Poppy chuckled. She could just imagine Delilah saying that. She reached out her hand and took each of the twins. “No problem.”
“Good oh!” said Rollo. “I’ll give Ike a ring to find out what he’s unearthed in London.”
“Is Grace home?”
Rollo nodded, looking suddenly serious. “She is. She’s having a lie down though, not surprisingly; a weekend in the slammer has taken it out of her. Dot is sitting with her. She’s asked us to call them when lunch is ready.”
“Is that Poppy?” A call from the dining room.
“Yes it’s me, Yazzie. I’m just going to play with the babies for a while.”
“Righteo! I won’t be long. Just finishing something off here. See you shortly!”
Poppy walked slowly, leading the twins back up the hall and into the parlour as their father clambered onto a chair next to the telephone table and picked up the receiver. As she pushed open the parlour door with her foot, she heard Rollo requesting that the operator connect him to a London number.
Inside the parlour Poppy found a blanket laid out on the floor with a selection of baby toys: blocks, a doll, a metal fire engine, and some paper and coloured wax crayons. Poppy sat down on the blanket and smiled at the twins who flopped down onto their bottoms, cushioned by their (fortunately dry) nappies.
“Well, you two little tinkers, what shall we do?”
RJ immediately reached for a crayon and shoved it in his mouth.
“Oh no you don’t, young man.”
Poppy prised it from his sticky fingers and pushed the rest of the crayons out of reach. The boy scrunched up his face, building up to an almighty scream. Not to be outdone, his sister too started to whimper, her lip trembling. Poppy acted quickly, grabbing the rag doll and making it dance around while she sang “What shall we do with a drunken sailor?”, which on the spur of the moment, and with her limited musical talent, was all she could think of. But it did the trick. The children’s emotional equilibrium was restored and soon they were attempting to place one block on top of another, as demonstrated by their babysitter.
Ten minutes later, the parlour door opened to reveal Yasmin, smiling down at them. Cleo threw up her arms and squealed. Yasmin laughed and picked her daughter up, swinging her around and up onto her hip. Then RJ demanded the same treatment. Poppy looked on, amazed at the ease at which the formidable barrister appeared to switch from professional to domestic – no doubt made easier by knowing she could call on the nanny when things got out of hand, thought Poppy. Nonetheless, she was impressed. She wondered if she would be able to juggle her job and her children if that time ever came.
“So,” said Yasmin, sitting down on the blanket and encouraging Cleo to push around the fire engine, while RJ remained on her lap, playing with her chunky bead necklace. “The bail hearing was fairly straightforward. Grace is out but can’t leave town. No trial date has yet been set, as it was clear from the police’s submission that the investigation is far from over.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The prosecution admitted that the evidence against Grace was at this stage just circumstantial and not – as yet – enough to bring before the courts.”
“Oh good. And did they say that they were investigating other suspects?”
“Not in so many words, but they did say they were still following various lines of enquiry. That is sometimes shorthand for ‘we might have someone else in our sights’, but it also might just mean that they have more evidence to gather against Grace.”
Poppy nodded, then winced, as Cleo rammed the metal toy engine into her knee.
“Otherwise, I’ve managed to get hold of a list of volunteers for the gallery and I’ve asked Dot to cross-check it with the guest list of the exhibition.”
“Dot?”
“Yes, she said she wanted to help in the investigation by doing more than just holding Grace’s hand. Your aunt may give the impression of being an airhead at times, but she’s far from it, you know.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me that,” said Poppy. “And Delilah’s the same.”
“Actresses!” said Yasmin, and they both laughed.
After a few moments of responding to the demands of the children, Poppy continued: “What about the writing sample from Dante Sherman?”
“I’ve requested one, but – and listen to this – I’ve been blocked from getting it without a court order.”
“By whom?”
“Sherman’s solicitor.”
“Why would he need a solicitor for this? If he’s innocent surely he should just hand over the sample to eliminate himself from enquiries.”
