She stamped as hard as she could on his foot, resulting in a slight loosening of pressure around her neck, enough to give her some wriggle room, enough for her to aim a sharp blow of her elbow to the approximate area of her assailant’s genitals.
“Whoomph!”
He buckled.
She twisted away from him as he doubled over. Then she raised her foot and gave him a kick, not quite sure with which part of his body she had connected. It knocked him to his knees, groaning in pain. In the dark she could not see his face. He was youngish, definitely male, but beyond that she couldn’t see.
A flash of headlights.
A car slowed down. It was a taxi.
Poppy turned and ran towards it.
A moment later, Rollo and Gerald Farmer got out.
“Good grief Poppy! What’s wrong?” asked Rollo.
“A man! He attacked me! He –” Poppy turned to point, but the assailant had gone. With the entrance to the park behind him, it was no surprise where.
As the taxi pulled off, Rollo ran across the road, followed by a puffing Gerald, whose excess weight reduced his efforts to a merely lukewarm pursuit. By the time the two men and Poppy got to the entrance to the park the assailant was nowhere to be seen. Even with the blows Poppy had managed to inflict, he had had too much of a head start. The park was large with plenty of places to hide – not least the lurking ruin of King John’s Palace. Rollo looked ready to head in though, so Poppy put her hand on his arm. “Let’s leave it. I doubt we’ll be able to catch him.”
“I’ll kill the bastard when I do!” fumed Rollo.
“I know you would, thank you. But I think we’d better leave it to the police. And if my suspicions are correct, this no doubt has something to do with me investigating Agnes’ murder.”
Rollo was still fuming but managed to rein his temper in. “All right. Let’s leave it. But until the killer is caught, I don’t want you – or any of us – going out on our own. Is that agreed?”
“It is.”
Gerald, his shoulders hunched, peered anxiously at Poppy. “Did he hurt you? Did you see who it was?”
“No and no. It was a young man. Not too strongly built. But no softy either. I didn’t see his face and he didn’t say anything.”
“Could it have been Gus?”
Poppy looked at the large man in shock. “Why on earth do you ask that?”
Rollo took Poppy by the arm. “We’ll tell you inside.”
Poppy declined a second glass of sherry to calm her nerves. She needed to keep her wits about her, as she and her fellow investigators had a lot of work to do. Yasmin had called the police as soon as she heard what had happened to Poppy, and was told someone would be sent over – eventually. As the lady was not injured, there was no immediate urgency. Yasmin insisted word be sent to DI Hawkes, but was not assured that her request would be honoured. So, with the children in bed, and Delilah still at the theatre, Yasmin, Poppy, Aunt Dot, Grace, Rollo, and Gerald settled around the dining room table to thrash out their next moves. Betty had made some stottie cake, and they all tucked into slices of the sweet fruit bread with lashings of butter and jam.
Firstly, Yasmin went through the details of the interview with Dante Sherman at the police station, ending with the news that his handwriting didn’t match that of the person who wrote the threatening letter to Poppy’s mother, nor the note on the back of the photograph of Agnes.
“Does that mean he’s completely off the hook?” asked Grace, her face awash with disappointment.
“No, it doesn’t. I spoke to DI Hawkes afterwards and he told me Sherman is still a person of interest, in light of the information he received from the Met Police when they searched Agnes’ studio.”
“And do we have any more information on what that is, exactly?” asked Poppy.
“No more than Hawkes has already told us, no.”
“I think we know what it is, don’t we Gerald?” said Rollo. A morose Gerald nodded.
Rollo then went on to tell the women what he had overheard at the Grand Hotel and how he had revealed himself to Gerald after Gus left.
Rollo looked at his wife. “And Yazzie, the only reason Gerald agreed to come with me is that I said you might be willing to represent him in any legal proceedings.”
“And Gus,” beseeched Gerald. “Please try to help Gus too.”
“Not if it was him who attacked my niece!” declared Dot, reaching out and squeezing Poppy’s hand.
