divorce her.”

“’Ello, ’ello,” a singsong voice cried from down the
hall. “Are you in there, Mrs. Goodge? It’s me, Gavin. I’ve got a delivery for ya.”

The cook brightened immediately and leapt to her feet. “Come on in, lad,” she cried, lunging for the kettle and snatching it up. “It’s the grocer’s boy,” she hissed at the housekeeper as she plopped the kettle on the burner. “He’s always got heaps of gossip.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded and got up. “I’ll leave you to it,” she murmured as a young man carrying a huge covered wicker basket lumbered into the kitchen. She smiled at him and left.

As she climbed the back stairs to her room, Mrs. Jeffries began going over precisely what they’d learned so far. But it was still most confusing.

By the time she reached her room she was almost convinced that it was the most convoluted case they’d ever had. She walked over and sat down in her chair next to the window. Staring blindly out the window, she let her mind go blank. That was a neat trick she’d picked up over the past few years. Sometimes she did her best thinking by not thinking at all. She kept staring out at the rooftops of London, letting her brain leap willy-nilly where it would. Ideas, thoughts, unrelated bits of information—it all whirled about in her head in a rush of nonsense. But Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t overly concerned. She’d sort the pieces out later. Right now, all she was really concerned with was a pattern, a connection of some kind. There was always a common thread in every case they’d had. It was like having a hundred keys to unlock one door. Difficult, yes, but not impossible. Especially if one had learned to pay attention to the kind of lock on the door. That’s what she did now—tried to find what kind of lock this door had.

Smythe stood under the
TO LET
sign of the empty building on busy Villiers Street. He wondered why Blimpey had sent a street Arab to tell him to meet him here instead of at the pub. The street was quite busy with hansoms, pedestrians and shopkeepers all trying to get about their business. Smythe pulled out his watch, noted the time and then glanced at the facade of Gattis Restaurant across from where he stood. He blinked, amazed, as Blimpey Groggins, no cleaner than he ever was, emerged from the front door.

Blimpey spotted him immediately. Lifing his arm, he waved, motioning him over.

“Eat ’ere regularly, do ya?” Smythe asked. Gattis was one of London’s most elegant restaurants. Smythe had the money to buy the place, but actually setting foot in it as a customer would never occur to him. He didn’t like to think he’d be intimidated by a bunch of toffs—he wouldn’t. Well, not too intimidated. But he couldn’t for the life of him think of what Blimpey Groggins, disheveled and dirty, was doing here.

Blimpey laughed. “Not hardly, mate. Just was inside havin’ a chat with one of the staff. The maître d’ here owes me a couple of favors and I was collectin’.”

Smythe wondered what kind of favors Blimpey was cashing in, but didn’t like to ask. Sometimes it didn’t pay to be too curious about someone like Groggins. “How come you wanted me to meet ya ’ere?”

“I’m a bit pressed for time today,” Blimpey replied. He jerked his head toward the end of the road. “There’s a decent pub down there. Let’s have a quick one. I do my best talkin’ over a glass.”

Smythe eyed his companion speculatively as they
headed off. “You weren’t too busy to get my information, were ya?” the coachman asked.

“Don’t be daft,” Blimpey said. “Have I ever failed ya?” They were abreast of the pub now. He reached out and yanked open the door. “Trust me, Smythe. Trust me. I might be busy, but that don’t mean I’m not giving ya good service.”

“The best that money can buy.” Smythe stepped past his companion and into the pub. He was relieved to see it was an ordinary, plain sort of place with benches and tables and a bored-looking publican behind the bar. “Two bitters,” he ordered quickly, knowing that the sooner he got beer pouring down Blimpey’s throat, the faster he’d get his information.

A few minutes later, they were seated at a table. Blimpey took a long sip from his glass and then gave a loud, satisfied sigh. “Ah. That’s good.”

“Now that you’ve wet yer whistle,” Smythe said, “what did ya learn?”

“You’re an impatient sort, Smythe,” Blimpey commented. “You ought to slow down a bit, take time to sniff the air and enjoy yerself. But seein’ as we’re both in a bit of a hurry today, I’ll get right to it.” His expression sobered. “It ain’t very pretty. But ya know that already. The woman that Mordecai’s boys was paid to kill is named Irene Simmons. She’s an artist’s model.”

“I thought that might be ’er.” Smythe kept his face impassive. “She’s disappeared.”

“But I bet no one’s found her body, ’ave they?” Blimpey replied. “Like I told ya yesterday, it went wrong. They didn’t do it. Mordecai himself is rumored to be havin’ a fit, thinkin’ his good name’s been ruined.”

“Why’d it go wrong? Were ya able to find out?”
Smythe decided that getting as many details as possible just might help them track down Irene Simmons, especially as it looked like she hadn’t been murdered—at least not by this particular set of hired killers.

