12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (28 page)

The footman wasn’t a man at all, but a lad who looked to be about sixteen. His name was Horace Weatherby. Dark haired, pale skinned and small for his age, he stood next to a locked cupboard in the butler’s pantry and stared at the inspector out of wary, pale blue eyes. “Mrs. Grant said you wanted to see me, sir?” he began. “But I can’t think why. I wasn’t even here when that Mr. Underhill got himself murdered.”

“We know that,” the inspector assured him. “We understand that you’d been sent out on an errand. Is that correct?”

“That’s right,” Horace replied.

“Where was this errand?” Witherspoon asked kindly. He knew what the butler had told him the boy had been sent to do, but he wanted to hear it from the lad’s own mouth.

“I went to take Miss Collier’s book back to Mudies Library,” he replied.

“But according to the butler, you were gone for several hours,” Barnes said. “Mudies is only over on New Oxford Street. Surely it didn’t take that long to get there and back. Now why don’t you tell us the truth? You went somewhere else that day, didn’t you?”

Panic crossed the lad’s face. “I’m not supposed to tell,” he whined. “It’ll cost me my job, ya know. She told me she’d sack me if I told anyone.”

“This is murder you’re involved in, lad,” Barnes said sternly. “So you’d best tell us the truth.”

“Murder,” he squawked. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that. I just done what she told me and went to the station to get that parcel.”

“Where did you take it?” Witherspoon pressed. “Did you bring it back here?”

“All I did was what she told me.” He twisted his hands together. “I picked it up at Victoria, hopped a hansom and took it to the Great Northern Railway booking office.”

“Is the parcel still there?” Barnes asked.

“I think so,” he sputtered. “She ain’t hardly left the house. Not since the murder, not since you coppers have been all over the place.”

“Sit down, Hepzibah,” Luty said calmly. “You’re goin’ to walk a hole in the floor.”

“But what if I’m wrong?” Mrs. Jeffries suppressed a shudder. “What if I’m completely off the mark and the inspector is making a fool of himself at this very moment?”

“He’s not makin’ a fool of himself,” Mrs. Goodge declared stoutly. She flopped a cut of veal onto the chopping block and began trimming off the fat. “He’s a smart man, our inspector.”

“But what if my reasoning is faulty?” She closed her eyes and wished she could turn back the clock. She’d sent them off on the flimsiest of evidence. Yet this morning, in one of those tremendous flashes of insight that make one so very certain, she’d been sure she was right. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been wrong.”

“No,” Hatchet agreed. “But in all the cases we’ve solved, you’ve been correct far more often than you’ve been wrong. Besides, you’ve explained your reasoning to us. I think it makes perfect sense. As a matter of fact, I
congratulate you on seeing what should have been obvious to all of us from the start.”

“So do I,” Betsy said. “Like you told us, every one of the others had a good reason for wanting Underhill alive.” She held up her hand and began ticking off the fingers. “First, Arthur Grant needed him to get the original Caldararos back so his father’d not disinherit him when he found out the ones on his wall were fakes. Lydia Modean needed him alive so she could get the photographic plate back, Helen Collier wanted to marry him and Neville Grant and Tyrell Modean didn’t have a reason to want him dead. That only leaves one person.”

“It was lucky Smythe happened to be driving up Holland Park Road when we were trying to find a hansom,” Barnes said dryly.

“Oh, there was nothing in the least lucky about it,” Witherspoon said. He leaned forward on the seat and dropped his voice, though with the rattle of the carriage and the noise of the horses it would be impossible for anyone to overhear him. “Smythe deliberately drove up this way,” he said conspiratorially. “My staff are always so very keen to learn whatever they can about my cases. They’re always hanging about when I’m out on the hunt. I pretend not to notice. Though I must admit, having them about has come in handy a time or two. But as I said, I pretend not to notice them. I don’t wish to make them feel awkward. I know they only do it because they’re devoted to me. That, of course, and a very mild case of well…shall we say, hero worship.”

“That’s very good of you, sir,” Barnes said.

“Not at all.” Witherspoon waved his hand. “I’m a very
fortunate man. Not many people have a staff as loyal and devoted as mine.”

Barnes smiled. “That’s true, sir. You are a very lucky man.”

The carriage pulled around the corner into Lower Regent Street. Witherspoon leaned out the window, trying to gauge how far they were from the Great Northern Railway booking office.

“I don’t like the fact that she left the house right after sending the footman in to see us,” Barnes commented. He scanned the pavement on the other side of the carriage.

“Yes, it’s a pity it was her and not the butler who opened the front door,” Witherspoon replied soberly. “We’d no choice but to ask her to send the footman to us. I do hope we didn’t give the game away.”

“Well, sir, we’ll know if we get there and the freight clerk tells us the parcel was picked up just a few minutes earlier by a woman matching her description,” Barnes said. “She’ll not be able to get far. Not lugging a bloomin’ great package.”

The carriage pulled up in front of the booking office and the two policemen got out. Smythe stayed atop the carriage, ever alert and at the ready. Wiggins, who’d told the inspector he’d tagged along for the ride, jumped down and stood impatiently by the lamppost on the corner, eager to see what would happen next.

