Free 12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art by Emily Brightwell Page A

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-buttonpair 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 wovenrug 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