“Exactly my thoughts, Poppy. But the solicitor said that the request implied that his client was under suspicion and that would sully his reputation. Complying with it, he said, would be encouraging a – and these were his exact words – libellous line of enquiry.”
“Balderdash!”
Yasmin grinned. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. In fact, I may just use that very word in my application for a court order.” She winked at Poppy, then intercepted her daughter before she rammed the fire engine into the journalist’s knee for a second time. By now RJ was beginning to grizzle and Yasmin put him down so he could crawl around too.
“I think we’re on borrowed time here, Poppy. I’ll ask Ivy to get them something to eat.” She picked up her children – ignoring their protests – and carried them out. A few moments later she came back in. Poppy had used the time to tidy up a little and was now sitting on a settee. Yasmin, adjusting her beads, sat down beside her. “So, tell me what you found out this morning with the professor.”
Poppy opened her eyes wide. “I thought you’d never ask. Now listen to this…”
When Poppy finished, Yasmin was nodding with satisfaction. “Excellent work, Poppy. It’s still very circumstantial – and no one yet has been found holding the smoking gun, or knife as the case may be – however, it does strongly suggest that Agnes’ death is tied to what happened twenty-seven years ago. Surely it’s far too much of a coincidence that the photograph – and the letter to your mother – were sent so soon before Agnes arrived in Newcastle. And seeing as Grace had absolutely nothing to do with the events in Ashington, and was not connected in any way to either Brownley or Agnes at the time, the case against her is weakening. But not entirely… we still need to do some more digging.”
“And what do you think about what Professor Reid said about the paintings? That one of them might not be all Agnes’ work? And that Sherman went ahead and bought it – and was prepared to exhibit it – despite knowing that its authenticity had been brought into question?”
“Do we know that he knew that?”
Poppy nodded. “I think there’s a strong possibility that he did.” She reminded Yasmin of the letter from the Tate she’d seen on Sherman’s desk.
“But you didn’t see what it said, did you? It could just as easily have said that they had investigated the painting and that it was authentic.”
“They could have…” Poppy began.
“But they didn’t.” Rollo entered the room and joined them. “I’ve just spoken to Ike. He’s been to the Tate and they are utterly shocked at Agnes’ death. It’ll make great copy.” He grinned.
Poppy frowned at him. Yasmin raised her eyebrows in disapproval.
“Sorry ladies, but it will. Ike has done a stonking interview. And he also found out that the Tate – on Sherman’s request – had convened an authentication committee and come to the conclusion that the background of the painting was indeed an Agnes Robson, but the figures were by a different hand.”
“Did they say whose hand?” asked Yasmin.
“They said they don’t know. And that’s what they wrote to tell Sherman.”
Poppy tapped her index finger against her lips. “So Sherman did know that it was fake. Why did he go through with the purchase, and beyond that, exhibit it as one of Robson’s originals?”
“To show Agnes he meant busi
ness. That’s what the boy said yesterday, wasn’t it? That’s what he overheard,” said Rollo.
“That’s right,” said Poppy. “I know fingers seem to be pointing at Sherman here due to his strange behaviour – and the fact that he’s Michael Brownley’s son –”
Rollo raised his eyebrow at this, as it was the first time he’d heard it. “Really?”
“Really,” continued Poppy, and she went on to tell Rollo about what Professor Reid had told her as well as her conversation with Maddie Sherman.
“However,” she concluded, “that all said, I don’t think Gus and Gerald are entirely off the hook. They seem to know more than they’re telling.”
“I quite agree,” said Yasmin, “so I will set up an interview with them.”
“That’s assuming Gus hasn’t done a runner,” said Rollo.
Yasmin nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid if he doesn’t turn up to the interview I will have to inform the police.”
Poppy very much hoped that would not be the case.
“Oh,” said Rollo. “Your mother rang when you were all out. She said she hadn’t been able to organize a meeting for this afternoon, but had done for tomorrow morning. She said she will meet you off the train in Ashington at ten o’clock. Is that doable?”
