“I’m sure you have, but the defence is legally required to have access to the same information.”
“Then ask DI Hawkes for it. It is he who is legally required to provide it, not me, I wager.”
Poppy pressed her fingernails into her hand. “Mrs Rolandson will furnish you with a court order…”
“Then let her do it.” Dante stood up, clearly indicating the meeting was over. “If that is all, Miss Denby, I have a lot of work to do.”
Poppy stood too. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr Sherman. No doubt Mrs Rolandson will be in touch soon – with that court order.”
“I look forward to receiving it,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Poppy turned and left, not waiting for the curator to open the door for her. As she pulled the door closed, she caught a glimpse of him staring at her with undisguised animosity. So much for his mother’s intentions of “matching us up”, thought Poppy. She shuddered at the idea. Then, with the door as a firm barrier between them, she looked to left and right. There was no one there. Good, she thought, then quickly worked her way back to the Marble Hall, up the stairs, and to the galleries above. As she passed the rotunda she heard Sherman call out: “Helsdon! Did you see Miss Denby leave?”
“No sir, I didn’t, but I was in my room here, sir…”
“Go and check with those police officers out there. And if she’s not gone, come and tell me. If she has, do not under any circumstances allow her back into the gallery. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Poppy crouched down behind the balustrade. She did not want to be seen if either Helsdon or Dante looked up. What was she to do? Should she make her presence known? No, she would not. She would go into the Agnes Robson exhibition as originally intended – consequences be damned!
Poppy slipped into Gallery A and closed the door behind her. She knew she didn’t have much time before Dante or the police officers found her. She quickly perused the walls and located the paintings she assumed were the two that had arrived late: The Railway Family and Lilies in a Vase. She wished she had a camera with her to capture the images, but she did the best she could to imprint them on her mind. She would check with Peter MacMahon and Walter Foster to see if either of them had taken photographs of the two works last night. Also, there was the catalogue listing of the exhibition. She was sure she had seen it at Aunt Dot’s house…
She stared at the haunting image of The Railway Family. The woman, hunched up and carrying a heavy sack – perhaps filled with belongings – was trudging along a railway track. Poppy thought she recognized it… wasn’t that the curve of line leaving Ashington Station? The woman was holding a child’s hand – it was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl as the mite was wrapped up in a ragged coat that poorer children of either gender would wear, its head and neck wrapped in a scarf. A dirty, stain-streaked face looked back at the viewer. There was no doubt this was a child in distress. Poppy, who was no expert, assessed that it was oil on board. It had the characteristic Robsonesque blocks of colour, but it seemed different from other Robson paintings she had seen, different from the others hanging in this gallery – it was more narrative than expressionistic. Granted, Agnes often had roads or railway lines in her paintings, but they rarely had people, and certainly not people who were telling a story.
She cocked her head to listen: no one, as yet, was approaching. She then turned to the second painting: the still life of lilies in a vase. This was more typical Robson, she felt. Again, it was oil on board, but – if she were not mistaken – it was not quite dry. How could that be? She dabbed at it tentatively with her finger. Yes, it was slightly tacky. Had this literally come off Agnes’ easel? Was this why it was late – because Agnes was waiting for it to dry? Or was there another reason? Poppy really had no idea whether or not the paintings held any clues or were connected in any way to Agnes’ death, but so far they were the only thing – apart from the missing key – that had stood out as unusual. And then there was that letter from the Tate she had glimpsed on Dante’s desk…
“Check in there!” she heard, and saw the door to Gallery A start to open. She ran towards the connecting door to Gallery B.
“Oi! Miss! Come back here now!” It was the voice of one of the police officers.
She was very tempted to run but she knew it would make things worse. She stopped – her hand on the door – and turned around. One of the policemen came in, closely followed by an embarrassed-looking caretaker.
“Is anything wrong, Constable?”
The policeman strode purposefully towards her. Poppy held her ground.
“You shouldn’t be in here. It’s a crime scene.”
