Alice Denby met them at the station and politely shook hands with the barrister, her neutral expression showing neither disdain nor approval for this paragon of women’s advancement. She asked after Grace and was told that the bookkeeper was showing signs of melancholia.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I shall continue to remember her in my prayers.”
“I think the best thing we can do for her, Mrs Denby, is get to the truth of what really happened to Agnes,” said Yasmin as she and Poppy followed Alice out of the station. A few moments later they were crossing the railway bridge into the village. Poppy stopped and looked down the track. She reached into her satchel and took out the photograph of the painting she had received from Peter MacMahon, comparing the two views.
“That’s definitely here, isn’t it?” Poppy went on to tell her mother what they had found out about two different artists and the later “addition”.
“Do you recognize the woman and child, Mother?”
“No. Should I?”
“I don’t suppose so. I’m just speculating, that’s all. I wonder if they are real people, who really lived and walked down this very track, or if they are the figment of the second artist’s imagination. In other words, is this a memory of something that actually happened, or just a whimsy?”
“Or perhaps wishful thinking, of something that might have been…” mused Alice.
“What do you mean, Mrs Denby?”
“You will understand once we’ve spoken to Agnes’ mother, Mrs Rolandson.”
The women continued over the bridge and passed the Storey Sweet Shop. “Does that belong to the family of the young girl who won the art competition?” asked Poppy.
“It does, yes. Young Edna’s grandfather started the shop. Her mother – I think you met her at the exhibition – now runs it. Her husband died during the war.”
“Yes, she was there with Edna. She was at the opening of the community hall too. She seemed very – what’s the word – judgmental of Agnes.”
Alice nodded. “She is. So are most of the people who live here who knew Agnes back then. It’s been tough for her mother all these years. Agnes left, but her mother had to deal with it. All the gossip and innuendo.”
“What kind of gossip, Mrs Denby?”
Alice turned to Yasmin, her lips pursed. “Well, Mrs Rolandson, I don’t normally repeat such things – it is not a Christian way to behave – but under the circumstances I think I could tell you.”
Yasmin nodded. “I’d be grateful if you would. Under the circumstances, you might be helping us find a murderer. And I should imagine God would very much approve of that.”
Poppy flinched. Despite her best efforts, Yasmin – who like her husband was not religious – had not quite managed to remove the barb from her voice.
But Poppy’s mother had heard far worse in her life and chose to let it go. “Well, I’m not sure how much Agnes told Poppy about it, but the gist of it is this: Agnes and a group of children from Ashington and Hirst attended art lessons over the summer of 1897. I remember it was 1897, because I was pregnant with Poppy. The lecturer – Michael Brownley – came from the art school in Newcastle. Agnes’ mam became worried that Brownley might have been ‘trying his luck’ with Agnes and banned her from going. But also because the art class was on the day that Agnes was supposed to work at the laundry. It brought in extra money for the family. But it turned out Agnes snuck away and attended the classes anyway.”
“Why did Agnes’ mother believe Brownley was ‘trying his luck’?”
“She’d heard rumours. Some of the other children had told their parents that Agnes was his ‘favourite’ and sometimes used to stay behind to clear up after they’d left.”
“Did they say any other children might have been involved or attracted his attention?” asked Poppy.
“I don’t think so,” said Alice.
“Well, that is interesting,” said Poppy, and she went on to tell her mother what Professor Reid had told her the previous day about the nude paintings of various children.
Alice stopped. By now they were outside the Methodist Chapel opposite Pit Row. All blood appeared to drain from her face. “And the professor never told anyone?”
“No. He wanted to protect Brownley’s reputation. For the sake of his family and of the art school.”
Alice shook her head from side to side. “I never knew. I never knew.”
“Do you think the parents of the children might have found out?” asked Yasmin.
“I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible. But what’s more likely is that the children cast all the blame onto Agnes in order to deflect attention away from themselves. It’s classic scapegoating. Unfortunately, in my line of work, Mrs Rolandson, I see that sort of covering up of sin all too often.”
