That night Poppy lay awake listening to the rain that set in around midnight. The bed next to her – Delilah’s – was empty. It was not unusual for her friend to stay out until the early hours of the morning, but tonight, of all nights, she wished she were not alone. Downstairs she heard sobbing – either Dot or Grace, but probably Dot. When Sandy had finally dropped her off, she had filled Dot and Grace in on what had happened. Both women, who had been waiting up for her, had been crying. Even Grace. “Who do you think could have done it?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Grace; I honestly don’t. Hopefully DI Hawkes is good at his job and will get to the bottom of it soon. He’ll be interviewing everyone who was in the building.”
“What if the person wasn’t in the building though?” asked Grace. “Didn’t you say that you thought you heard someone down in the stables?”
“No, I didn’t say that. I said I wondered if Agnes had gone down to the stables.”
“Yes, but someone could have come up, couldn’t they? What if they had got through the stable doors from the street? And then slipped back out the same way?”
Poppy honestly hadn’t thought of that. But Grace had a point. She would mention it to Sandy in the morning.
It was after two o’clock when Poppy finally tumbled into a fitful sleep, tortured by dreams of Agnes falling from the tower while she and Sandy kissed, wrapped in swathes of Agnes’ black hair.
FRIDAY, 4 OCTOBER 1924, NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE
The next morning over breakfast, Poppy, Dot, and Grace, all red-eyed, sat in silence. The temporary maid – usually a chatty young lass – ferried plates and cups from the table, looking pale and confused. Poppy wasn’t sure what time Delilah had got in, but she was sound asleep in the bed next to her when Poppy jerked into consciousness around seven o’clock. There was a place set for the young actress, and another, Poppy assumed, for Agnes.
Eventually Dot spoke. “It’s Delilah’s opening night tonight, isn’t it?”
Poppy thought for a moment and said: “Golly, you’re right! And we’re all supposed to be going.”
“I just don’t think I can watch a comedy,” said Grace.
Dot, usually so ebullient, nodded her agreement. “Neither can I. I’m sure Delilah will understand. We can go next week when things have settled down. Inspector Hawkes said he would be around later and they would need to search Agnes’ things. Someone will need to be here for that.”
“That will more than likely be later this morning, Aunt Dot. They’ll be gone by this evening, and I do think Delilah still needs our support.”
“I just can’t, Poppy…” said Grace, her grey eyes haunted and harrowed.
Grace is taking this hard, Poppy thought. Not surprisingly, I suppose. Grace had been through a dreadful time over the last few years. She had been to prison for her role in the unintentional death of a suffragette – Delilah’s mother – and its subsequent cover-up. However, both Dot and Delilah had eventually forgiven her, accepting that she had not intended her actions to have such a tragic end. The courts, however, had not been as forgiving, and Grace had been sent to prison for two years. Fortunately, Yasmin Reece-Lansdale, the wife of Poppy’s editor Rollo Rolandson, was a leading barrister and friend of Aunt Dot and Grace. Yasmin had managed to get Grace released on probation after eighteen months. The terms of the probation were now up and Grace was a free woman. But, Poppy knew, she was still imprisoned in her heart and mind, unable to let go of the horrors of the past. Poppy wondered if that was one of the reasons Agnes’ visit had upset her so much – the artist had been a reminder of the terrible time when Gloria died.
Dot reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Don’t worry; I’ll stay home with you, darling. But Poppy’s right, someone needs to support Delilah. She’s worked so hard to get this role, and I’m sure she’ll be marvellous. So you go, Poppy. And maybe you can give our tickets to someone else.”
“I’m not sure who.”
“How about that handsome policeman? He seemed fond of you.”
“DI Hawkes?” Poppy shook her head firmly. “No, I think he’ll be far too busy working on the case.”
Dot cocked her head to the side, her curiosity piqued. “But you would like to, wouldn’t you? I detect a little flush, don’t you, Grace?”
Grace stared ahead and did not answer.
Dot gave her friend a sympathetic look then turned back to her niece. “Are you sure he’ll be too busy? He won’t be working all day and night, surely?”
Poppy pursed her lips, annoyed that she had allowed Dot to sense that she was attracted to Sandy. But was she? If her dreams from last night were anything to go by, then she most certainly was.
She forced a tight smile and said: “I’ll see. I’ll definitely go though. Delilah will need me. And don’t forget, it’s also Father’s birthday party tomorrow. Do you think you can make that, Grace?”
Again Grace stared straight ahead.
Dot sighed, then put on a happy face. “I’m sure Grace will be feeling better by then, won’t you, darling? But if not, not to worry. Poppy and I can just get the train up to Morpeth on our own and let you have some time alone here.” She once again patted her friend’s hand.
