[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “And the door to the roof? Is that usually locked too?” Sandy asked Dante.

  “I’m not entirely sure, I never come up this way myself; it’s purely for maintenance access. You see, there is no actual way into the tower from the building. It’s a folly – an architectural excess – with no functional purpose.”

  “But one can actually get to the tower over the roof? And access it?”

  “I believe so, yes. But it might be better if you spoke to the gallery caretaker. I can put you in touch with him tomorrow. He isn’t here this evening.”

  Sandy climbed the steps and appraised the door. “It looks like it has a bolt from the inside. So perhaps no key is needed for here. Which of you touched the handle?”

  “I did,” said Poppy.

  “And I.”

  “And I.”

  The voices came from the two journalists who stood on either side of Poppy, just a step below her.

  “Remind me again why you two went onto the roof?” asked Sandy.

  “It was when Poppy came back into the gallery. She was crying and shaking and in a state of shock, saying she’d seen Agnes fall from the tower. So I decided to come and have a look,” said Peter.

  “And so did I,” Walter added.

  “Scared MacMahon would scoop you?” smirked Sandy.

  “No,” said Walter, pulling himself up to his full height, which made him a couple of inches taller than his Journal rival. “I was worried about whoever had fallen. MacMahon and I just happened to be near one another when Miss Denby came in.”

  “Hmmm,” said Sandy, putting on a pair of gloves and opening the door. “Come with me, Miss Denby, and show me where you were when you saw what you saw. MacMahon and Foster, wait here; I’ll call you when I’m ready for you. The rest of you can go back into the gallery. There’s no need for us all to be up there trampling over evidence.”

  Poppy and Sandy stepped out onto the roof, the cold air taking them both by surprise. Sandy inhaled quickly and said: “Are you warm enough? You’re not really dressed for the occasion.”

  Poppy pulled the gentleman’s jacket closed over her evening gown. She wasn’t sure whom the jacket belonged to but she was grateful for it. “I’ll be all right, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? Here, take my coat – I’m wearing a warm jacket underneath.” Sandy’s voice had lost the edge of aloof professionalism, and Poppy detected a touch of the charming man she had spent time with earlier in the week.

  “Thank you,” she said, allowing him to drape the lambswool Ulster overcoat over her shoulders.

  “It’s quite a view from up here,” he said, taking in the twinkling electric and gas-lit streets sloping down the hill towards the River Tyne, like strings of Christmas lights. During the day, Poppy imagined, they might be able to see the Castle and the quayside to the south, Grainger Town with its genteel Georgian buildings to the west, and the Town Moor with its resident cows to the east. Their view to the north would be blocked by the building behind them. But looming just fifty yards in front of them was the tower where a woman had just died.

  “That’s where it happened,” said Poppy, pointing to the oblong structure with its arched cupola on top. “I wasn’t sure at first whether she was out here, but then I saw a match – I think – light up. I assumed she’d gone to the tower to have a cigarette.”

  “A funny place to go for a smoke,” observed Sandy.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Well, it was lighter than it is now. It wasn’t entirely dark yet and there were no clouds obscuring the moon. I saw a woman, who I thought looked like Agnes. She was talking to someone, but standing in front of him.”

  “Him?”

  Poppy thought for a moment, pursing her lips. “I honestly don’t know. It could have been a man or a woman. I didn’t see the person.”

  “How did you know there was someone else there?”

  “I heard two voices. One was definitely Agnes’. The other I couldn’t make out, but it was lower and more muffled.”

  “Lower like a man’s?”

  “Possibly. But I honestly couldn’t say for certain.”

  “All right,” said Sandy, “could you make out anything that they said?”

  Poppy closed her eyes and returned to the terrifying few moments before Agnes fell – or was pushed – to her death. “I could hear them arguing – more from the tone than the words – then I heard Agnes say, ‘Leave me alone, I tell you, leave me alone.’ She sounded terrified. I called out then, asking if she was all right, but there was no answer. So I started towards the tower. I walked along here –” she pointed to the narrow catwalk, “and when I was a few yards along, I saw them starting to fight.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t see the other person.”