“I’ll go in, shall I?” Barnes started for the door of the booking office.

“We’ll both go…” Witherspoon paused, his eyes narrowing as his attention was caught by something on the other side of the carriage. “Gracious, there she is!” He pointed at the pedestrian island in the middle of the road.

“We’re too late. She’s got the parcel. Quick, Barnes, come on. She’s getting in a hansom.”

He started across the road, only to be halted in his tracks by someone yanking hard on his jacket from behind. “Gracious,” the inspector yelped just as an oncoming carriage thundered past.

“Sorry, sir,” Wiggins said, “but that coach was comin’ so fast I didn’t think you’d ’ave time to get out of the way.”

“Thank you, my boy,” the inspector said gratefully. “I was in such a hurry, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. If you’d not grabbed me, I’d have been crushed.”

“Oh look, sir,” Barnes cried. “She’s gettin’ away.”

They watched in dismay as the hansom took off down the road.

Smythe whipped up the reins and in moments had turned the inspector’s carriage around. “Hop in, sir,” he called. “We can catch up.”

Wiggins jumped on and scrambled up beside the coachman while the inspector and Barnes leapt inside. “I don’t think we’ve a hope of catching her,” the constable complained. “And if she manages to get rid of those paintings, we’ve no evidence.” Actually, Barnes wasn’t sure even catching her with the parcel would lead to anything. He hadn’t a clue as to what was going on, but he was sure the inspector did.

Witherspoon stuck his head out the window. “I can see the hansom. We’ll catch her, all right,” he called. “Smythe is an excellent driver.”

They raced through the busy London streets as fast as they dared. In what seemed like minutes to Barnes, but was in reality a bit longer than that, they’d covered well
over a mile. From out the window, the murky waters of the Thames lay just ahead.

Smythe, using every ounce of skill and ingenuity at his command, kept the hansom in sight, but couldn’t manage to get close enough to get directly behind it.

“The hansom’s stopped,” the inspector shouted, pointing ahead toward the water.

“She’s gettin’ out, sir,” Wiggins cried.

Barnes stuck his head out and saw the hansom pulling away and a woman, a parcel clutched in her hands, racing for the side of the river. “She’s goin’ to toss it, sir,” he warned.

But Smythe had seen too. Whistling through his teeth, he spurred his horses on even faster. They raced for the embankment. He didn’t pull up. He didn’t even slow. He simply kept on going right up to the concrete buttresses that held back the waters of the Thames.

She saw them as they jumped out of the carriage.

Instead of tossing the parcel over the edge of the embankment, she turned and started running along the pavement, the parcel clutched under her arm.

They started after her. The inspector was in the lead, but Wiggins was by far the fastest. “I’ll get her,” he called as he flew past the two policemen. But fast as he was, he didn’t gain on her very quickly.

Driven by fear, she was a good deal swifter than one would expect from a woman of her age and background.

Wiggins put on more speed.

“Stop in the name of the law,” Witherspoon gasped, but she paid no attention. She just kept running.

Wiggins finally began to gain on her. She looked back over her shoulder and saw him closing the gap between them. He was now only twenty or so yards away. She
stopped and threw the parcel over the buttress.

“Oh, no,” Wiggins cried as he saw it disappear over the side. He skidded to a halt beside her. She stared at him stonily, but didn’t try to run. Wiggins was grateful for that. He wasn’t quite sure what to do. Luckily, Barnes got there a second later, and right on his heels was the inspector.

“Out for a walk, Inspector?” she said calmly.

“Mary Grant,” he replied breathlessly, “you’re under arrest for the murder of James Underhill.”

She smiled then. “But you won’t be able to prove it, will you? And by the time you drag the Thames and find those paintings, the water will have ruined your precious evidence, I’m afraid. Even an expert won’t be able to help you then.”

“We won’t have to drag the river,” Wiggins said cheerfully. He pointed toward the river. “Look, there’s a barge moored right below us. The parcel’s sittin’ right atop of it plain as the nose on yer face.”

It was well past ten o’clock by the time the inspector got home that night. When he came into the kitchen he wasn’t in the least surprised to see his entire household, as well as Luty and Hatchet, sitting at the table.

“Good evening, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said cheerfully. “Luty and Hatchet happened to drop by after supper, sir. Once they heard about all your excitement this afternoon, they were determined to stay and hear what happened.”

“I don’t mind in the least,” he said. He reached down and patted Fred on the head. “There’s a good boy, now. Just be a patient fellow and I’ll take you walkies after I’ve had a cup of tea.”

“Do tell us everything,” Mrs. Jeffries urged him. She
poured him a cup of steaming hot tea. “What happened?”

“Well, luckily, as I’m sure Wiggins told you, the parcel didn’t go in the water.” He picked up his cup and took a sip. “We took it back to the station and opened it and, of course, the Caldararos were inside.” He winced. “It was at this point that I almost made a dreadful mistake, you see. Fortunately, Constable Barnes had the good sense to send for the Modeans. They came at once and brought their art expert with them.” He shook his head. “It’s a very good thing he did too. Otherwise, I’d have arrested the right person but the motive would have been all wrong and then she’d never have confessed.”