“I would hope so,” said Poppy, “but for now the whole building will be closed as it’s a crime scene.”
Maddie’s hand again went to her mouth. “Goodness, Poppy, when you put it like that…”
Maddie recovered, then finished her tea. As soon as the cup hit the saucer Grace said: “Well it’s been lovely seeing you, Mrs Sherman, but we must get on. We have someone coming to wallpaper the drawing room today. I’ll send Betty along as soon as the police arrive. Although I don’t know why they can’t see you in your own house.”
Maddie stiffened. “Well, Mrs Wilson, if that’s the way you feel about it…”
Dot flashed a warning look at Grace, then turned her warm smile on Maddie. “Don’t be silly; of course it’s not. Grace – like the rest of us – has just had a shock, that’s all. She’s not quite herself. She doesn’t mean to be rude. Of course you’re welcome here, Maddie. Any time. I’m just sorry it’s in such horrible circumstances, that’s all.”
Maddie’s face dropped. “Yes, horrible circumstances,” she echoed. “Quite horrible circumstances.”
Armstrong Park was full of puddles. Poppy – who had borrowed a pair of wellington boots from Grace – was picking her way down the path towards Jesmond Vale burn. She went past the waterlogged bowling green as two men in mackintoshes were attempting to slough off the excess water with sackcloth and brooms, then the pavilion where just the other day she and Delilah had enjoyed tea. The chairs were stacked on tables, as a waitress mopped the patio. She was swilling water into a gutter that Poppy could see was already clogged with sodden leaves. Although it had stopped raining, fat droplets fell from the trees above, and Poppy put up her umbrella as she walked under the overhanging canopy on her way down towards the burn.
Poppy needed some air to clear her head. After Maddie Sherman had left, Grace had pulled herself together enough to supervise the decorators who had arrived shortly after breakfast. Aunt Dot was in the courtyard garden where, after the breakfast dishes were sorted, she directed Betty to clear the pots and flowerbeds of weeds. Great Aunt Mabel had never been much of a gardener, but Dot thought the area between the back door and the garage could be put to better use than just as a place to string a washing line. She was mulling over hiring a professional garden designer, but had not yet been able to convince Grace to allocate a budget to it.
Poppy herself enjoyed gardening, and had grown up helping her parents tend the cottage garden attached to the vicarage in Morpeth. But she had declined Dot’s suggestion that she help out, saying she needed to be alone for a while. Dot did not take offence.
So here she was, all alone, apart from dog walkers and a couple of optimistic nursemaids hoping the weather would soon clear so they could give their charges full rein.
Poppy was going over the events of the previous night, trying, in her mind’s eye, to see which guests were where when she’d left through the green room back door. It seemed a logical assumption that whoever was there could not also have been on the roof with Agnes. However, she was also aware that since the four interlocking galleries had been open – and the guests free to roam between them – she would not be able to know the whereabouts of each of them, even if she could bring to mind the fifty or so people in attendance. And then, of course, there was the catering and gallery staff as well as the musicians. It was not a verifiable fact that it was a guest who had killed Agnes. There was also the chance – as Grace had pointed out – that the killer might have come in from off the street, through the stables, and not been part of the exhibition at all.
There were so many variables, but Poppy felt she needed to at least start to cross some people off her list. Her list… Why was it her list? She was here on holiday. She should not be working as a journalist or press liaison lady, or moonlighting as an amateur sleuth. She had got the impression last night that DI Sandy Hawkes was a very competent detective, having worked with a number of them over the years. She had no doubt that he and his men would be going over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb as soon as it was light enough to do so. And, as Sandy had made clear last night, everyone who was there (or at least who was known to be there) would be interviewed.