  “I didn’t, at first, but when they started fighting – physically wrestling with each other – I saw their silhouettes. Agnes’ hair was loose and blowing. I couldn’t see the other person properly, only that there was another person. Does that make any sense?”

  “Yes it does. What happened then?” His voice was low and gentle; lulling almost. Poppy wondered if this was his practised “keep the witness calm” voice. He was standing very close to her, but not touching. Poppy could smell pipe tobacco on his coat collar. Silence fell between them like dew. Then, after a few moments, she closed her eyes again and relived the last horrible moments of Agnes Robson’s life.

  “Like I said, they were scuffling. Agnes’ hair was flying everywhere. So I ran towards them. But I tripped on my dress.” She opened her eyes again and pointed to the approximate place she fell. “When I regained my footing and looked up again, Agnes was stepping back towards the arches, clutching her throat.”

  Sandy took her by the shoulders – firmly but gently – and turned her towards him. Then he looked deeply into her eyes. Is this how he interviews all his witnesses?

  “She was clutching her throat? Did you see the other person slash at her?”

  Poppy shook her head. “No, I didn’t. Like I said, I’d tripped. It must have happened then. In fact I didn’t see the other person again. All I saw was Agnes stepping backwards, clutching her throat, then – then –” Poppy’s voice caught with emotion, “then I saw her fall. And she didn’t scream. There was just all this hair, billowing around her like a witch’s cloak. But she didn’t scream and I didn’t know why. But now I do. Someone had cut her throat. Oh God, Sandy! Someone cut her throat!”

  Then, to her frustration, she started to cry. She tried to stop but couldn’t. And before she knew it she was in Sandy’s arms and he was holding her close, stroking her back and resting his chin on her head.

  After a few moments she steadied herself and pulled back, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry, I – I –” She thrust her hands into the coat pocket, then remembered it wasn’t her own. “Do you have a hanky?”

  He smiled at her, his face awash with sympathy, then reached into his lapel pocket and produced a handkerchief. “Here,” he said.

  She took it and dabbed at her damp eyes and runny nose, embarrassed by her show of emotion. She had investigated murders before but none of them had ever affected her like this.

  Sandy, however, took her emotional display in his stride. “Don’t worry; it was a very upsetting thing to witness, Poppy. But I need you to tell me everything that happened after that. Take your time and try not to leave anything out.”

  He reached again into his jacket pocket and this time took out a metal case. “Cigarette?”

  CHAPTER 10

  That night Poppy lay awake listening to the rain that set in around midnight. The bed next to her – Delilah’s – was empty. It was not unusual for her friend to stay out until the early hours of the morning, but tonight, of all nights, she wished she were not alone. Downstairs she heard sobbing – either Dot or Grace, but probably Dot. When Sandy had finally dropped her off, she had filled Dot and Grace in o
n what had happened. Both women, who had been waiting up for her, had been crying. Even Grace. “Who do you think could have done it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Grace; I honestly don’t. Hopefully DI Hawkes is good at his job and will get to the bottom of it soon. He’ll be interviewing everyone who was in the building.”

  “What if the person wasn’t in the building though?” asked Grace. “Didn’t you say that you thought you heard someone down in the stables?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. I said I wondered if Agnes had gone down to the stables.”

  “Yes, but someone could have come up, couldn’t they? What if they had got through the stable doors from the street? And then slipped back out the same way?”

  Poppy honestly hadn’t thought of that. But Grace had a point. She would mention it to Sandy in the morning.

  It was after two o’clock when Poppy finally tumbled into a fitful sleep, tortured by dreams of Agnes falling from the tower while she and Sandy kissed, wrapped in swathes of Agnes’ black hair.

  FRIDAY, 4 OCTOBER 1924, NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE

  The next morning over breakfast, Poppy, Dot, and Grace, all red-eyed, sat in silence. The temporary maid – usually a chatty young lass – ferried plates and cups from the table, looking pale and confused. Poppy wasn’t sure what time Delilah had got in, but she was sound asleep in the bed next to her when Poppy jerked into consciousness around seven o’clock. There was a place set for the young actress, and another, Poppy assumed, for Agnes.

