12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (5 page)

“So your trip here is business more than pleasure,” Mary said conversationally.

“As you’ve probably guessed, it’s a bit of both.” Tyrell patted Lydia’s arm. “Lydia does have some old friends and relations she likes to stay in touch with. But basically we’re here to acquire for the museum. That reminds me. I got a cable from the other board members. They’re delighted your husband has agreed to sell the Caldararos.”

“I understand the paintings were originally from your family’s collection?” Lydia said.

Mary nodded. “They’d been in my family for over two
hundred years when I married Neville.” She reached for the teapot. “How do you take your tea, Mrs. Modean?”

“Plain, please,” Lydia replied.

“When will the paintings be ready?” Tyrell asked.

The maid came back holding a small red-and-white tin. She skirted around the group of guests and handed them to Underhill. “Your tin of mints, sir,” she whispered, giving him a quick curtsy and then hurrying out.

Underhill gave the tin a small shake, flipped the lid open and frowned. Two left. Bloody girl. She’d no doubt helped herself. He’d make a fuss but he didn’t want to give that wretched American an excuse for thinking him illmannered. He’d show them what good breeding was, by God. He popped the last two in his mouth and slapped the lid down.

“In a few days,” Mary replied. “Why? Are you in a hurry for them? I understood you weren’t leaving until the end of next week.”

“It’s not that we’re in a rush, Mrs. Grant,” he explained. “It’s that Mr. Marceau, the expert we’ve hired to authenticate the paintings, is going to Paris on Monday next. I’d hoped to have everything concluded by then.”

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t mean to be so late.” This comment was uttered by Helen Collier, Mary Grant’s sister. Her face was long and bony, her hair a light brown and worn in a girlish style. Frizzed at the front and plaited low on the neck in a rolled braid, the coiffure was not suited to one of her middle years. She hurried into the drawing room, an apologetic smile on her thin lips. “Do forgive me.”

“How’s your headache?” Mary asked. “Any better?”

“Much. Thank you for asking.” Helen smiled coquettishly at Underhill as she took the chair next to him. He
gave her a nod in return and raised his hand to cover his mouth as he coughed.

“It’s amazing what having even a little lay down can do for one,” she said airily.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Tyrell said gallantly. He thought females who developed sick headaches from a few minutes in the miserably weak English sun were poor excuses for women. “We were just having the most interesting discussion about English art.”

Underhill’s coughing got louder, but everyone politely ignored it.

“I’m so sorry to have missed it,” Helen said enthusiastically. “Art is one of my great loves.”

A peculiar, strangling gasp suddenly filled the quiet room. It took a moment or two before anyone realized the strange sound was actually coming from Underhill. He gasped again and then again before opening his mouth completely, as if he were going to scream. But only great, choking, wheezing croaks were emitted from his thin throat.

Modean was the first to realize something was seriously wrong. He leapt to his feet and dashed to the stricken man. “Good God, what’s wrong with you, man?”

Underhill’s eyes bulged and his pale skin flushed as he struggled to drag air into his chest.

“He must be choking on those damned mints,” Modean cried, lifting his hand and slapping the man’s back.

But it didn’t help. Underhill began thrashing about on the cushions, his hands clawing at the tight collar of his white silk shirt.

Helen screamed. “Oh, God. Someone do something.”

By this time everyone, even Neville Grant, had moved toward the man flailing about on the settee. Underhill
slipped off his seat and landed on the carpet with a thud, his legs kicking so wildly he clipped Helen on the arm. She screamed again and Lydia Modean pulled her back out of the way.

“Give them some space,” Lydia ordered.

Tyrell wrestled Underhill onto his back and yanked off the tight buttons of his collar, freeing his throat. But that made no difference. His face turned white, so white it was almost bluish in color.

“For God’s sake, what’s wrong with him?” Mary demanded. “Is he having a fit?”

Suddenly the thrashing stopped.

James Underhill went completely still.