Just then the doorbell rang. The maid stuck her head into the dining room and asked: “Should I get it, Miss Dot?”
“Yes please, Betty.” Dot cupped her hands and bounced up her curls. “I wonder who it is? Probably your handsome inspector, Poppy.”
To her annoyance, Poppy’s heart skipped a beat. Golly girl, pull yourself together! This is not the time or place for romance. Aunt Dot gave her a knowing look.
Betty the maid returned a few moments later and said: “It’s Mrs Sherman from two doors down. The lady with the dogs, Miss Dot. Should I bring her in?”
Poppy let out a relieved sigh. Good. She was not quite ready to see the handsome policeman this morning. She was barely out of her dressing gown.
Dot smiled at the maid. “Of course, Betty. She can join us for breakfast if she likes. Do we have enough eggs?”
“We do, miss.”
“Jolly good; then invite the lady in please.”
Maddie Sherman clomped her way down the hall wearing a pair of muddy boots. Grace roused herself long enough from her malaise to ask her to take them off.
“We’ve just had new carpets laid,” she said tersely.
Maddie looked taken aback, but then complied, adding quietly: “Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d picked up any muck in the park. Bit boggy down there I suppose after last night’s rain.”
Grace did not respond, but Dot swooped in with her usual charm. “Oh that’s all right, Maddie; it’s no bother at all. Easily done. Would you like anything to eat? We have eggs.”
Maddie smiled gratefully at Dot as she took off her boots. “I’ve had some breakfast, thank you, but a cup of tea would be lovely. Where should I put these?”
“In the hall,” said Grace. “Like I asked you to do yesterday when you came to visit, remember?”
Maddie, chastened, lowered her head and scurried out. She returned a minute later in her stockinged feet, and sat in the place where Agnes should have been.
“I’m sorry. I should have remembered about my boots. It’s not like me to have to be told twice. It’s just – well – my mind is taken up by other things. Like all of us, I should imagine.” She smiled at Grace, hoping for a truce. Grace softened slightly. Maddie relaxed. “Have the police been around yet?”
“Not yet,” said Dot. “We thought for a minute you might be them. How did you sleep? We barely slept a wink, did we?” Dot took in Grace and Poppy, her large blue eyes perfectly made up despite the early hour.
“No, we didn’t,” said Poppy.
Maddie shook her head and let out a long sigh. “Terrible business. Who could have done such a thing? That poor woman. And poor Dante.”
Dot looked startled. “Dante? Why? Has something happened to him too?”
Maddie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Goodness no! Not like that. I can’t even bring myself to think about it. But,” she said, recovering her composure, “this will be a terrible blow for him, professionally. It was his first major exhibition that he has solely curated. And such a big name too: Agnes Robson. He has been working on it for over a year, in discussions with Agnes and Gerald Farmer. As well as the Tate. He’s borrowed some of their paintings, and they don’t just lend them to anyone, you know. But Dante has an impeccable reputation and came to them with top-notch references. He’s done remarkably well for himself, for a young man of his age.”
Grace turned her grey stare on Maddie and said: “A woman has died.”
An awkward silence fell upon the table, broken only when Betty came in with a fresh pot of tea. Dot played mother and poured the tea.
After a few minutes, emboldened by the strong tea, Maddie turned to Grace and said: “I apologize, Mrs Wilson. I know it’s not the level of tragedy that Agnes’ family will have to endure, but a mother must think of her own child too. Isn’t that true?”
“I have no children,” said Grace.
“Oh. That’s a shame,” said Maddie.
This is getting very frosty, thought Poppy. “So, Mrs Sherman, you say Dante had been working on the exhibition for over a year. Whose idea was it to bring Agnes up here? Hers or his? Or someone else’s?”
Maddie turned to Poppy, visibly relieved to not have to engage with Grace any further. “Oh, it was Dante’s. He’d read in the newspaper that there was going to be a community hall opening in Ashington with a donation from Agnes. He contacted the journalist who wrote the story – that fellow Walter Foster from Morpeth who was there last night – and asked him for more information. He was then put in touch with the Ashington Miners’ Institute, who put him in touch with the art department at Armstrong College. However, Professor Reid is already an old friend of the family – my late husband, Dr Sherman, and he were in the same battalion together during the Boer War. It was Simon Reid, I believe, who knew Agnes’ manager and publicist – that fellow Gerald Farmer – and he was the one who put Dante in touch with them. Dante suggested Agnes have an exhibition at the Laing to coincide with her trip up to open the community hall. It took a bit of persuading, apparently, but she finally agreed. It was quite a coup for a young curator, I must say. I’m very proud of him. And now, oh dear, I’m not sure what’s going to happen about the exhibition…”
“Surely they’ll keep it up in her honour, don’t you think?” offered Dot.
“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!”