Read 12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art for Free Online

choking on those damned mints,” Modean cried, lifting his hand and slapping the man’s back.
    But it didn’t help. Underhill began thrashing about on the cushions, his hands clawing at the tight collar of his white silk shirt.
    Helen screamed. “Oh, God. Someone do something.”
    By this time everyone, even Neville Grant, had moved toward the man flailing about on the settee. Underhillslipped off his seat and landed on the carpet with a thud, his legs kicking so wildly he clipped Helen on the arm. She screamed again and Lydia Modean pulled her back out of the way.
    “Give them some space,” Lydia ordered.
    Tyrell wrestled Underhill onto his back and yanked off the tight buttons of his collar, freeing his throat. But that made no difference. His face turned white, so white it was almost bluish in color.
    “For God’s sake, what’s wrong with him?” Mary demanded. “Is he having a fit?”
    Suddenly the thrashing stopped.
    James Underhill went completely still.
    Modean bent down and put his ear to the man’s chest. He raised his hand for silence as he listened. For a moment the room was quiet. But then Modean straightened and looked up at the others. He shook his head.
    “Well, what’s wrong with the fellow?” Neville Grant asked brusquely. “Is he sick? Should we call a doctor?”
    “That’s not going to do him any good now,” Modean replied as he rose to his feet. “He’s dead. I think you’d better call the police.”
    “Dead?” Neville poked at the lifeless form with his cane. “Are you sure?”
    “For God’s sake, Neville, stop that,” Mary snapped.
    “Dead? But that’s impossible,” Helen Collier wailed.
    Lydia Modean closed her eyes.
    Arthur Grant slumped into the nearest chair.
    Mary Grant stiffened her spine, strode to the bell pull and gave it a hard tug. Almost immediately the doors opened and the butler appeared. His gaze swept the room, his eyes widening as he espied Underhill lying in front of the settee.
    Before any of the Grants could issue an order, Tyrell Modean spoke. “Send for the police,” he instructed the surprised servant. “We’ve a dead man here.”
    “That won’t be necessary, sir.” The butler swallowed nervously. “They’re already here.”
    “The police? Here?” Neville Grant stomped past the butler and into the hallway. Standing by the front door, he spotted three men. “Don’t just stand there,” he called. “Come on. It’s in here.”
    Witherspoon stared at the apparition at the opposite end of the hall. The gentleman seemed to be talking to them.
    “I say,” he murmured to Smythe. “This looks like it might be a tad easier than I thought. The fellow certainly seems eager to answer questions.”
    “Do get a move on,” the elderly man shouted, waving at them impatiently with his cane. “Why aren’t you in uniform? You’d better be the police or I’ll have your…”
    “I am a policeman,” Witherspoon assured him, “and these gentlemen”—he gestured at Smythe and Wiggins—“are from my household. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    “For God’s sake, Neville,” Mary shouted from the open door of the drawing room. “Bring them here.”
    “This way, this way.” Grant turned on his heel and started back the way he’d just come.
    “Cor blimey,” the coachman muttered, “what’s goin’ on ’ere?”
    “I don’t know,” Witherspoon replied honestly. “But I do believe he wants us to follow him.” He hurried after the man, and after a moment’s hesitation, Wiggins and Smythe trotted after him.
    Witherspoon stopped short when he entered the drawing room. A group of elegantly dressed people stood staringdown at a man lying on the carpet. The inspector, thinking the man was injured, flew across the room and dropped to his knees. “What’s happened here?”
    “We’ve no idea,” a woman replied archly.
    Witherspoon felt for a pulse. There was none. But that didn’t mean the fellow was gone.