“I don’t know if it was him, Aunt Dot. I only said to Gerald that it might have been. The right age, the right physique…”
“But you said it could also have been Dante Sherman,” said Grace. “Which one was it?”
Poppy put down her stottie bread and brushed crumbs from her fingertips. “Either of them – or neither of them. It could just have been a random attack. It’s not unheard of around here. Remember the other night when someone tried to snatch my bag at the cinema?”
“That was just an opportunistic snatch and grab by a young scallywag. This seems to be far more serious. More targeted. Don’t you all agree?” asked Grace.
There were nods of agreement around the table.
“And thank God Rollo and Gerald came along when they did!” declared Dot.
Rollo grinned. “Oh, I think your niece had already got the measure of him before we arrived, Dot.”
Poppy smiled. Yes, she had been shaken up by the whole affair, but she was also very proud of how she had handled herself. She couldn’t wait to tell Delilah that those self-defence and ju-jitsu classes had not gone to waste. She hoped that whoever it was who had attacked her was nursing a very sore body part tonight.
“Nonetheless,” said Yasmin, “it could easily have turned out differently. So I think – for now – we should go with your initial assessment, Poppy, that it was somehow connected to the investigation, that whoever it was who attacked you was trying to stop you finding out any more. On the current evidence before us, the two most likely suspects are Dante Sherman and Gus North. We need to figure out which one.”
Gerald shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. “I know I suggested it might have been Gus, but on reflection, I don’t believe I should have. I don’t think Gus would hurt anyone. I really don’t.”
“But you said yourself that you thought he might have killed Agnes – and that that’s why you didn’t tell the police you saw him go out the back door of the gallery with her,” said Rollo.
“I know, I know. But if he did kill Agnes, I can’t believe it was on purpose. An accident, perhaps – a tragic accident.”
“Slitting her throat with a Stanley knife?” asked Grace. “That’s quite an accident.”
“But the Gus I know would never do that! Nor hurt Poppy.”
“The Gus you know?” asked Poppy. “How well do you really know him? Do you know, for instance, that Gus is Agnes’ son?”
Aunt Dot dropped her sherry glass, the amber liquid seeping into the tablecloth like a pool of spreading blood.
“He is what?” asked Yasmin.
So Poppy went on to tell her friends what she had learned at the Northanger house, the five of them sitting in stunned silence as she recounted the tragic tale of Agnes’ baby boy.
“So,” said Yasmin, eventually. “That paints a potentially different picture of events. It now seems very likely the reason Agnes and Gus went out that evening was so that she could tell him she was really his mother. We need to get Gus to confirm that though. Gerald, you said that Gus was planning on leaving tomorrow morning for Amsterdam. We will need to get hold of DI Hawkes to tell him. He must be apprehended.”
“But what if he didn’t do it? I cannot believe he would have killed his own mother,” said Gerald, his voice quivering along with his chins.
“Then this is his chance to clear his name. And help us catch the real killer.”
“Who is…?” asked Rollo.
The six of them looked at one another around the table, variously shrugging or sig
hing. Eventually, Grace said: “I still think it’s Dante Sherman.”
“And so do I,” said Poppy.
Yasmin leaned forward, poised as though she were cross-examining a witness in the Old Bailey. “But why? What was his motivation?”
Poppy thought for a moment, her mind racing over the events and conversations of the last week. “I keep coming back to the conversation I had with his mother. When she told me of his anger when he found out about his father, Michael Brownley – his anger and his shame. I still think he might have been trying to avenge his father’s death. Bringing Agnes up here, forcing Gus to bring the two paintings associated with her time in Ashington and the birth of his half-brother – whom we now know was Gus.”
“Do you think he knew that Gus was – or is – his brother?” asked Rollo, his sharp editor’s eyes alight with the possibility of some sensational headlines.
“It’s possible,” said Poppy. “He was certainly sniffing around the story, visiting Ashington and also Sister Henrietta. And he did seem to take a sadistic pleasure in taunting Gus –”
“But what did he intend to do with the paintings?” asked Gerald. “I can’t figure that out.”