“Oh? I’m sorry. No one said I wasn’t able to walk around the gallery when I was invited in.”
“Mr Sherman said he asked you not to,” said the policeman. The caretaker lowered his eyes.
“Actually, he did nothing of the sort. I took my leave of him and decided to pop in here to have a look at Agnes’ paintings. No one said I couldn’t.”
“Well, I’m telling you now. Come with me please.” The constable reached out as if to take hold of her. Poppy stepped aside.
“I am quite capable of leaving under my own steam, Constable. Good day to you. And good day to you too, Mr Helsdon.”
Poppy willed herself to channel Delilah as she swished past the men, her head held high.
“And y’re not to come back,” growled the policeman.
Poppy’s eyes narrowed. Oh, just try to stop me.
CHAPTER 13
Poppy and Aunt Dot spent the evening at the theatre. For a few frivolous hours, Poppy pushed the mystery of who killed Agnes Robson into the wings, as the escapades of Algernon, Gwendolyn, Cecily, and Jack – and the revelation of an abandoned baby in a handbag – took centre stage. Delilah was – as expected – delightful as the love-struck Gwendolyn, and Poppy chortled along with the Newcastle audience at the shamelessly snobbish put-downs of her mother, the ghastly Lady Bracknell. After the final curtain, Poppy accompanied an usher who pushed Aunt Dot towards the bar in the foyer, as the former actress mimicked the most memorable line of the play: “To lose one parent, Mr Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.”
She said it with such aplomb that she received a round of applause as she entered the bar. Once the word got out that this was the Dot Denby from the West End who had herself played Lady Bracknell in a London production back in the day, she was soon surrounded by admirers.
Poppy was pushed further and further back from her aunt until she bumped into someone. She turned around to apologize and realized it was Peter MacMahon.
“Poppy! I’m very sorry.”
“No Peter; it is I who is sorry. However, I am very glad to see you. I was hoping to speak to you. In a professional capacity.”
The journalist cocked his head to the side and said teasingly: “Professionally? Oh that’s a pity.”
Poppy raised an eyebrow in mock disapproval. “Well, seeing as you’re already spoken for by this evening’s leading lady, what choice do I have?” And then, feeling slightly uncomfortable playing the coquette, she added: “Seriously, Peter, I do need to speak to you. About Agnes’ murder and the investigation. You do know that our friend Grace Wilson has been arrested, don’t you?”
Peter nodded sympathetically. “I do, and I’m sorry to hear it. Do you think she did it?”
Poppy was startled and took a step away from the journalist. “I do not!”
Peter raised his hands placatingly. “All right, all right. You know I had to ask. Would you – er – be up for an interview to give Grace’s side of the story?”
Poppy didn’t like being on the receiving end of a journalist’s questions. She’d discovered that much during her short stint as Agnes’ press liaison. But she was glad of the experience; she felt she now had new insight into how her interviewees might feel. On the other hand, she recognized a kindred professional spirit in Pet
er MacMahon. She too would have used her closeness to the subjects in a murder investigation to get a scoop if she could. But if she played it carefully, she could use this to her advantage.
“Well, Peter, I would have to ask both Grace and Dot for their permission. It is their lives, really, that will be the most impacted by any publicity. However, I could encourage them to do so if it is worth their while…”
Peter looked at her quizzically. “What are you suggesting, Poppy? The Journal does not have the budget to pay sources! I’m surprised you even asked, to be honest.”
Poppy flushed, suddenly realizing how her comment must have sounded. “Oh no, Peter, nothing like that! I just need your help in accessing certain information. As I’m not officially representing a newspaper, I have limited opportunity to question people. Grace’s barrister – who will be arriving here tomorrow – has asked me to dig around a bit for her. But again, it’s not in an official capacity.”
Peter leaned back on his heels and hooked his thumbs into his red satin cummerbund. “What sort of information?”