Somehow, though, she doubted that they would be interviewed in quite the way she had been last night. Her heart did a little pirouette. She stopped on a wooden footbridge over the burn, pulled down her umbrella, and hooked it over the rail. Then she leaned on it with her forearms and watched the choppy grey water, swollen by last night’s downpour, surge below. Ah Sandy, she thought, and then allowed herself to fantasize. Sandy put his hands on her shoulders… Sandy stared into her eyes… Sandy lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. She imagined the tickle of his moustache on her nose and the tip of his tongue as it explored her mouth… Good golly girl! Poppy pulled herself up. What on earth was she thinking? Was she really contemplating allowing herself to be swept along on a stream of romance? After what had happened with Daniel, she was reluctant to expose her heart to more pain. Besides, she was only going to be here for a few more days. She was due back in London – at work – next Tuesday. She was only really here to see the house Aunt Dot and Grace were renovating, attend Delilah’s opening night, and then to celebrate her father’s sixtieth birthday party.
How had she got dragged into this whole art fiasco? And now, here she was, starting to think about investigating a murder. It just wasn’t her place. No sirree, as her American editor would say. But then she brought to mind the beautiful, sad Agnes Robson as they had sat together in the attic bedroom, telling her tale of abuse, loss, and then her journey to art world success. She remembered the vulnerable woman, so desperate for her mother’s approval, and the tears of happiness she had shed when she heard her family would attend her exhibition. Agnes, dear Agnes, was on the verge of finding peace in her troubled life. She was reconciling with her family and returning to lay to rest the ghosts of her past. The ghosts of her past… Had it been one of them that had slit her throat and pushed her from the tower?
Again Poppy turned her attention to the galleries before she’d gone out the back door. Of the people she knew, she recalled seeing Aunt Dot chatting to a group of four men and women. She didn’t know any of them. Then she pictured Delilah and Peter MacMahon. Peter’s photographer was packing his kit away in the far corner. But where was Walter Foster? She couldn’t recall seeing him. She had, however, seen young Edna, munching on a sausage roll and standing in front of one of Agnes’ paintings of a family picnic on a lawn. Had her mother been with her? Poppy couldn’t quite recall… but, yes, her art teacher had been. He had been talking to Professor Reid from the art school. Good, she could cross them off her list. And Gus and Gerald? Where were they? Gerald had said last night that they had been talking to Agnes before she went to “powder her nose”. They said they were in Gallery A. But Poppy had walked through Gallery A and hadn’t seen them. Perhaps they had moved on to Gallery B by the time she got there, or perhaps…
“Poppy! Poppy! Oh, come quickly!” Poppy looked up to see Delilah, wearing a blue and white polka-dot mackintosh, running towards her, panic-stricken.
“Good heavens, Delilah, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Oh Poppy,” gasped Delilah, doubling over and leaning her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “Come quickly! The police are at the house and they’re arresting Grace!”
CHAPTER 11
Delilah double-parked the yellow Rolls outside the Pilgrim Street police station and helped Poppy get Aunt Dot out of the car and into her wheelchair. Dot was far too worried to be her usual genial self, and chided the two younger women to hurry their horses. They ignored the police constable who demanded they move the motor car “at once” and carried Dot, with a great deal of effort, up the steps. The constable repeated his demand from behind them, threatening to confiscate the vehicle.
“Young man,” said Dot, when Poppy and Delilah had finally managed to get the wheelchair onto an even keel, “if you had just taken the trouble to help
us instead of being such a jobsworth, we could have got this done much earlier. You, sir, are not a gentleman!”
“No, you’re not,” said Delilah, flouncing past him and climbing into the vehicle. “I’ll be back in two ticks!” she called out to the two women at the top of the steps and then started the engine.
Poppy pushed Dot into the police station and approached the front desk. Dot made up for her low vantage point by calling out in a loud voice: “I demand to see Grace Wilson!”
The desk sergeant looked first to Poppy, then down at Dot. “You demand what, madam?”
“I demand to see Grace Wilson. She was falsely arrested about an hour ago. I was told they were going to bring her here to be charged.”
The sergeant scratched his head with the end of a pencil. “Falsely arrested, was she? Then she won’t be here, madam; we only do things by the book.”
Poppy stepped forward, exuding her most conciliatory air. “Of course you do, sergeant. My aunt is a little upset. Please, accept our apologies. However, we would like to see Mrs Wilson. Mrs Grace Wilson. DI Hawkes brought her in, I believe.”