“And in mine, Mrs Denby. So you think it’s possible the rest of the children conspired – or made some kind of pact – to tar Agnes?”
Alice nodded as she gestured for Poppy and Yasmin to cross the road with her. “Yes, I do, particularly when it got out that Agnes might have been pregnant.”
“So you admit she was pregnant then? The threatening letter was right about that?” asked Yasmin.
“It was,” said Alice, her tone giving nothing more away.
“Was the pregnancy discovered before or after Brownley died?” asked Yasmin.
“Afterwards, I think. And the village only started speculating about it after Agnes left.”
“Speculating that she was pregnant or that she had killed Brownley?” asked Poppy.
Her mother looked at her daughter curiously. “Did Agnes tell you they blamed her for his death?”
“Yes, she did. But she didn’t tell me she was pregnant. She did tell me about two pregnancies – and miscarriages – she’d had in Paris. But not the first one.”
Alice’s shoulders sagged. “Oh no. I didn’t know she’d become pregnant again. How very, very sad. Those poor babies. And poor Agnes.”
“So,” said Yasmin, getting the conversation back on track as they passed a rag and bone man and his cart. “How did you know she was pregnant the first time? Did the family tell you?”
“No, Agnes did. She came to me for help. She didn’t want her mam and dad to know. But I said we had to tell them. Her father went mad. They were going to throw her out the house. So I took her in.”
“I didn’t know that!” said Poppy.
“You weren’t born yet, pet. And it was only supposed to be until I was able to get her a position in service down in Durham through friends in the Methodist circuit there.”
“She went into service when she was pregnant?” asked Yasmin. “Or was that after you arranged the abortion for her?”
Alice stopped. She pulled back her shoulders and looked up at the glamorous barrister who was half a foot taller than her. “I can assure you, Mrs Rolandson, I would never have done any such thing. Abortion is murder.”
“But the letter…” started Yasmin.
“That has nothing to do with me. However, I’m afraid I cannot tell you any more without Sadie Robson’s permission.” Alice turned and pushed open a low gate leading to a pit cottage. “So I think you’d better ask her yourself.”
Sadie Robson was not used to having such posh visitors. After the grandchildren had all left for school, and her daughter-inlaw had gone down to the Kicking Cuddy to do her cleaning job, Sadie had scrubbed the kitchen table, swept the range, and put a flagon of bleach down the outside netty, just in case any of the ladies needed to use the “facilities”. She had asked her son, Jeremy, to get down the best china from the box at the top of her wardrobe. It had only ever been used at weddings, christenings, and funerals – the last being the sending off of her Arthur, killed in the pit disaster of 1916. She hadn’t even brought it out for Agnes when she came for tea the other day after the opening of the community centre. Oh, but she wished she had; dear God, she wished she had.
And she wished she’d never let her Arthur send the lass away
when she was pregnant. And she wished she’d given a different answer when she got a letter from Agnes asking to come home from that big house in Durham. And she wished she had begged and borrowed and even stole to go all the way to France to bring her bairn back from that lecher. But more than anything, she wished she’d never let her out of her sight at the gallery the other night. If she hadn’t, mebby Agnes wouldn’t be dead. And she wouldn’t have to be using the best china today.
She filled the teapot with boiling water from the brass kettle on the range, stuck a tea cosy on it, and carried it over to the table where the three ladies were sitting. Mrs Denby she knew. She was a good woman, if a bit overeager in the Bible-bashing department. But Sadie would always be grateful for the help she’d given when they found out Agnes was pregnant. And her daughter, Miss Denby, she’d met at the gallery. She seemed like a canny lass. Looked a lot like her father. But the other woman – the foreign-looking one – made Sadie more nervous than she should have been. Even though her clothes were plain, you could tell they were expensive. The woman reeked of wealth and class. She spoke kindly enough, but Sadie still worried that she was being looked down on. Her in her best day frock and cleanest pinny.
