Read Online 12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art by Emily Brightwell - Free Book Online Page B

the cushions. “I think ‘art dealer’ is a bit more formal for what he actually did. The man didn’t own a gallery or anything like that, Inspector. He’s more what one would call an art broker. By that I mean that he seemed to always know who was buying and who was selling.”
    “Was Mr. Underhill involved in your negotiations with Mr. Grant?” Witherspoon asked.
    “Absolutely not,” Modean replied bluntly. “I don’t know why Underhill was here today, but it had nothing to do with us.” He shot his wife a quick glance. “I just assumed he was a guest of the Grants.”
    “I see,” the inspector murmured. “You were invited for tea?”
    “Right. But as Grant and I had business to discuss, Mrs. Grant asked us to come early.”
    “Exactly what time did you arrive, sir?” Barnes asked.
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Four o’clock, dear,” Lydia said. “You and Mr. Grant joined us in the garden about four-fifteen.”
    Witherspoon wasn’t sure precisely what he ought to be asking. It was decidedly awkward questioning people when one wasn’t even sure a murder had taken place. “So Mr. and Mrs. Grant were there, as were the two of you. Anyone else?”
    It was Lydia who answered. “Helen Collier, Mrs. Grant’s sister, was also there, as was Arthur Grant and, of course, Mr. Underhill.”
    “Arthur Grant?” The inspector vaguely recalled seeing a pale, fidgety young fellow when he’d first arrived. “Is he Mr. Grant’s grandson?”
    Lydia’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Arthur is his son, Inspector. By his first wife.”
    “Ah, I see. Well, I suppose Mr. Arthur Grant’s antecedents are really neither here nor there.”
    “Inspector,” Tyrell said, “I don’t really know what else my wife or I can tell you. We arrived here at about four, I spent ten minutes in the study with Mr. Grant discussing business, then we sat in the garden with the others until tea was served. We’d only been in the drawing room a few moments before Underhill died. It was a perfectly ordinary, civil, if somewhat boring afternoon. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a rather trying day. I’d like to take my wife back to the hotel.”
    Witherspoon concentrated hard, trying to think if there was something else he ought to ask, but nothing came to mind. “Of course, sir.”
    Modean and his wife stood up. She sagged against him gently and he put his arm around her shoulders. “If you need to ask us anything else, we’ll be at your disposal. We’re at the Alexandra in Knightsbridge.”

    It was quite late by the time the inspector came home that night, but Mrs. Jeffries waited up for him. She took his hat and coat. “I dare say, sir, you must be exhausted. Wiggins and Smythe told us what happened.”
    “I am a bit tired,” he admitted.
    “Would you care for some tea before you retire, sir?” she asked. “I’ve just made a fresh pot.”
    “That would be lovely, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon agreed eagerly.
    “Let’s go into the drawing room, shall we?” The housekeeper led the way, clucking sympathetically as she ushered him into his favorite chair and poured his tea.
    “I say, Mrs. Jeffries, I went out in such a rush after Miss Lanier’s visit that I forgot to ask if there was any word from Lady Cannonberry.”
    Lady Ruth Cannonberry was their neighbor—a very special friend of the household and, most important, the inspector. She’d been gone now for more than a week on a duty visit to relatives. Inspector Witherspoon missed her dreadfully. “We had a short note saying she’d arrived safely but her plans hadn’t changed.” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “She’ll be back next week.”
    Mrs. Jeffries continued. “Now, sir. What do you think has happened? Wiggins and Smythe both seemed to think you’d decided this Mr. Underhill had been murdered.”
    “I’m not certain of that,” Witherspoon replied. “But the death was suspicious enough that I began an immediate investigation.”
    “Yes,” she