Poppy looked around to see if Dot was still occupied with her “fans”. She was. Good. She leaned into Peter. “All sorts. Firstly, I would like to speak to the stable lad who allegedly found the so-called murder weapon. Also, I was wondering if you had any sources inside the police here who might give you the heads-up on any developments – such as results of a postmortem, lists of witnesses, and so forth.”
Peter raised a sardonic brow. “Surely you’re not suggesting that we might have a bent copper on the payroll.”
Poppy raised an equally sardonic – although better manicured – eyebrow. “I know how newspapers operate, Peter. I doubt you’re paying anyone – if you did, there’d be corruption charges to be faced if it ever came out – but it wouldn’t surprise me if you had a mutually beneficial relationship with someone on the police. They feed you information in exchange for keeping certain things out of the public eye, or delaying publication, or bumping something above or below the fold.”
Peter shrugged. “I couldn’t possibly say.”
“I would never expect you to. But I would like to know if you will tell me anything you can about the investigation. And in exchange I can arrange an interview with Dot and – if it can be arranged – Grace herself, after she’s been cleared.”
“Only after?”
“Yes,” said Poppy firmly. “Only after.”
Peter rocked back and forth on his heels, mulling over the offer. Finally he said: “Agreed. But it must be an exclusive. Foster will want the same, I’ve no doubt.”
No doubt he would. Poppy weighed this up for a moment. What might she need from Walter Foster that Peter MacMahon couldn’t give her? Possibly information about Agnes’ background. The Morpeth Herald was better placed than the Newcastle Daily Journal for that. But the Journal was right here in the middle of Newcastle where the current investigation was taking place. Hmmm, she would have to think of another way of dealing with Foster if she needed to… She pulled herself up, suddenly. Since when had she become a wheeling dealing newspaper hack? What happened to an honest answer for an honest question and pure human decency? She gave herself a mental shake. Then she reached out her hand.
“Deal. Do you think you could find out who the witness is who said they saw Grace in the stables? Or do you know already?”
“I don’t, no. All I know is that the stable lad told the curator – that Sherman fellow – that he’d seen a lady in the stables, who it turned out matched Grace’s description. And then Sherman told Hawkes.”
“What did Sherman tell Hawkes?” came a voice from behind her. A chill went down Poppy’s spine as she recognized the voice of Sandy Hawkes. She turned around to see the police inspector looking dashingly handsome in a tuxedo.
“DI Hawkes. Good evening. I didn’t know you were at the show.”
Sandy nodded at Poppy, his face inscrutable. “Delilah arranged some tickets for me.”
“I thought you might have been too busy with the investigation…”
“I have a team of Tyneside’s best investigators working for me, Miss Denby; they can hold the fort for a few hours. Besides, I was hoping to see you here, rather than going around to your aunt’s. It’s less… well, it’s less formal.” He gave a little smile.
Poppy’s heart did the funny little pirouette it had started to do whenever she thought of the detective. She willingly calmed herself. Surely now that her aunt’s companion had been arrested for murder, there was absolutely no hope for any budding romance between them.
But Hawkes did not seem put off. “May I get you a drink, Poppy?”
Poppy. He had called her Poppy…
“Er, yes please.”
“MacMahon?”
“No thanks, Hawkes. I’m going to meet Delilah backstage. I said I’d head out with the cast for drinks afterwards. Are you coming with us, Poppy?”
Poppy shook her head. “I would have, but apparently Gerald and Gus are coming around tonight to pick up Agnes’ things. Assuming, DI Hawkes, the police have finished with them?”
“We have taken what we need. They can take the rest. Unless her next of kin want it?”
“I think Gerald is going to arrange to have everything returned to Agnes’ mother. That’s what Dot said. Anyway, no Peter, I shan’t be joining the cast. I’ve already told Delilah. But shall I see you tomorrow so we can continue our conversation? I’m off to Morpeth for my father’s birthday party, but I should be back early evening.”
“I’ll call by then. Good evening to you. And to you, Hawkes.”