Poppy again gave it some thought. “What was it the stable boy told us, Rollo? That Sherman said that he needed the paintings to ‘show her he meant business’.”
Rollo nodded. “That’s right. Is that what you remember him saying, Gerald?”
“Y-yes. I think so. I didn’t know what he meant though.”
Poppy’s mind was whirring. “What if he meant to use them to threaten Agnes?”
“With what?” asked Yasmin. “We know that he was using them to threaten Gus that he would reveal he had forged some of Agnes’ paintings, but what – if you are correct – might he have used them for in relation to Agnes?”
“He must have known about the baby. That the baby hadn’t died. And he was going to tell Gus – and everyone else – about it, knowing that Agnes had not actually told Gus. That she was too ashamed to. It’s the only thing I can think of.”
“Did Mrs Northanger say he’d been to visit?”
“No, she didn’t, but perhaps he did some investigating of his own. There was a forged death certificate, for instance… or perhaps Agnes might even have told him.”
Yasmin nodded. “Perhaps. But it’s still speculation.”
“Yes it is, but surely we can’t discount all the circumstantial evidence. The letter to my mother, for instance – threatening her and telling her to not talk about what she knew about Agnes’ baby – suggests this had been planned for a while. And don’t forget he visited Sister Henrietta, trying to get information about the baby. And then there’s the photograph sent to Agnes – of her, naked – and remember that he had access to the paintings in the basement of the art school –”
“But it wasn’t his handwriting. Besides, the letter mentioned abortion, but you are now suggesting that Dante actually knew the baby hadn’t died. His defence team would have a field day with those contradictions,” said Yasmin, who for the first time since the start of the investigation appeared to be showing signs of frustration.
Poppy slumped back in her chair, feeling equally frustrated. And tired, so very tired. She was so sure Dante Sherman was involved in this – call it a gut instinct, intuition, or divine guidance if you will – but she just couldn’t figure out how. Perhaps if she had a good night’s rest, she would be able to think more clearly about it all in the morning.
“What if he got someone else to write it for him?” It was Dot.
Poppy sat up. “What do you mean, Aunt Dot? That Sherman had an accomplice?”
The older woman’s heavily made-up eyes were wide with excitement. “Yes! And I think I know who.”
All eyes at the table were on the former actress. She preened, loving the attention. “Excuse me Yasmin, if you don’t mind, could you pass me the pathologist’s report of Agnes?”
“How do you know I have a pathologist’s report?”
Dot flushed charmingly. “Well, I did have a little snoop when you were out…”
“Heavens, Dot! Why ever did you do that?”
Poppy raised her hand to calm Yasmin. “It’s a fait accompli, Yasmin. Aunt Dot, what are you saying? What did you find out?”
“Well, in the report – among all the gruesome details of poor Agnes’ injuries – I noted something quite odd. It’s been bothering me for a while, but I didn’t want to mention it in case – well,” she bit her lip like a naughty schoolgirl, “– in case you found out I’d been snooping. But, I’m prepared to fess up to it, because I think I might have solved the case!”
“Well, spit it out woman!” shouted Grace.
Dot, seemingly unoffended by her friend’s outburst, continued: “Did you notice, Yasmin, that some short white hairs were found on Agnes’ gown?”
“I did, yes. They were just listed as an oddity. Nothing of any forensic interest.”
“Ah, but what if they do have forensic interest? What if they give us a clue to the identity of Agnes’ real killer?”
Poppy’s blue eyes, so like her aunt’s, widened as the implication of what Dot was saying sank in. “Good Lord! Mrs Northanger has a white cat. Its hairs were all over me when I left there. Are you suggesting –”
“No! No! Not her. It’s –”
“Maddie Sherman and her two little dogs!” blurted out Poppy, before her aunt could finish.