“So,” said Yasmin, once condolences and pleasantries had been exchanged, “you know why we are here, today, Mrs Robson.”
“Aye. Mrs Denby here says you’re trying to help find out who killed our Agnes. That you don’t believe the woman the police have got is the real killer.”
“That’s right. We don’t believe there is sufficient evidence against Mrs Wilson and we do believe that there are other suspects the police should be looking at too. And one of them is the person who wrote this letter and sent it to Mrs Denby. Do you recognize the handwriting?”
Yasmin spread the letter out flat on the kitchen table between the cups and saucers.
Sadie picked it up and read the letter, her hand going to her throat. “Eeeee, the lying bastard!”
“Who is lying? Do you know who this is?” asked Poppy.
Sadie shook her head. “I don’t. No. But I know whoever it is is lying. Our Agnes never had an abortion. Never. Did she, Mrs Denby?”
Alice took the letter from Sadie’s shaking hands, then held them in her own. “No, she didn’t. But as I promised you all those years ago, I have never said a word about what happened. But I think the truth needs to come out now, Sadie. Will you give me permission to tell my daughter and Mrs Rolandson what actually happened?”
Sadie let out a long sigh. “Aye. All right. If it’ll help catch our Agnes’ killer, all right. Say what needs to be said.”
Alice let go of Sadie’s hands and turned to Yasmin and Poppy. “Agnes never had an abortion. I already told you I would never be involved in something like that, and that’s the truth. But she was pregnant. As I said, I took her in, but I led you to believe that she went straight from our house to service in Durham. That was not the case. She spent the last five months of her pregnancy at a home for unwed mothers in Newcastle, called St Hilda’s. We – her mother and I – felt it was best she moved out of the area before she started showing. Because, as you’ve already discovered, the folk around here weren’t the kindest to her. Particularly after Brownley’s death.”
“What happened with that?” asked Yasmin. “Why did the people here believe Agnes killed him?”
Alice looked at Sadie. Sadie nodded.
“Because the night he died, Agnes went missing. Mrs Robson told me that she had beaten Agnes when she discovered she’d disobeyed her and gone back to the art classes when she’d been forbidden to.”
Poppy cast a quick glance at Sadie, whose lip quivered slightly as Alice told the tale. Poppy’s mother continued.
“You see, she’d lied to her mother – again. She’d said she had been working at the laundry when she hadn’t. So Mrs Robson gave her a good hiding and sent her to bed without her supper.”
“Aye, I did,” said Sadie softly. Then nodded for Alice to continue.
“Well, it seems she snuck out. And she didn’t come back until after the police found Brownley’s body down the shaft. So the rumour got started that Agnes had gone to meet Brownley at the pit – after he’d left the pub, drunk – and she’d pushed him down the shaft.”
“Why would she have done that?” asked Yasmin.
“She didn’t! My bairn would never do such a thing!” said Sadie, her eyes flashing at the foreign woman.
Yasmin smiled tightly. “No parent likes to think that, Mrs Robson, but may I ask what evidence you have that she didn’t?”
“I don’t need no evidence, Mrs Rolandson. I know me own daughter and I know she’d never do that!”
Yasmin’s tight smile didn’t waver. “All right, we’ll leave that for now then. But would you mind finishing the story of Agnes’ pregnancy? Mrs Denby said she went to a home for unwed mothers in Newcastle.”
“Aye, she did. And she had the baby. It was a little lad.”
“And what happened to him – the baby?”
Sadie lowered her head. “The nuns took him away. To be adopted. I never had a chance to see him.”
“I see. That must have been hard for you. And Agnes,” said Yasmin.
“Aye, it was. But it was for the best – for the lad and for Agnes. She was too young to have a bairn of her own.”
“Did Agnes feel the same way?” asked Poppy. “Did she want to give the baby up?”
“No Poppy, she didn’t,” said Alice. “But as Mrs Robson says, it was for the best. She wasn’t married.”