“Yes, it should be. Yasmin?”
“Fine by me.”
Just then there was a knock on the door and young Betty stuck her head around. “Dinner’s ready, Master and Missus.”
“Dinner?” asked Rollo. “Have we been talking that long?”
Betty looked confused.
“She means lunch,” explained Poppy. “Dinner is what we call it up here. Don’t worry, Betty; we’ll be there in a moment. And thank you. I’ll go tell Mrs Wilson and Miss Denby.”
Poppy got up and headed towards the stairs. But as she did, the doorbell rang. She waited a moment, her foot poised on the bottom step, but no one rushed to the door. She sighed, turned, and walked down the hall. She opened it, and to her surprise came face to face with Detective Inspector Sandy Hawkes.
Pauline’s Kitchen on Heaton Road was busy serving its Monday Dinner Special when Sandy and Poppy arrived and requested a table. The establishment – adorned with brass kettles and frying pans – was hosted by a jolly woman with a Northern Irish accent. She recommended the corned beef hotpot which both Sandy and Poppy agreed to. She placed them at a table near the window, repositioning the vase housing a fresh rose, and raising a knowing eyebrow at Poppy.
Golly, thought Poppy, can’t a lady and gentleman have lunch without people imposing all sorts of romantic motives upon them? Although, she had to admit to herself, when she opened the door to find Sandy, her first thought was: is this a personal or professional visit? And she still wasn’t clear. He had asked if he could speak to her privately. She had pulled the door closed behind her, not wanting Grace to hear his voice, and told him: “Now isn’t a good time. Grace has just got home and we’re all about to have dinner.” But he’d persisted, suggesting that he could take her out for a bite to eat instead. She had agreed, rushing back into the house to retrieve her hat and coat, and whispering a quick explanation to Yasmin. The barrister gave a curious smile and said: “I hope you get something useful out of the meeting, Poppy.”
And now here she was, waiting for the hotpot to arrive while sipping on a glass of homemade lemonade.
“So,” said Sandy. “Thank you for coming here with me, Poppy. May I still call you Poppy?”
“You may.”
The inspector smiled nervously. Poppy had never seen him looking so unsure.
“Good. Thank you. Well, as I said to Mrs Rolandson the other day, I would like to apologize for what happened at the theatre. I should not have said the things I said and you were right to be upset with me. However, I can assure you,” he cast a glance around the room, as if making sure no one was listening in, “I did not try to use you to get information about Mrs Wilson. My motivation for… well, for wanting to spend time with you… was personal, in the first instance, but, inevitably, I suppose, it became muddied when we were both thrust into this unpleasant business. And that’s the truth.”
He looked at her, his eyes almost beseeching.
She didn’t quite know what to say.
When a reply was not immediately forthcoming, he filled the gap. “Because, as you know, we met before any of this happened. And I was – if it does not embarrass you too much for me to say so – delighted when I first saw you. I found you – and still do find you – utterly charming. Even if you are not the best tennis player I have ever encountered.” He looked, suddenly, like a little boy.
She laughed. She really couldn’t help herself. “Well, I admit, Suzanne Lenglen I am not.”
“Oh no; you’re far more attractive than Miss Lenglen!” he blurted, then grinned.
Poppy felt herself blush. “Well, thank you. Although Mademoiselle Lenglen is a very interesting woman. Very talented. I’ve met her, you know?”
“Have you really?”
“I have.” Poppy then went on to tell Sandy about the time she interviewed the famous tennis player who smoked and sipped brandy between sets, as well as some of the other famous sports and cultural icons she’d had the pleasure of meeting in her line of work.
“So is that where you first met Agnes Robson? In London?”
“Yes, I covered her exhibition at the Tate. Although Rollo – my editor – and his wife, Yasmin – whom you’ve met – are personal friends of Agnes. Were personal friends.” The conversation lost its sheen of frivolity as she corrected herself.