Dot clapped her hands. “Yes! Yes! Yes! And that’s not all.” She reached for a file in the centre of the table. “Yasmin asked me to go through the guest list from the night of the exhibition and cross-check it with the list of volunteer stewards at the Laing. We were trying to figure out who else might have access to the keys to the back door of the gallery, remember? And guess what?”
“Maddie Sherman is a steward!” said Rollo, flicking open his reporter’s notebook and frantically making notes.
“She is! But not just at the Laing. She is also…” Dot paused dramatically, “…drum roll please, ladies and gentlemen – she is also a volunteer steward at the Hatton Gallery. That’s the gallery attached to the art school, whose basement holds the painting of Agnes as a naked girl.”
“By Jove! Brilliant work, Dot!” Rollo jumped up and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Yasmin.
“To write up an article for tomorrow’s paper. This will stop the press!”
“Whoa, hold your horses, Rollo, this is just speculation. Very intriguing speculation, I’ll admit, but it’s not yet a watertight case,” chastised Yasmin.
Then, suddenly, Grace got up too, and slipped past Rollo, out of the room.
“Grace! Where are you going?” shouted Dot.
“I’ll be back in a minute!” she called down the hall.
A few moments later she returned with a greeting card. On it was a hand-painted picture of some lilies in a vase – similar to, but nowhere near as accomplished as Agnes’ version, nor for that matter, Gus’. But it quite clearly was meant to represent it.
“What have you got there?” asked Dot.
Grace sat down and opened the card, laying it on the table. “It’s a condolence card. It was dropped off the morning after Agnes’ death. I didn’t get around to putting it up on the mantelpiece because – well – because I was taken into custody.” She cleared her throat.
“Who’s it from?” asked Poppy.
“See for yourself.”
Poppy picked up the card and read out loud the kind platitude, regretting the death of Agnes and expressing sympathy for her friends and family. It was signed Maddie Sherman. And the writing – as far as she could tell – was exactly the same as on the letter to her mother. Poppy laid it out on the table for all to see.
Yasmin opened her file and extracted the letter and the photograph. Yes, on inspection, it was most definitely Maddie’s.
“So,” said Dot triumphantly, “I was right! Maddie did write the letter. Do you think she di
d it on her son’s behest?”
Poppy nodded. “I think that’s a reasonable supposition, don’t you, Yasmin? And wasn’t it posted in Leeds? I bet if we – or the police – do some digging they will find that either Maddie or Dante, or both of them, were in Leeds the day it was posted. And if you all recall, Gerald told us one of Gus’ forged paintings was for a dealer in Leeds. And Dante knew about it. He might very well have been visiting that dealer the day the letter was posted. You know, there is so much tying Dante to this that I’d be loathe to let him off the hook and turn all my attention to his mother.”
“I agree,” said the barrister. “It looks like they might have been in cahoots to try to keep Agnes’ relationship with Michael Brownley firmly in the past, possibly fearing that his predilection for painting young, naked children might come out and taint Dante’s career. But it still doesn’t prove murder… there is still the matter of the Stanley knife…”
Grace sat down and folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, there’s that.”
Poppy’s mind was racing. She was recalling the morning after Agnes’ death, when they had all been having breakfast. The morning Maddie arrived with her dirty boots, after walking the dogs in the park. And the morning before that…
“Grace,” she said, “how did that card arrive? Was it delivered by the postman or did Maddie drop it off herself?”
“I assume she brought it with her that morning when she came to visit. I found it on the hall table after she had left.”
“And did you see anything else on the hall table?”
Grace’s eyes flicked to Poppy and then Yasmin. “You mean, like the Stanley knife?”
“Yes,” said Poppy, “like the Stanley knife. That’s where the decorator said he had left it. Was it there when you found Maddie’s card?”
“No, it wasn’t. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen that knife for a while.”
“When do you last remember seeing it?”
“I’m not sure. It was definitely there on the Tuesday; that’s the day the decorator was here, and I noticed he’d left it. I thought it best to just leave it there in a visible place until he came back. And I asked Betty not to move it when she dusted.”
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 28