“Story I got—and I’ve no doubt it’s true”—Blimpey took a quick drink—“is that two of Mordecai’s boys was going to be waiting for the woman when she walked down the street.”

“You mean they was just standing on the street, waiting for ’er?” Smythe didn’t think so, not in that neighborhood. “That can’t be right. She disappeared from a posh area. Thugs like Mordecai’s scum woulda stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone woulda spotted ’em and called the police.”

“They weren’t just standin’ on the street,” Blimpey corrected. “They was waiting at the top of the mews. It connects with Beltrane Gardens a half a dozen houses down from where this woman was supposed to be goin’. Anyway, as I was sayin’, they was to grab her as she was walkin’ toward Holland Park Road.”

“She was supposed to be goin’ to the Grant house,” Smythe said. “The same ’ouse where Underhill ’imself got murdered a week later.”

“I know.” Blimpey grinned. “Knowin’ things is me business, remember. Now do ya want to hear the rest of it or not?”

“Go on,” Smythe said irritably.

“Anyways, like I was sayin’, the thugs was to grab her when she reached the mouth of the alley. But she never got to ’em,” Blimpey explained. “They waited and waited and waited, but she never come.”

“Do they know for sure she went into the Grant house?” Smythe asked. He wanted to make good and sure
that these thugs, who apparently weren’t the smartest lads about, actually knew what they were on about.

“Oh, yes,” Blimpey affirmed. “They had their eyes on ’er from the time she got off the omnibus and walked up Holland Park Road. She walked with a woman as far as Beltrane Gardens and then continued on by herself to the Grant house. It was at that point, after she was almost there, that they took off for the mouth of the mews and tucked themselves back out of sight. Like ya said, Mordecai’s boys would stick out right smart in a posh neighborhood like that. They couldn’t afford to be seen by too many people.”

“Maybe the girl did spot them,” Smythe suggested. “Maybe she came out of the house and went in another direction?”

“There isn’t any other way,” Blimpey said. “Not unlessin’ yer goin’ through someone’s back garden, and I don’t think a young woman would be up to that. Besides, if that were the case, why didn’t she go on home or go to the police?”

He had a point, Smythe conceded silently. “Do these thugs ’ave any idea what ’appened?” he asked. “A woman doesn’t just disappear into thin air.”

“They figure she either never left the Grant house,” Blimpey said, “or that she got nabbed before she reached the mouth of the mews.”

“They see anything?”

“One of ’em claimed there was a carriage pulled up in front of the house.” Blimpey shrugged. “But that don’t mean much. It was gettin’ toward evening and there was a lot of traffic. A neighborhood like that would have plenty of carriages and hansoms goin’ in and out.”

“So no one really knows what happened.”

“All they know is what didn’t happen.”

“Do you believe yer sources are tellin’ the truth?” Smythe motioned impatiently with his hand. “No, that’s not what I mean. Do ya think that Mordecai’s boys is tellin’ the truth? Now that Underhill is dead, could be they just want to put the word out that they didn’t kill someone for ’im.”

“It’s the truth all right.” Blimpey shook his head vehemently. “Underhill was furious with Mordecai for botching the murder. They had a blazin’ row about it the next day. Underhill, stupid bugger, wanted his money back. Mordecai said he didn’t give refunds and told him he’d get the job done as soon as they could find the girl. That’s the strange part—they can’t find her either. She’s plum disappeared.”

Smythe’s brows drew together in an ominous frown. “They’re not still lookin’ for ’er, are they?”

“Nan. Mordecai don’t take
that
much pride in his work. With Underhill dead, he’s not goin’ to care one way or another about Irene Simmons. The girl means nothing to him.”

Smythe leaned forward, his expression grim. “I wonder if Mordecai murdered Underhill.”

Blimpey laughed again. “With poison? Not bloody likely. He wouldn’t be that neat about it. When scum like him do their work, they don’t bother to be tidy. Besides, why would he want Underhill dead? He was a customer.”

“I see yer point,” Smythe muttered. “But it don’t make sense.”

“Who says life has to make sense?” Blimpey shrugged philosophically. “All I know is she didn’t get carved up by Mordecai’s thugs and she ain’t been heard from since.”

“So she’s either still in the house,” Smythe mused, “or
she was kidnapped before she reached the mews.”

“Or she was grabbed right before she went into the house,” Blimpey corrected. “The thugs took off just as they saw her reaching the Grant house. They didn’t see her go inside.”

“I wonder what kind of a carriage it was?” he murmured, remembering what Betsy had told them.

“I don’t know and I ain’t sure I can find out. Mordecai’s thugs don’t usually talk to the likes of me.” Blimpey belched softly. “Get me another, will ya? Then I’ll tell ya the rest of it.”

“Rest of it?” Smythe half rose and waved at the barman, gesturing for another round when he had the man’s attention. “You mean there’s more?”

“Course there’s more,” Blimpey bragged. “I always give ya yer money’s worth.”