12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (25 page)

“Well, I never,” Betsy mumbled. She started to back away, thinking she’d got everything completely wrong. Mainly, she was concerned that the woman in the house wasn’t Irene, but some perfectly innocent lady giving her husband a perfectly natural embrace. Retreating backward and shaking her head in disgust at her own stupidity, Betsy didn’t see the man step out from the side of the house. She stumbled into him. Whirling around, she found herself face to face with the fellow she’d trailed from the St. James gallery. “Oh no,” she cried. “Look, there’s a good explanation…”

He grabbed her arm and yanked her towards him. “I told you to leave us alone,” he snarled. “But no, you had to follow me, had to keep sticking your pretty little nose in where it weren’t wanted.” He pulled her toward a door at the back of the house.

“Let me go.” Betsy tried to jerk her arm free, but he held on fast. “I told you, there’s a good explanation…”

“I’ll bet there is,” he said.

The back door flew open and the dark-haired man came out. The woman, her eyes wide with fear, was right behind him. “George? What’s going on?” he asked. His voice was tinged with a faint accent.

“This is the girl I told you about,” George said, tugging Betsy forward none too gently. “The one who came round
asking all those questions yesterday. She must have followed me. We’d better bring her inside, quickly.” He started for the door as the other two stepped back a pace. “I don’t know if she brought any of Underhill’s thugs with her.”

Betsy dug her heels into the ground and resisted with all her might. “No one followed me,” she said before she could stop herself. She looked at the woman standing behind the dark-haired man. “Are you Irene Simmons?”

“Why, yes,” she replied.

“We’ll ask the questions,” the man holding her arm said. He tried tugging her forward again.

Betsy had had it. This man talked like a thug, but he wasn’t really very good at it. For starters, now that they’d stopped, she could feel his hand trembling as he hung onto her. She yanked her arm out of his grasp, made a fist with her other hand and cuffed him smartly on the shoulder.

“Ow,” he yelped.

“Keep your hands off me, you silly fool,” she ordered. She put her hands on her hips and looked directly at the woman. “You’d better listen. Nanette Lanier sent me.”

“Nanette.” The woman’s eyes widened.

“Be careful, darling,” the dark-haired man warned. “It might be a trick.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Betsy grumbled. Now that she’d had a moment to calm down, she’d decided these three were the least likely looking bunch of hoodlums she’d ever seen. The one called George was shaking in his boots, Irene was pale with fear and even the dark-haired man, the calmest of the lot, was wide-eyed and anxious with worry. They weren’t going to hurt her. “Let’s go inside and talk like civilized people. We’re not going to settle a ruddy thing standing out here.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to search your rooms, Mr. Grant,” Witherspoon told the trembling young man. “If needed, I’m sure we can get a warrant.”

“You’ve already searched the house once,” Neville complained.

“It was only a cursory search, sir,” Witherspoon said. “Do I have your permission to search your son’s rooms again, or shall I get a warrant?” He held his breath and tried to remember what the judge’s Rules said about a situation like this.

“That won’t be necessary,” Neville Grant said. “Go ahead and search. You won’t find anything. My boy may be a fool but he’s not a killer.”

“Really, Neville,” Mary snapped. “This is intolerable. We will not be treated like common criminals.”

“I’m only trying to get at the truth, ma’am,” the inspector said.

Mary Grant ignored him. From the expression on her face as she glared at her husband, she was more furious at him than she was at the inspector. “I won’t have policemen stomping through my home. I demand that you send for our solicitor at once.”

“Why?” Neville asked. “Arthur’s got nothing to hide. He didn’t kill James Underhill. Why should he? Now go ahead, boy, tell the inspector what kind of silly scheme you were cooking up with Underhill so we can have some peace in this house.”

“Arthur, don’t say a word,” Mary ordered. “If your father won’t do anything to protect you, I’ll send for our solicitor myself.”

“I know how to take care of my son. Stay out of this, Mary,” Neville commanded. “Arthur’s got no reason not
to talk to the police. Now go on, boy, tell them the truth.”

Mary stared at her husband and her stepson with an expression of utter contempt on her face. Without saying another word, she turned on her heel and stalked out.

Arthur moaned softly. “I didn’t mean to do it, Father, but I was short of money and they were going to toss me out of the club if I didn’t pay up my gambling debts.”

Neville drew back a bit. “What didn’t you mean to do?”

Arthur swallowed hard. “I meant to get them back,” he said softly. “I really did. James promised he wouldn’t sell them. He’d bought them for himself, you see. He’d come into some money so he wanted them for himself. But then you were going to sell them and that American, well, they act like they’re so friendly, but really they’re quite a suspicious bunch, aren’t they? Well, he insisted they be authenticated. I couldn’t let that happen, could I? I mean, they’re good forgeries but an expert could tell in an instant they weren’t the real thing.”

Neville Grant had gone utterly pale.

“Forgeries,” Witherspoon said. He cast a quick, worried glance at the old man. Fellow didn’t look well. “Precisely what forgeries are you referring to?”