Sandy nodded. “Yes, Mrs Rolandson mentioned that. Look Poppy, I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding between us – now that we’ve just cleared the air – but, may I be frank?”
Poppy nodded.
“Well, the fact is, whether we like it or not, we are both involved in a murder enquiry. And my professional duty is to always put that first. But on the other hand, I don’t want you to think I’m priming you for information. However, if there is anything you can tell me that could help me catch the killer, I’d be greatly obliged if you did so.”
“I thought you thought you’d already arrested the killer. Isn’t that why Grace just spent the weekend in custody?”
Sandy arranged his features into a serious but nonthreatening visage and Poppy couldn’t quite shirk the idea that he was still trying to “manage” her.
“You need to understand, Poppy, that I would have been professionally remiss if I had not arrested Mrs Wilson on the evidence at hand. But that doesn’t mean that I think she is definitely the culprit – that’s not for me to decide; it’s for the Director of Public Prosecutions and then the courts – but there was enough evidence for a warrant to be issued and a charge to be laid. However, if you have evidence that exonerates her, or implicates someone else, you should tell me. I believe you have quite a lot of experience in – how should I put it? – helping the police in their enquiries.”
He cocked his head to one side and smiled.
She smiled too. “You wanted to say, ‘sticking my nose into police business’, didn’t you?”
He shrugged charmingly. “Well, I’m too much of a gentleman to say so, aren’t I?”
Poppy pursed her lips and said: “Hmmmm.” Then she sat back to allow Pauline to place two bowls of hotpot and a plate of Irish soda bread on the table. After the hostess withdrew, Sandy asked: “Shall I say grace?”
Poppy was surprised, but pleased. Her former beau, Daniel, had lost his faith, and she had always just quietly given thanks herself when they ate together. But now she nodded and bowed her head as the inspector prayed a brief prayer for them both.
Prayers said, they both tucked into the food, spearing chunks of potato, leek, carrot, and corned beef. After a few minutes, Poppy asked: “How did you know that I have investigated murders before?”
Sandy grinned. “Your reputation precedes you, Miss Denby!”
“You read about it in the press?”
“No, but the press – as in Peter MacMahon – told me about it. And then I contacted Detective Chief Inspector Jasper Martin at the Met in London.”
“You were checking up on me?”
Sandy put down his fork and looked honestly and openly at Poppy. “To be frank, yes. After I heard you had been doing some investigating at the gallery the other day, I sent him a telegram requesting a telephone call. We spoke – at length – about you and your editor Mr Rolandson.”
Poppy grimaced. “Well, I can assure you that DCI Martin’s view of me is quite coloured.”
Sandy nodded. “It is – coloured with respect.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh yes. Martin had a lot to say about you, Miss Denby, and actually credited you with helping him in a number of investigations. He doesn’t have much time for Rolandson – I shan’t repeat what he said about him – but he did say, and I quote, ‘You can trust that Denby girl, Hawkes. She has a nose for finding the truth.’”
Poppy was flabbergasted. Never in a million years would she have thought that the crusty chief inspector whom she had come into conflict with so many times would have had a good word to say about her. And that, it was now clear, was why Sandy Hawkes could consider her an ally rather than an adversary.
However, there was still a small voice at the back of her head telling her to be wary. So she went ahead and told Sandy what she had found out so far. But she didn’t tell him everything. She didn’t mention the letter her mother had received – the accusation of an abortion or her mother’s involvement in it. She wanted to hear all about that herself, before she decided how much – if anything – to share with the police.
CHAPTER 22
TUESDAY, 8 OCTOBER 1924, ASHINGTON COLLIERY, NORTHUMBERLAND
Yasmin and Poppy readied themselves to get off the train at Ashington Station. Poppy wore her plainest skirt and jacket, pleased to see that Yasmin, without being asked, had also played down her usual glamorous looks. Delilah had offered to drive them through in the Rolls but Poppy and Yasmin had declined, sharing an understanding that three well-heeled women swanning into the mining village in a swanky car would not endear them with the locals.
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 22
