12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art (9 page)

“So you questioned everyone?”

“I took statements from the guests and had the police constables question the servants.”

Mrs. Jeffries took a sip from her own cup. “According to those statements, exactly what happened this afternoon?”

Witherspoon yawned. “Well, just as Mrs. Grant was getting ready to pour the tea, James Underhill popped some peppermints in his mouth and then appeared to choke. By the time the others in the room realized the man was having serious difficulties, it was too late to do anything for him. Though mind you, if Dr. Bosworth is correct, there wouldn’t have been anything anyone could do for the poor chap.”

“I see,” she said softly. There were a dozen questions she needed to ask, but she couldn’t decide what was the best way to proceed.

The clock struck the hour and she started, realizing that one of the reasons she couldn’t think straight was that it was late. When she glanced over at the inspector, he was slumped back against the seat, his cup and saucer rested
precariously on his lap, and his eyes were closed.

Rising quietly, she plucked the china out of harm’s way and placed it on the table beside the inspector’s chair. Gently, she shook him. “Sir,” she whispered. “I do believe you’d better retire for the evening.”

Mrs. Jeffries was up and gone from the house before the others had stirred. The hansom let her out at the junction where Newgate Street meets Cheapside. She smiled at the statue of Sir Robert Peel, the founder of the police force, and fancied for a moment that he smiled back at her, approving her actions. Then she straightened her spine, nimbly stepped off the hackney island and made her way down Cheapside.

The area was quiet at this time of the morning, though shortly it would be swarming with pedestrians hurrying to work, hacks vying for fares and omnibuses disgorging shoppers and clerks. She drew her cloak tighter against the morning chill as she walked toward Cutters Lane. Turning the corner, her footsteps slowed as she surveyed the shops lining both sides of the ancient, narrow lane. Nanette’s shop was on the other side of the street, halfway down the block.

The shop itself was still dark and the awning rolled back against the building. But on the floor above, Mrs. Jeffries noticed the windows were open and the blinds up.

Moving quickly but quietly, Mrs. Jeffries crossed the road and stopped in front of the shop.
LANIER’S
was written in delicate script lettering on the front door. She turned and stared at the goods displayed in the front window.

Elegant hats were exhibited artfully on a three-tiered brass hatstand. Below them a display of gloves, both two-button and four-button and one spectacular twelve-button
pair embroidered with red silk, were artfully displayed on a bed of white velvet. The window itself was draped with a mantle of blue crepe de chine, puffed elegantly around the edges to give one the sensation of looking at a painting. From the looks of things, Mrs. Jeffries thought, Nanette Lanier was doing quite well.

She glanced along the building front, looking for the entrance into the flats above the shop. A door, the same gray color as the stone of the building, was at the far end.

As there was no knocker or bell, Mrs. Jeffries made a fist and banged on the wood. Several times.

“A moment,
s’il vous plait!
” an irritated voice shouted.

Footsteps sounded on stairs and then the door was flung open. “I have told you a thousand times…” Nanette’s voice trailed off as she saw Mrs. Jeffries standing in front of her. “
Mon dieu
, I thought you were someone else,” she apologized quickly and moved back. “You have zee news already! Please, tell me it is good news you bring me.”

“We haven’t found your friend yet,” Mrs. Jeffries said calmly as she stepped inside. The foyer was so small there was barely room for the two women. “But I must talk with you.”

“But of course. Please, let’s go upstairs,” Nanette said. “It’s more comfortable.”

Mrs. Jeffries followed her up the narrow, steep stairs to the first-floor landing. Nanette led the way through an open door into a small sitting room. Like its owner, the room was elegant, unusual and decidedly French. There was very little furniture—only a love seat upholstered in pale green damask and a matching chair. A small table, polished to a high gloss and holding only a crystal vase with a rose sat next to it. An exquisite blue-and-green woven
rug covered the floor. Nanette gestured to the love seat. “Please sit down. Would you like some café au lait?”

“No, thank you,” Mrs. Jeffries said politely. She sat down on the settee.

Nanette’s expression was speculative as she took a seat in the chair. “Why have you come?”

“Do you know a man named James Underhill?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She watched her quarry carefully.

Nanette’s body jerked ever so slightly. “I have heard zhis name, yes. Why? What has he to do with Irene’s disappearance?”

“He was murdered yesterday afternoon.”

Nanette gasped involuntarily. “He is dead?”

“Oh yes, he’s quite dead. According to witnesses, he may have been poisoned,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. She’d deliberately been blunt. The fact that she still wasn’t certain Underhill’s death was a murder hadn’t deterred her from seeing what kind of reaction she’d get from Nanette. “He died at the Grant house.”

“
Mon dieu
,” Nanette whispered. “
C’est impossible.
”

“I’m afraid it’s quite possible,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “He popped a peppermint in his mouth and a few moments later, he was gone. Now I want to know what’s going on. What, precisely, is your relationship to this man and, most important, when was the last time you saw him?” She was certain she was right. It wasn’t that Mrs. Jeffries didn’t believe in coincidences. She did. She’d seen them happen all the time, but she didn’t think there was anything coincidental between the death of James Underhill and the alleged disappearance of Irene Simmons. At first, she’d not been sure that Nanette had even known the dead man. But after seeing her reaction to his name and glimpsing
the wariness in her eyes, she realized that the events were connected.

Nanette said nothing for a moment. Finally, she sighed and looked toward the open window. “I used to love him.”

“Used to love him?”

Nanette nodded slowly, her gaze still locked on the window, her eyes unfocused. “Zhen I found out what kind of a man he really was”—her voice trembled—“and I stopped loving him. I made myself stop loving him.” She wiped at a tear that rolled down her cheek.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Mrs. Jeffries asked again.