Modean bent down and put his ear to the man’s chest. He raised his hand for silence as he listened. For a moment the room was quiet. But then Modean straightened and looked up at the others. He shook his head.

“Well, what’s wrong with the fellow?” Neville Grant asked brusquely. “Is he sick? Should we call a doctor?”

“That’s not going to do him any good now,” Modean replied as he rose to his feet. “He’s dead. I think you’d better call the police.”

“Dead?” Neville poked at the lifeless form with his cane. “Are you sure?”

“For God’s sake, Neville, stop that,” Mary snapped.

“Dead? But that’s impossible,” Helen Collier wailed.

Lydia Modean closed her eyes.

Arthur Grant slumped into the nearest chair.

Mary Grant stiffened her spine, strode to the bell pull and gave it a hard tug. Almost immediately the doors opened and the butler appeared. His gaze swept the room, his eyes widening as he espied Underhill lying in front of the settee.

Before any of the Grants could issue an order, Tyrell Modean spoke. “Send for the police,” he instructed the surprised servant. “We’ve a dead man here.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir.” The butler swallowed nervously. “They’re already here.”

“The police? Here?” Neville Grant stomped past the butler and into the hallway. Standing by the front door, he spotted three men. “Don’t just stand there,” he called. “Come on. It’s in here.”

Witherspoon stared at the apparition at the opposite end of the hall. The gentleman seemed to be talking to them.

“I say,” he murmured to Smythe. “This looks like it might be a tad easier than I thought. The fellow certainly seems eager to answer questions.”

“Do get a move on,” the elderly man shouted, waving at them impatiently with his cane. “Why aren’t you in uniform? You’d better be the police or I’ll have your…”

“I am a policeman,” Witherspoon assured him, “and these gentlemen”—he gestured at Smythe and Wiggins—“are from my household. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“For God’s sake, Neville,” Mary shouted from the open door of the drawing room. “Bring them here.”

“This way, this way.” Grant turned on his heel and started back the way he’d just come.

“Cor blimey,” the coachman muttered, “what’s goin’ on ’ere?”

“I don’t know,” Witherspoon replied honestly. “But I do believe he wants us to follow him.” He hurried after the man, and after a moment’s hesitation, Wiggins and Smythe trotted after him.

Witherspoon stopped short when he entered the drawing room. A group of elegantly dressed people stood staring
down at a man lying on the carpet. The inspector, thinking the man was injured, flew across the room and dropped to his knees. “What’s happened here?”

“We’ve no idea,” a woman replied archly.

Witherspoon felt for a pulse. There was none. But that didn’t mean the fellow was gone. He looked at Wiggins. “Run and fetch the constable on the corner. Tell him to find a doctor and get here right away.”

“That won’t do any good,” a man with an American accent said. “He’s dead.”

“How long?”

“A few moments ago,” the American continued. “He choked to death. He was eating those hard confectionaries. Mints, I think. They must have lodged in his throat.”

“Fetch a doctor anyway,” Witherspoon ordered Wiggins. “It might not be too late.” The footman took off at a run.

“Poor bloke,” Smythe muttered. He dropped down next to the inspector. “What ’appened?”

“We just told you. He choked to death,” Mary Grant replied. “We were sitting here having tea when all of a sudden, he started gasping for air and then he simply keeled over.”

“Oh, no,” Helen wailed. “He can’t be gone, he simply can’t.”

Mary ignored her sister and kept her gaze on the two men kneeling by Underhill. One of them looked like a brutal street thug and the other, though far more respectably dressed, looked like a bank clerk. “You say you’re from the police?”

Witherspoon nodded slowly but didn’t look up. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon.”

Helen continued to sob. As no one else in the room took
any notice of the woman, Lydia Modean put an arm around her and led her away. “I’ll just take her up to her room,” she murmured to her husband.

“What should we do now, sir?” Smythe asked the inspector.

Witherspoon wasn’t sure. There was something decidedly odd about this situation. He swallowed hard and forced himself to continue examining the body. The inspector was a bit squeamish about corpses. Then he wondered if this one could really count as a corpse. After all, the poor man had only just died a few moments ago.