Sandy waited until Peter had left then said: “Right. Drinks. What will it be?”
Poppy again looked to see if Dot was nearly ready to go. But the former doyenne was still deep in conversation.
“A glass of white, please.”
Sandy returned with two glasses of white wine. “So,” said Poppy, after taking her first sip, “why did you arrest Grace?”
Sandy peered at her over the rim of his glass, took a sip, then lowered it. “Because we had sufficient evidence to charge her.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what I will be showing to her barrister when she arrives. I believe you have secured the services of a famous lady lawyer from London.”
“We have,” said Poppy. “She is a personal friend of the family.”
“And the one who got Mrs Wilson out of prison early last time.”
Poppy cast a glance towards Aunt Dot. She looked like she might be wrapping things up.
“That’s right. I see you’ve been doing your research.”
Sandy chuckled. “What else did you expect? I’m not just a dumb copper from a northern toon.”
“I never said you were. I’m sure you are very good at your job. But in this case, I believe you have got it wrong. Grace did not do it.”
“Then who did?”
It was Poppy’s turn to chuckle. “Surely a clever copper like you should be able to find out.”
Sandy was suddenly serious. “Oh I will, Poppy, I will. But there is enough to hold Mrs Wilson on for now. I will continue to look for evidence to strengthen the case against her – or to release her. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t interfere. I heard you were impersonating a lawyer at the gallery earlier today.”
Poppy choked on her wine. “I did nothing of the sort! Mrs Rolandson – the former Miss Reece-Lansdale, KC – asked me to try to get some information for her in advance of her arriving tomorrow. I told the constables on guard there that that was what I was doing and that is what I attempted to do. There was nothing underhanded about it.”
“So is that why you were sneaking around the gallery?”
“I was not sneaking! Now listen here…”
“Is everything all right?” Aunt Dot approached them in her chair.
Sandy straightened up. “It is, Miss Denby, yes. I was just laying down some boundaries for your niece. Just like in tennis she seems to struggle to keep within
the lines.” He made the last comment with a playful twinkle in his eye.
But Poppy was in no mood for games. She thrust her glass back at Sandy, then said: “Are you ready Aunt Dot? I think we need to get home.”
“I am, yes. Gerald and Gus will be waiting for us.”
“Would you like a lift?” asked Sandy, holding two half-empty glasses.
“No thank you,” said Poppy. “I think we both know where those lines are now, DI Hawkes. My aunt and I shall get a taxi.”
Poppy took hold of Aunt Dot’s chair and spun her round, then marched them both out of the theatre.
Gerald and Gus were waiting for them on the porch when Poppy and Aunt Dot pulled up in the taxi. “So sorry we’re late,” said Dot. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Just a few minutes,” said Gerald.
Poppy opened the door while Gus pushed Aunt Dot’s chair up and over the front step. Grace and Dot had not yet got around to putting in a ramp to the front door. Gerald was at Poppy’s shoulder and said quietly to her: “Look Poppy, I’m sorry we said anything about Grace and Agnes’ feud. I hope that’s not what got her into trouble.”
Poppy pushed the door open and removed her hat. “I don’t think so, Gerald. Besides, I also told DI Hawkes about it – after you mentioned it – so in that case we are both to blame. But no, he said they have more evidence against her.”
“Like what?”
“Apparently there’s a knife linked to her. But I haven’t found out yet how it is linked and why they assume it’s hers.”
“It’s utterly ridiculous! Grace wouldn’t hurt a fly – everyone knows that.” Dot took her hat off and passed it to Poppy. “And she certainly isn’t the type of woman to carry around a knife.”
“Did they speak to you about the knife, Aunt Dot, when they questioned you this morning?”
“They did. They asked me if any knives were missing from the house. I said I had absolutely no idea – I’m not the keeper of the cutlery.”
“So you didn’t corroborate it then. I wonder who did?” asked Poppy, hanging Gus’ bowler hat on the hatstand.
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 13