“Yesterday afternoon.” Nanette sniffed and wiped her cheeks. “He was here right after zee noon meal.”

“Why?” Mrs. Jeffries queried. “It certainly doesn’t sound like you had any love left for the man.”

“I didn’t,” Nanette said hastily. “I hated him. I’ve hated him for a long time.”

“Then why was he here?”

“Because I had no choice. If I wanted any peace, I had to see him. He came to get his payment…it was already a week late.” She leapt to her feet and began pacing the room.

Mrs. Jeffries ignored the histrionics. This was starting to sound interesting. Despite what the romantics would have one believe about love making the world go round, it had often been Mrs. Jeffries’s experience that as a motive for murder, money was usually the culprit more often than affairs of the heart. “What kind of payment might this be?” she asked. “A loan, perhaps?”

“A loan? From Underhill?” She stopped next to the window and laughed bitterly. “
Mais, non.
He was too
mean to loan anyone money.” Nanette turned and stared out onto the street. Her back was ramrod straight and her arms held stiffly against her sides. Her hands were balled into fists so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Sensing that the Frenchwoman was waging some terrible internal battle, Mrs. Jeffries simply waited patiently, saying nothing.

Nanette sighed deeply. “James was blackmailing me.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“Almost from the day I opened zhis shop.” She turned and shrugged. “I’ve told you now. I suppose you’ll want to tell zee inspector. Underhill is dead. I had a reason to kill him,
non?
”

“Nanette,” Mrs. Jeffries said gently, “why don’t you tell me the whole story?”

“I’m afraid it’s an old one, madam. A foolish young girl. A clever man and voilà, I am in chains for zee rest of my life.” Nanette smiled wearily. “Two years ago, I was uh…given a painting by a gentleman friend. It was a nice oil painting. Quite old and very pretty. It was a picture of a city along a river somewhere in Italy. I didn’t zink it was very valuable, but I liked it. My friend died. He was quite an…er, elderly gentleman. At his funeral, I met James Underhill. We were immediately attracted to one another, or so I thought.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was alone in zee world. I wanted to leave my employment and make a better life for myself. James and I began seeing each other. Within a short while, he began asking questions about zee painting. He told me it was worth a lot of money and he offered to sell it for me.” She waved her arm in a wide arc. “Zat’s where I got zee money for all zhis, zee shop, zee lease hold on zee building. Zee
money for zee stock. I was so happy. I opened my shop and I had my lover.”

“Selling one painting got you that much money?”

Nanette laughed bitterly. “The painting was a Caldararo.”

“Ah, now I understand.” Mrs. Jeffries was no expert, but even she knew the value of a Genoa Caldararo painting. The great sixteenth-century Florentine artist had done fewer than a dozen canvases before his untimely death. His work was valuable not simply because of its brilliance, but because of its scarcity.

“A few months after I’d opened,” Nanette continued, “after I’d spent every
sou
, James took me to dinner at a beautiful restaurant. There was wine and music and fresh flowers on zee table. I thought he was going to propose. I know such a thing is unusual. A man usually asks for a lady’s hand in private, after zee formalities are completed with zee family. But I had no family, no papa for James to ask permission. So when he took such care to make zee dinner so special, so…so…well, I was a silly, romantic fool. He took me to zhat restaurant not to please me, but to make sure I wouldn’t make a public scene. As you’ve guessed, James didn’t ask me to marry him. Instead, he announced zat zee painting I’d sold was a forgery. An excellent one, but a forgery nonezeeless. It was worthless.”

“But that wasn’t your fault,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed.

“Zat didn’t matter,” Nanette replied. “If zee new owner of zee Caldararo found out it was worthless, he would sue me. Perhaps even have me arrested. James had made sure it was my name on zee bill of sale.”

“But he’d been the one to broker the painting.”

“He’d merely claim he’d been duped as well,” Nanette
replied. “I am a foreigner, Mrs. Jeffries. I was a maid before I opened my shop. James Underhill was from an ancient and honorable family. That makes a difference in zhis world. Believe me, Mrs. Jeffries, if I could have found a way to put zee blame on him, I would have. But zee truth was, I couldn’t afford a lawsuit. Zee man who bought zee Caldararo was a rich collector. He could ruin me.”

“I take it Underhill wanted money for his silence.”

Nanette nodded. “He said he wasn’t going to be unreasonable,” she said. “He’d take monthly payments. Every bit of profit zhis place has earned has gone into his pocket, not mine. I’ve paid well for his silence.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“Yes,” Nanette admitted. “He’s dead. I won’t have to pay him again. So, as you can see, I had a reason to want him dead.”

“I’ve a suspicion you weren’t the only one,” Mrs. Jeffries mused thoughtfully. She considered the method used to murder Underhill. Nanette could have done it. Easily. But had she? “Nanette, there’s one more thing I need to know. What connection did Irene Simmons have with Underhill?”

“It were murder, all right,” Wiggins told the others. They were gathered around the table at Upper Edmonton Gardens. As planned, they’d met back there for an early mid-day meal.

“I done just like you told me, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said to the housekeeper. “I went straight into the station. The copper at the desk tried to stop me, but Constable Barnes was comin’ down the stairs and when he ’eard me natterin’ on with that tale of needin’ to give the inspector ’is spectacles, he took me straight up. The inspector had just come back from a meetin’ with the chief inspector.” He leaned forward, his expression as solemn as an undertaker’s. “Underhill was poisoned. Our inspector’s got the case.”