12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art Read Online Free PDF Page A

the trolley carefully in front of where Mary Grant was sitting and scurried off.
    “Will your husband be joining us for tea, Mrs. Grant?” Tyrell Modean asked.
    “Of course. He only went into his study for a moment. I believe he’s gone to get
The Times.
I think there’s a notice he’d like you to see. There are some old tapestry panels being offered for sale. Neville thought you might be interested in acquiring them for your museum.” She smiled warmly at the handsome American. Her smile slipped a bit when she glanced at Modean’s wife.
    Lydia Modean was too beautiful to be liked and too rich to be ignored, despite the fact that she’d once made her living posing for half the artists in Soho.
    A thumping came from down the hallway and Mary steeled herself to continue being gracious as her husband, deliberately slamming his cane against the floor, banged into the room.
    His thinning white hair was disheveled, his watery eyes glittering with rage. “Call the police,” he thundered. “Someone’s stolen my paintings. My Caldararos. They’re gone!”

CHAPTER 2

    Inspector Gerald Witherspoon hoped he was doing the right thing. He slowed his pace as he walked up Holland Park Road. Perhaps he ought to have sent Wiggins or Smythe over to fetch Constable Barnes? But as the constable was off duty, he hadn’t wanted to bother him at home. Especially for something like this. So he’d decided to bring his coachman and footman along with him—unofficially, of course.
    Still undecided, because what he was doing was highly irregular, Witherspoon stopped in the middle of the pavement. His two companions stopped as well.
    “Is somethin’ wrong, Inspector?” Smythe inquired politely.
    “No, no. I just needed to have a bit of a think. Was Miss Lanier absolutely certain of the address?” he asked. Perhaps he ought to have sent Miss Lanier to the police station, but she’d been so desperate, so distraught. He really hadn’t had the heart to refuse her request. Especially when she’d gone on and on about what a brilliant detectivehe was and how she’d remembered his kindness and sensitivity from that awful Slocum murder. Then she’d started to cry and—well, to be honest, he’d have agreed to anything to get her to stop. So here he was, trotting along to some man’s house and preparing to ask a few uncomfortable questions. He hoped this Mr. Grant would be civil about it. Witherspoon brushed his doubts aside. Surely he wasn’t stepping out of line merely by making a few inquiries. After all, he was a police officer and a young woman had gone missing.
    “Miss Lanier was certain of the address, sir,” Smythe replied. He hoped they’d done the right thing in having Nanette throw herself upon the inspector’s good nature. Cor blimey, he’d hate to see the inspector get the sticky end of the wicket over this, especially as it was really their problem, not his.
    But none of the household had been able to resist, as Mrs. Jeffries had put it, “putting the cat amongst the pigeons.” If nothing else, it would get the servants at the Grant house gossiping and speculating. Always a handy situation when it came to solving cases, Smythe reckoned. “Number thirty-four, Beltrane Gardens. It’s just up there, sir,” he said.
    Witherspoon stiffened his spine and charged ahead. Best to get this over with.

    “No one’s stolen anything, Neville,” Mary said calmly. She smoothed the folds of her elegant brown tea gown. “Arthur suggested I send the Caldararos out to be cleaned before Mr. Modean’s expert has a look at them.”
    “Who told you to do that?” Grant grumbled, more out of habit than anger. Mary, for all her shortcomings as a woman, was a jolly fine household manager. The paintingshad become a bit scruffy. He was just surprised that his half wit of a son had the foresight to suggest it.
    Mary was unperturbed. “The frames were getting quite dirty. Now do sit down and have tea. Cook has surpassed herself this