“Did you consider bringing the baby back here and raising it?” asked Yasmin.
Sadie flashed another angry look at the well-to-do barrister. “No, miss, I did not. I had four young’uns of me own to raise – and another bairn on the way. And as you can see, there isn’t room to swing a cat in this house.”
Yasmin lowered her eyes. Without being told, Poppy knew Yasmin expected her to take over the questioning.
“I understand, Mrs Robson,” Poppy said gently. “So the baby was put up for adoption. Do you know where it went?”
“I don’t, no.”
“And you, Mother?”
Alice folded and unfolded her hands, a gesture Poppy knew her mother did when she was nervous. Eventually she answered: “No. But one of the nuns at the home for unwed mothers – unfortunately Agnes was not the first young girl I knew to have need of their services – told me she’d heard the little lad had died young. Measles, I think. Which is very, very sad. I just hope he had a happy home until then.” She looked at Sadie, one mother to another. “I’m sorry to have to tell you like this. It was a few years after Agnes left for Paris that I heard and I didn’t think it would be worth scraping open an old wound.”
Sadie nodded her understanding, but her lower lip quivered.
Poppy picked up the letter and read it again. “So this isn’t true then.”
“Well, it is true that I helped Agnes. But not that there was an abortion. So whoever wrote this letter threatening me did not know the full story. He – or she – did know, however, that I was involved in some way. And as I said before – and this is the reason I showed it to you, Poppy – it does seem telling that this arrived the week before Agnes was due to arrive in Newcastle for the exhibition. And then, of course, after what happened there, I thought it might somehow be evidence of something.”
Yasmin drained her teacup and put it down with a clink. “You did the right thing, Mrs Denby. I do think it’s evidence, although I’m not sure yet of what. We are currently following some leads about who might have written it – we have put in a request for a writing sample from someone –”
“Who?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say. If the sample doesn’t match, we don’t want to be blamed for sullying the name of an innocent man. I hope you understand that.”
“But it’s definitely a man?” asked Sadie Robson.
“Not definitely, no. But we suspect that it is. We’ll know for certain soon. No
w, is there anything else you want to tell us about your daughter, Mrs Robson? Anything about what happened in ’97? Or since?”
Sadie picked at the tablecloth with her fingernail. “No,” she said finally. “There’s nothing else.”
CHAPTER 23
I don’t believe her,” said Yasmin, as they left the pit cottage and waved goodbye to the woman in her best day frock and pinny. “I think there is something else she’s not telling us.”
“I’m afraid, Mrs Rolandson, I agree with you,” Alice admitted. “I shall drop by again tomorrow. Perhaps without you here, she might be more willing to talk.”
“Thank you Mrs Denby; that would be most appreciated. Meanwhile, your daughter and I have a lot to do back in Newcastle. The information about the baby is very useful. Very useful indeed. Poppy, do you think you can look into that when we get back?”
“I can, yes. But before we go, do you mind if we stop in at the sweet shop, please?”
Yasmin chuckled. “Are you feeling peckish?”
“No, but there’s something I want to ask Edna’s mam.”
Poppy pushed open the door of the shop and set off the bell. She remembered this shop from when she was young and her parents visited Ashington on the train. She and Christopher would be allowed a penny-bag of sweets – if they’d been good – to eat on the train back to Morpeth. Back then the shop had been more of a general goods store which sold sweets; now, twenty years later, the pots and pans and balls of string were gone, and the sweets and confectionery expanded. But there, on the shelves behind the counter, were the same jars of fizz balls and bonbons, as well as Poppy’s personal favourite: mint humbugs.
They were greeted by a smiling woman in a red and white striped apron and mop cap, whose smile faded when she recognized who her customers were.
“Hello, Mrs Storey.”
“Miss Denby. Mrs Denby,” said Mrs Storey flatly.
“And this is Mrs Rolandson. I don’t think you’ve met.”
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 23
