take Wiggins, the boy wouldn’t get to go. Blast, Smythe thought as he stomped toward the gate at the side of the house, what good did it do him being rich as sin if he couldn’t help his friends? “Why don’t ya come with us?”
“Ya mean it?” Wiggins yelped, his face bright with pleasure. “But I really shouldn’t…it’ll cost…”
“Don’t worry about the cost, lad,” Smythe said brusquely as he opened the gate. “I’ve had a good turn or two at the races lately. It’ll be on me. Now, where ya off to?”
Wiggins grinned. “I’m goin’ back to the Grant house to see if I can find one of them ’ousemaids. The red-haired one was right nice lookin’. ’Ow about you?”
“Me? Oh, I’ll try the pubs and the cabbies in the area,” he lied. “See what I can pick up. What time are we meetin’ back ’ere?”
“Mrs. Jeffries said right after supper,” Wiggins replied. “Luty and Hatchet are supposed to be here too.”
They swung around a corner. Smythe started to cross the road. He stopped when Wiggins called to him. “I thought you said you was goin’ to the pubs?”
Smythe jerked his chin toward the hansoms lined up on the other side of the busy intersection. “I’m just goin’ to’ave a quick word over there,” he replied. “I’ll see you back at ’ome tonight.”
Wiggins waved and continued on his way, his mind already on the red-haired housemaid.
Smythe waited till the footman was well up the road before crossing over to one of the hansom cabs. “Do ya know a pub called The Dirty Duck?” he asked the cabbie.
The driver laughed and looked Smythe up and down. “Reckon I do, mate. But it’ll cost a bit. It’s over by the docks.”
“That’s all right.” Smythe swung himself inside. “I know where it is. But if ya can get me there quick, there’ll be an extra bob or two for yer pocket.”
Mary Grant regarded the two policemen calmly. If, as her stepson claimed, she’d been “ruffled,” the inspector thought, there was certainly no sign of it now.
“Mrs. Grant,” he began, “I’d like to ask you a bit about your relationship with Mr. Underhill. I understand from your son…”
“My stepson,” she corrected. “He’s Neville’s son, not mine. As to my relationship with James Underhill…” She shrugged. “It was purely business.”
“Business? But young Mr. Grant claims Underhill had known you and your sister since before you were married to Mr. Neville Grant.”
“That’s correct,” Mary replied. “But it was still basically a business relationship. He helped dispose of my father’s art collection when he died.”
“Yet he was an invited guest in your house,” Witherspoon reminded her.
“Only because Arthur asked me to invite him,” she replied. “In any case, it wasn’t really a social occasion.The Modeans were only here for business reasons. They’re hardly the sort of people I would consider friends.”
“But I was under the impression”—the inspector cleared his throat—“that Mr. Underhill was your sister’s fiancé.”
Mary Grant smiled grimly. “This is rather awkward, Inspector. I’m not in the habit of discussing personal business with the police, but given the conversation you’ve already witnessed between Helen and I, I suppose I’ve no choice but to explain.”
The Inspector wished someone would. His interview with Arthur Grant hadn’t made much sense either.
“James Underhill was not Helen’s fiancé,” Mary said bluntly. “She would like to think they were engaged, but I assure you, they were not.”
“How can you be so sure?” Barnes asked softly. He flipped back through the pages of his notebook. “Miss Collier clearly stated that Mr. Underhill and she had discussed the matter of marriage when they were out in the garden yesterday afternoon. And that she’d agreed to wed the man.”
She sighed dramatically. “I don’t doubt that she said just that. She may actually believe it happened. But the
“Ya mean it?” Wiggins yelped, his face bright with pleasure. “But I really shouldn’t…it’ll cost…”
“Don’t worry about the cost, lad,” Smythe said brusquely as he opened the gate. “I’ve had a good turn or two at the races lately. It’ll be on me. Now, where ya off to?”
Wiggins grinned. “I’m goin’ back to the Grant house to see if I can find one of them ’ousemaids. The red-haired one was right nice lookin’. ’Ow about you?”
“Me? Oh, I’ll try the pubs and the cabbies in the area,” he lied. “See what I can pick up. What time are we meetin’ back ’ere?”
“Mrs. Jeffries said right after supper,” Wiggins replied. “Luty and Hatchet are supposed to be here too.”
They swung around a corner. Smythe started to cross the road. He stopped when Wiggins called to him. “I thought you said you was goin’ to the pubs?”
Smythe jerked his chin toward the hansoms lined up on the other side of the busy intersection. “I’m just goin’ to’ave a quick word over there,” he replied. “I’ll see you back at ’ome tonight.”
Wiggins waved and continued on his way, his mind already on the red-haired housemaid.
Smythe waited till the footman was well up the road before crossing over to one of the hansom cabs. “Do ya know a pub called The Dirty Duck?” he asked the cabbie.
The driver laughed and looked Smythe up and down. “Reckon I do, mate. But it’ll cost a bit. It’s over by the docks.”
“That’s all right.” Smythe swung himself inside. “I know where it is. But if ya can get me there quick, there’ll be an extra bob or two for yer pocket.”
Mary Grant regarded the two policemen calmly. If, as her stepson claimed, she’d been “ruffled,” the inspector thought, there was certainly no sign of it now.
“Mrs. Grant,” he began, “I’d like to ask you a bit about your relationship with Mr. Underhill. I understand from your son…”
“My stepson,” she corrected. “He’s Neville’s son, not mine. As to my relationship with James Underhill…” She shrugged. “It was purely business.”
“Business? But young Mr. Grant claims Underhill had known you and your sister since before you were married to Mr. Neville Grant.”
“That’s correct,” Mary replied. “But it was still basically a business relationship. He helped dispose of my father’s art collection when he died.”
“Yet he was an invited guest in your house,” Witherspoon reminded her.
“Only because Arthur asked me to invite him,” she replied. “In any case, it wasn’t really a social occasion.The Modeans were only here for business reasons. They’re hardly the sort of people I would consider friends.”
“But I was under the impression”—the inspector cleared his throat—“that Mr. Underhill was your sister’s fiancé.”
Mary Grant smiled grimly. “This is rather awkward, Inspector. I’m not in the habit of discussing personal business with the police, but given the conversation you’ve already witnessed between Helen and I, I suppose I’ve no choice but to explain.”
The Inspector wished someone would. His interview with Arthur Grant hadn’t made much sense either.
“James Underhill was not Helen’s fiancé,” Mary said bluntly. “She would like to think they were engaged, but I assure you, they were not.”
“How can you be so sure?” Barnes asked softly. He flipped back through the pages of his notebook. “Miss Collier clearly stated that Mr. Underhill and she had discussed the matter of marriage when they were out in the garden yesterday afternoon. And that she’d agreed to wed the man.”
She sighed dramatically. “I don’t doubt that she said just that. She may actually believe it happened. But the
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