“What was his name?” he asked. He had the strangest feeling the man hadn’t choked to death. For one thing, the fellow’s mouth was gaping open and he could see two small, round, white objects stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“James Underhill,” a male voice replied.

Smythe cleared his throat. “Uh, sir…”

“Oh, sorry, Smythe.” He looked up and gave his coachman a weary smile. Then he looked at the imposing woman standing over him. “Madam, would you be so kind as to take everyone to another room? I’d like to have a few moments of privacy to examine this gentleman.”

“We’ll go into the morning room,” she said. “It’s just down the hall.”

Smythe waited till they were alone and then said, “Is something wrong, sir?”

“I don’t think this fellow choked to death, Smythe,” Witherspoon said. He took a deep breath, forced the man’s jaws further open and stuck his hand into the dead man’s mouth.

“What are you doin’, sir?” Smythe hissed, shocked to his very core.

Witherspoon jerked his fingers out and exhaled the
breath he’d been holding. “Checking to see if there was any obstruction in his throat.” He gasped. “There isn’t. Would you please reach into my coat pocket and grab my handkerchief?” His hands were covered with spittle and he didn’t want to get it on his clothing.

Perplexed, the coachman did as instructed and pulled a clean, white cotton hankie out of the inspector’s inside pocket.

“Could you open it, please,” Witherspoon directed, “and hold it firmly on the sides?” He took another deep breath and stuck his fingers between the corpse’s lips.

Smythe spread the material as instructed. He felt his stomach contract as the inspector slowly eased his hand out—and there on the tip of his finger was a small, round, white object.

“He couldn’t choke on this if he’d not swallowed it,” Witherspoon murmured, carefully depositing the object in the center of the outspread handkerchief.

Smythe still couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. “Shouldn’t we wait for the doctor before we go pokin’ at the poor feller?”

“Normally, yes.” Witherspoon hoped he wouldn’t faint. “But in this case, I want to make sure our evidence doesn’t melt.”

“Cor blimey, sir.” Smythe shook his head as he saw the inspector repeating what he’d just done. “You’ve a stronger stomach than I do.”

“No, I don’t.” Witherspoon hoped he’d keep his dinner down. “I assure you, this is quite the most difficult thing I’ve done in a very longtime.” It was his duty that forced him to do such an abominable thing. But duty was duty and despite his revulsion, he had to know the truth. “Despite
what the witnesses said, I’ve an idea this man didn’t choke to death.”

Smythe’s heavy brows creased. “What are ya thinkin’, sir?”

“Well…” The inspector didn’t wish to “jump the gun,” so to speak. But his “inner voice,” that instinct that Mrs. Jeffries was always reminding him to listen to, was prompting him along a certain course of action. “I’m thinking he couldn’t have choked if the confectionaries were on the roof of his mouth and not obstructing a breathing passage. Furthermore, he’s a young man, probably not past his thirtieth year. His limbs appear to be straight.” The inspector examined the man’s hands. “His skin isn’t discolored and there’s no sign of blood or any other injury. Except for being dead, he looks to be in relatively good health. He’s not particularly fat or diseased looking…” He paused, not quite sure to put what he was thinking into words.

“Right, sir,” the coachman agreed. “Except for him bein’ dead and all, he looks right healthy to me too.”

“So it seems to me if he keeled over in the middle of tea, he might have been”—he hesitated—“poisoned.”

“He’s been poisoned.” Dr. Bosworth rose to his feet and nodded at the constable. “Go ahead and take him away,” he instructed. “I’ll do the full postmortem at the hospital.”

“Are you certain?” Witherspoon pressed.

“As sure as I can be without doing an autopsy,” Bosworth replied. He was a tall man with a thin, serious face and red hair. “But if I were a betting man, I’d say that poor fellow had ingested potassium cyanide.”

“What, precisely, makes you think so?” Witherspoon
wanted to be as certain as possible before he started asking questions.