The sergeant narrowed his eyes and appraised Poppy. “Weren’t you in here earlier this week to see DI Hawkes? About an attempted mugging?”
Poppy smiled. “Yes, that was me. And DI Hawkes was very helpful. Is he here?”
The sergeant shook his head. “He isn’t, miss. He brought in the prisoner – Mrs Wilson, that is – and left her to be processed. He’s out again interviewing other witnesses.”
“The – the – prisoner?” spouted Dot.
Poppy shushed her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Ah, I see. May we see Mrs Wilson then, please? We will need to help her arrange legal counsel.”
The sergeant poked at the same spot on his head with the nub of the pencil. “I could let one of you in. Just one.”
“Then it should be me!” Dot insisted.
The sergeant leaned over and assessed Dot’s wheelchair. “Don’t think that’ll get down the stairs, madam. The holding cells are in the basement. Best the young lady goes.”
“Yes, but –”
“It’s fine, Aunt Dot. I’ll go. I’ll pass on your love to Grace. Look, here’s Delilah; she can sit with you.” Poppy caught Delilah’s eye as she stepped into the charge office. “Over here, Delilah. They’re letting me see Grace. But only one of us can go. Can you and Dot stay here?”
“Of course, Pops, I’ll stay as long as you need.”
Grace was as pale as a grave shroud. She sat, unshackled, on a rickety chair in an interview room. She had not, yet, been taken to a cell, but the police sergeant standing outside the door said she would be as soon as Poppy left. The women were told they had fifteen minutes to talk – and not a moment longer. Poppy sat down on the chair opposite with a scarred and grime-streaked table between them. The room was airless, with no window, lit only by a bare electric lightbulb that gave off a crackly hum and was reflected in a large mirror.
Poppy took Grace’s cold, bony hands in hers. “Oh Grace, I’m so sorry. Dot is here, but they wouldn’t let her down. Delilah is with her. They both send their love.”
Grace nodded.
“Look,” said Poppy, “we don’t have long. Have you called anyone yet? A lawyer? The sergeant said if you can’t get anyone yourself they can arrange one for you. You don’t have a solicitor up here, do you?”
Grace shook her head.
“What about the fellow who dealt with Aunt Mabel’s estate? He could put you in touch with someone, couldn’t he?”
Grace considered this for a moment and said, very quietly, “I don’t think he’d be much help. He was as old as Marley. What I really need is someone like Yasmin. I wonder if she knows someone up here? Do you think you can call her, Poppy?”
“Of course!” said Poppy. “I’ll do it as soon as I leave you. If anyone can help, it will be Yasmin. Don’t worry, Grace – I’m sure she’ll get you the very best counsel possible. Can I tell her what the actual charge is?”
Grace looked towards the door where the burly sergeant was waiting and lowered her voice. “Murder, Poppy: they’re actually charging me with murder.”
Even though Poppy had suspected this was the case, the words fell like bricks between them. “Oh Grace, that’s dreadful. On what grounds? Have they told you?”
Grace nodded. “Yes, some of it. Apparently there was a witness.”
“But there couldn’t have been! You didn’t do it!”
Grace squeezed Poppy’s hands. “Of course I didn’t. But they have a witness who saw me in the stables around the time Agnes died.”
Poppy shook her head in confusion. “But Agnes didn’t die in the stables. So how can that be?”
“Because I lied, Poppy. They caught me in a lie.”
“Why? How?”
“I told DI Hawkes that I was in one of the other galleries: Gallery C. But I wasn’t. I was in the stables.”
“B-but – why? Why did you say that?”
Grace shrugged, her bony shoulders jutting through her grey felt jacket. “Because – ironically – I thought that if I’d told them where I really was they would have suspected me of being involved.” She gave a hollow, little laugh, which failed to light up her eyes. “How very, very, silly of me.”
Poppy scrunched up her forehead, trying to understand Grace’s motivation. “But why?”
“Because, Poppy, I am probably the only person there last night with a criminal conviction, who has previously been the suspect in a murder.”
“But you were cleared of that!”