  Eventually Dot spoke. “It’s Delilah’s opening night tonight, isn’t it?”

  Poppy thought for a moment and said: “Golly, you’re right! And we’re all supposed to be going.”

  “I just don’t think I can watch a comedy,” said Grace.

  Dot, usually so ebullient, nodded her agreement. “Neither can I. I’m sure Delilah will understand. We can go next week when things have settled down. Inspector Hawkes said he would be around later and they would need to search Agnes’ things. Someone will need to be here for that.”

  “That will more than likely be later this morning, Aunt Dot. They’ll be gone by this evening, and I do think Delilah still needs our support.”

  “I just can’t, Poppy…” said Grace, her grey eyes haunted and harrowed.

  Grace is taking this hard, Poppy thought. Not surprisingly, I suppose. Grace had been through a dreadful time over the last few years. She had been to prison for her role in the unintentional death of a suffragette – Delilah’s mother – and its subsequent cover-up. However, both Dot and Delilah had eventually forgiven her, accepting that she had not intended her actions to have such a tragic end. The courts, however, had not been as forgiving, and Grace had been sent to prison for two years. Fortunately, Yasmin Reece-Lansdale, the wife of Poppy’s editor Rollo Rolandson, was a leading barrister and friend of Aunt Dot and Grace. Yasmin had managed to get Grace released on probation after eighteen months. The terms of the probation were now up and Grace was a free woman. But, Poppy knew, she was still imprisoned in her heart and mind, unable to let go of the horrors of the past. Poppy wondered if that was one of the reasons Agnes’ visit had upset her so much – the artist had been a reminder of the terrible time when Gloria died.

  Dot reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Don’t worry; I’ll stay home with you, darling. But Poppy’s right, someone needs to support Delilah. She’s worked so hard to get this role, and I’m sure she’ll be marvellous. So you go, Poppy. And maybe you can give our tickets to someone else.”

  “I’m not sure who.”

  “How about that handsome policeman? He seemed fond of you.”

  “DI Hawkes?” Poppy shook her head firmly. “No, I think he’ll be far too busy working on the case.”

  Dot cocked her head to the side, her curiosity piqued. “But you would like to, wouldn’t you? I detect a little flush, don’t you, Grace?”

  Grace stared ahead and did not answer.

  Dot gave her friend a sympathetic look then turned back to her niece. “Are you sure he’ll be too busy? He won’t be working all day and night, surely?”

  Poppy pursed her lips, annoyed that she had allowed Dot to sense that she was attracted to Sandy. But was she? If her dreams from last night were anything to go by, then she most certainly was.

  She forced a tight smile and said: “I’ll see. I’ll definitely go though. Delilah will need me. And don’t forget, it’s also Father’s birthday party tomorrow. Do you think you can make that, Grace?”

  Again Grace stared straight ahead.

  Dot sighed, then put on a happy face. “I’m sure Grace will be feeling better by then, won’t you, darling? But if not, not to worry. Poppy and I can just get the train up to Morpeth on our own and let you have some time alone here.” She once again patted her friend’s hand.

  Just then the doorbell rang. The maid stuck her head into the dining room and asked: “Should I get it, Miss Dot?”

  “Yes please, Betty.” Dot cupped her hands and bounced up her curls. “I wonder who it is? Probably your handsome inspector, Poppy.”

  To her annoyance, Poppy’s heart skipped a beat. Golly girl, pull yourself together! This is not the time or place for romance. Aunt Dot gave her a knowing look.

  Betty the maid returned a few moments later and said: “It’s Mrs Sherman from two doors down. The lady with the dogs, Miss Dot. Should I bring her in?”

  Poppy let out a relieved sigh. Good. She was not quite ready to see the handsome policeman this morning. She was barely out of her dressing gown.

  Dot smiled at the maid. “Of course, Betty. She can join us for breakfast if she likes. Do we have enough eggs?”