“Well.” Arthur tried a sickly smile. “I mean, it wasn’t really a forgery. Like I said, I was going to buy them back. James promised I could, you know. He kept them out at his country cottage. He promised he’d send for them. I thought they might be at his lodgings, but they weren’t there and they’re not at the cottage either. But they must be somewhere.”

“What are you talking about, boy?” Grant whispered. “Which paintings did you have forged?”

Arthur looked surprised by the question. “Oh, didn’t I say? The Caldararos, of course.”

Neville’s mouth opened and closed. He jerked spasmodically, clutched at his heart and collapsed. He’d have fallen flat on his face if the inspector and Barnes hadn’t grabbed him.

“I’m sure Betsy will be here any moment now,” Mrs. Jeffries said with a calmness she didn’t feel. She glanced at the anxious faces around the table and forced herself to smile reassuringly. It was almost nine. Dinner had come and gone. Everyone was gathered back at Upper Edmonton Gardens for their meeting and Betsy wasn’t home.

Smythe had gone beyond being worried. He’d stopped pacing the floor and ranting and raving a good half hour ago. Now he just sat staring at the carriage clock on the cupboard, almost as though he were willing time to stop. “When’s the inspector due?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “He didn’t come home for dinner and as he hasn’t sent a message, I can only assume that means he’s tied up on this case.”

Smythe got to his feet. He knew what he had to do. “I’m going to find him. He can get every copper in London lookin’ for ’er.” It was either do that or slowly go insane.

Everyone looked at Mrs. Jeffries. They were all worried
but no one was really sure that bringing the inspector in at this point was such a good idea.

“Give her a bit more time, Smythe,” Hatchet said conversationally, though he was distraught as well. “Miss Betsy is a highly intelligent and most capable young woman. I’m sure nothing has happened to her.”

“But what if somethin’ ’as?” Smythe shook his head vehemently. “What if she’s been ’urt or…or…” He stopped, unable to put his greatest fear into words.

“She’s not been hurt and she ain’t dead,” Luty declared confidently. She hated seeing the pain on her friend’s face, but she knew that if she sympathized the least little bit, he’d fall to pieces. “Betsy’s on the hunt and she’s just fine. Why, if she was a man, we’d not think a thing of her bein’ a few hours late like this. There’s been times when you and Wiggins have been out half the night and worryin’ the rest of us sick. We didn’t go runnin’ to the inspector.” But they’d been tempted to, Luty remembered.

Smythe closed his eyes briefly and clenched his hands into fists. “All right. I’ll give it another ’alf ’our…”

“I don’t think you’ll ’ave to,” Wiggins said. He’d wandered over to the far side of the kitchen and was peeking out the window that looked out onto the road. “There’s a carriage pulling up outside and…” He stood on tiptoe to get a closer look. “Cor blimey, it’s her. It’s Betsy, and she’s got three other people with her.”

“Go let them in the front door,” Mrs. Jeffries ordered the footman. “The inspector’s not home and it’ll save them coming around to the back.” It would also give the coachman a few moments to get his emotions under control.

Wiggins raced off to do as he was bid.

Mrs. Goodge got up and turned her back on the others
as she headed for the sink. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she mumbled, hoping that no one would notice the tears of relief that were running down her cheeks. “I think we could all do with a cup of tea.”

“I think you’d better have a look at this.” Barnes motioned the inspector into the bedroom. “We found it under the mattress.” He held a small glass vial between his fingers. “Have a whiff, sir.”

The inspector took a deep breath. The scent of bitter almonds drifted up his nostrils. “Oh, dear. We’d better send this along to Dr. Bosworth to be analyzed,” he said. “But I’ve no doubt what it is.”

Barnes put the stopper back inside. “Stupid of him to keep it under his mattress. Why didn’t he get rid of it?”

“That’s a bit more difficult to do than one might think,” Witherspoon said. But the constable had made a valid point. Why hadn’t Arthur gotten rid of the damaging evidence? The man wasn’t the brightest chap, of course. But he wasn’t a complete half-wit, either. “Perhaps he meant to but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Yes, sir. But leaving cyanide under your mattress”— Barnes put the vial in his pocket—“that really is idiotic, sir. Almost deliberately so, if you know what I mean. Are we going to arrest him now?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to.” Witherspoon sighed. “Pity about his father. But let’s keep our fingers crossed that Mr. Grant will be all right. Is the doctor still with him?”

“Yes.” Barnes nodded. “When I poked my head in a few minutes ago, Mr. Grant had regained consciousness.”

“Oh, dear.” Witherspoon was in a quandry. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Of course I’m glad the elder
Mr. Grant is conscious, but now I’m not sure what we ought to do. It would be so much easier to arrest Arthur if his father were asleep. I don’t want to risk the poor old chap having another attack or fit or whatever it was he had.”

“Well, sir, that can’t be helped. Arthur’s admitted to conspiring with Underhill. Forgery is a felony, sir. With the physical evidence of the cyanide, we’ve no choice but to arrest him.”

“That’s true,” Witherspoon mused. “But conspiring in a forgery is a far cry from murder. Besides, if what Arthur says is true, why would he kill Underhill? He needed him alive. Underhill appears to be the only one who knows where the genuine Caldararos might be.”