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

of money?” Arthur asked.
    Tyrell shook his head. “Not really. A few hundred pounds.”
    “Three hundred and thirty-six pounds,” Underhill muttered. He knew precisely what everything in that collection had sold for. He’d been there. “If it wasn’t much money, why didn’t you buy it?”
    “I didn’t want it that badly,” Tyrell answered, looking him straight in the eye, “and the other fellow did.”
    “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 twohundred 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. Hegave 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