  “We do, miss.”

  “Jolly good; then invite the lady in please.”

  Maddie Sherman clomped her way down the hall wearing a pair of muddy boots. Grace roused herself long enough from her malaise to ask her to take them off.

  “We’ve just had new carpets laid,” she said tersely.

  Maddie looked taken aback, but then complied, adding quietly: “Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d picked up any muck in the park. Bit boggy down there I suppose after last night’s rain.”

  Grace did not respond, but Dot swooped in with her usual charm. “Oh that’s all right, Maddie; it’s no bother at all. Easily done. Would you like anything to eat? We have eggs.”

  Maddie smiled gratefully at Dot as she took off her boots. “I’ve had some breakfast, thank you, but a cup of tea would be lovely. Where should I put these?”

  “In the hall,” said Grace. “Like I asked you to do yesterday when you came to visit, remember?”

  Maddie, chastened, lowered her head and scurried out. She returned a minute later in her stockinged feet, and sat in the place where Agnes should have been.

  “I’m sorry. I should have remembered about my boots. It’s not like me to have to be told twice. It’s just – well – my mind is taken up by other things. Like all of us, I should imagine.” She smiled at Grace, hoping for a truce. Grace softened slightly. Maddie relaxed. “Have the police been around yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Dot. “We thought for a minute you might be them. How did you sleep? We barely slept a wink, did we?” Dot took in Grace and Poppy, her large blue eyes perfectly made up despite the early hour.

  “No, we didn’t,” said Poppy.

  Maddie shook her head and let out a long sigh. “Terrible business. Who could have done such a thing? That poor woman. And poor Dante.”

  Dot looked startled. “Dante? Why? Has something happened to him too?”

  Maddie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Goodness no! Not like that. I can’t even bring myself to think about it. But,” she said, recovering her composure, “this will be a terrible blow for him, professionally. It was his first major exhibition that he has solely curated. And such a big name too: Agnes Robson. He has been working on it for over a year, in discussions with Agnes and Gerald Farmer. As well as the Tate. He’s borrowed some of their paintings, and
they don’t just lend them to anyone, you know. But Dante has an impeccable reputation and came to them with top-notch references. He’s done remarkably well for himself, for a young man of his age.”

  Grace turned her grey stare on Maddie and said: “A woman has died.”

  An awkward silence fell upon the table, broken only when Betty came in with a fresh pot of tea. Dot played mother and poured the tea.

  After a few minutes, emboldened by the strong tea, Maddie turned to Grace and said: “I apologize, Mrs Wilson. I know it’s not the level of tragedy that Agnes’ family will have to endure, but a mother must think of her own child too. Isn’t that true?”

  “I have no children,” said Grace.

  “Oh. That’s a shame,” said Maddie.

  This is getting very frosty, thought Poppy. “So, Mrs Sherman, you say Dante had been working on the exhibition for over a year. Whose idea was it to bring Agnes up here? Hers or his? Or someone else’s?”

  Maddie turned to Poppy, visibly relieved to not have to engage with Grace any further. “Oh, it was Dante’s. He’d read in the newspaper that there was going to be a community hall opening in Ashington with a donation from Agnes. He contacted the journalist who wrote the story – that fellow Walter Foster from Morpeth who was there last night – and asked him for more information. He was then put in touch with the Ashington Miners’ Institute, who put him in touch with the art department at Armstrong College. However, Professor Reid is already an old friend of the family – my late husband, Dr Sherman, and he were in the same battalion together during the Boer War. It was Simon Reid, I believe, who knew Agnes’ manager and publicist – that fellow Gerald Farmer – and he was the one who put Dante in touch with them. Dante suggested Agnes have an exhibition at the Laing to coincide with her trip up to open the community hall. It took a bit of persuading, apparently, but she finally agreed. It was quite a coup for a young curator, I must say. I’m very proud of him. And now, oh dear, I’m not sure what’s going to happen about the exhibition…”

  “Surely they’ll keep it up in her honour, don’t you think?” offered Dot.