“Of murder, yes, but we all know that my actions contributed to Gloria’s death, don’t we? I was worried if DI Hawkes found out about that – which, apparently he has – I would be top of his list of suspects. So I decided to pretend I was just one of the crowd in the gallery. There were so many people, I thought it would be difficult for him to prove that I wasn’t. But, I hadn’t realized someone had actually seen me in the stables. I was convinced that – apart from the horses – I was alone.”
Poppy checked her watch; they had five minutes left. She needed to get as much information from Grace to give to Yasmin as possible. “Why were you in the stables? Briefly, we don’t have much time.”
Grace nodded and straightened up, adopting her familiar no-nonsense demeanour. “Because I don’t like crowds. You know that. And even though Agnes and I were in the process of burying the hatchet, we weren’t quite there yet. I just needed to get away for a bit. So when I noticed the door at the back of the gallery was open a touch, I went out.”
“Did you not consider going up to the roof?”
“No, not at all. I wanted to see the horses.”
Poppy nodded. “All right, that makes sense. So, really, all Sandy – DI Hawkes – has on you is that you lied about where you were and that you were in the stables. He hasn’t placed you on the roof at all. Good, I’m sure that’s enough for whoever Yasmin suggests to represent you, to work on. In my experience of murder cases, that is all very circumstantial. He’ll need a lot more than that.”
Grace pursed her lips and looked away.
“What?” said Poppy. “Is there more?”
Grace let out a long, painful sigh. “Yes. Firstly, Hawkes knows that Agnes and I had some history together –”
Poppy tensed. Yes, and she had been the one to tell Sandy… Well, to clarify, after Gus and Gerald mentioned it.
“But beyond that, he claims that he has found the murder weapon, in the stables, and that it belongs to me.”
“What the deuce?”
But before Grace could answer, the sergeant marched up to the table and announced in a no-arguments-will-be-tolerated voice: “That’s it ladies, time is up.”
“B-but Mrs Wilson hasn’t finished telling me –”
The sergeant gripped Poppy’s arm firmly. “She can tell it to her barrister.”
While Aunt Dot and Delilah waited for her in the car, Poppy went to the post office and put i
n a call to Yasmin’s office in London. Fortunately the barrister was in and listened, intently, to Poppy’s story about Agnes’ murder and Grace’s arrest. Yasmin was an art collector and owned some of Agnes’ paintings. She was shocked to hear of the artist’s death, but less so about Grace’s suspected involvement. “Unfortunately, she has form with this sort of thing, Poppy. I would have been surprised if the Newcastle police didn’t think she were a suspect. But what’s this about the murder weapon? Do you know what it is?”
Poppy said she didn’t. “So, can you recommend anyone up here?”
“I could make some calls. But actually, I think it will be best if I come up. What’s the time to Newcastle on the Scotsman? Six hours?”
“Five to six, depending. But you’ll come? Yourself?”
“Yes, I will. Grace is a good friend, as you know. And I’m already familiar with her past record, seeing as I represented her in her former bail hearing.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Thank you Yasmin. Will you send a telegram to Dot’s to confirm when you’ve managed to get a ticket?” She gave Dot’s address.
“Got it. And I will. I’ll try to get there for tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, I’ll get a recommendation for a local lawyer to cover for me until I arrive. I’ll do that immediately. You say she’s still at the police station?”
“She is, yes. Pilgrim Street.”
“Jolly good. Someone should be there by the end of today. But until then, Poppy, I need you to get as much information for me as possible on Agnes, her associates, her family, who was at the exhibition, and so forth. Can you do that for me without getting yourself arrested for interfering in a murder investigation?”
Poppy grinned. “I shall do my best, Yasmin.”
Both Dot and Delilah were immensely relieved that Yasmin had offered to come up to represent Grace. “If anyone can get Grace out, Yasmin can,” said Dot, who agreed with Poppy’s suggestion that she go back to the town house to await further developments. Delilah said she would drop her home and then get to the theatre. The young actress was delighted to hear that Poppy still intended to come to the opening night show. “And so will I!” announced Dot. “I need something to take my mind off all this. And nothing can be done until Yasmin arrives here tomorrow.”
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 11
