The Laing Art Gallery huddled on the corner of New Bridge Street and Higham Place like a gargoyle in a graveyard. A small group of curious onlookers watched from across the road as a man in a brown work coat and flat cap ran a mop over the bloodstained paving stones at the base of the tower. Two policemen watched him, and one of them greeted Poppy as she approached.
“Good afternoon, miss. The gallery is closed today. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’m not here to visit the gallery. I’m here to see the curator, Mr Sherman. I am…” – she paused for a moment, unsure how to phrase it – “…I am here on behalf of one of the lawyers representing a suspect in the case.”
The constable’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a lawyer? Didn’t know they had lady solicitors. And I’d be very surprised if they have lady barristers. It’s a proper man’s job that.”
Poppy bit her tongue, willing herself not to be riled. After a moment she said, feigning nonchalance, “Oh, I’m not a barrister. I am – well, I’m temporarily working for one – who is, in fact, a lady. She’s from London. They have a few lady lawyers in London, you know. She’ll be arriving tomorrow. In the meantime she has asked me to gather some information for her. So I need to get into the gallery please.”
The policeman hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I’ve never heard of no lady lawyer. They might have them in London – with all their newfangled ways – but they don’t have them here. Have you ever heard of such a thing, Constable Brown?”
“I haven’t, Constable Stewart. You’d better be on your way, miss.”
Poppy sighed inwardly, but managed to not allow her annoyance to show on her face. “All right then, you will have to go inside and ask Mr Sherman to come out here to meet me. Can you do that, please?”
“Mr who?”
“Sherman. Dante Sherman. He’s the curator.”
The two policemen looked down at Poppy with disapproving menace. Then, suddenly, a kind voice piped up from behind them: “Mr Sherman is in his office, miss, I can take you to him if you like.” It was the man in the brown overall coat with the mop. The water in the bucket had turned blood red, and a dark smudge marked the spot where Agnes’ body had smashed into the pavement.
“No one is allowed in the gallery,” asserted Constable Brown, folding his arms and pursing his lips under a scraggly moustache.
Poppy sighed again, this time not entirely managing to hide her annoyance. It was time to up-rank the fellow. “Then I shall just have to tell DI Hawkes that you wouldn’t let me do my job.”
“You know DI Hawkes?”
“Actually, I do. We have recently become tennis partners.”
“Tennis? I didn’t know the governor played tennis?”
“Very well, actually. Is he here? Can you get him?”
The two constables looked at one another, not knowing what to do. Eventually Constable Stewart answered. “He’s not here. He was, but not anymore. He’s at the post-mortem.”
“The post-mortem? Oh. Where’s that?”
“That’s Latin for when they examine the body after death. But I’d expect a lady lawyer to know that. Are you sure you’re a lawyer?”
Poppy tapped her foot. “I never said I was a lawyer. And I asked, ‘Where’s that?’ not ‘What’s that?’ So now, tell me, where is the post-mortem being held? I shall find DI Hawkes myself and let him know how unhelpful you have both been.”
“Ooooh, hoity toity, aren’t ya?” mocked Stewart, accompanying his words with an affected flap of his hands.
Poppy slammed her shoe onto the pavement. “And… after I have told him that, I shall arrange for my associate – who is a lawyer – to apply for a court order. Or a subpoena, as they sometimes call it. That’s a Latin word too.”
At that, Constable Stewart laughed. “Oh go on. Let her in, Brown. It’ll be easier than bothering the DI when he’s busy. And I doubt a young lass like her could do much trouble. Can you take her in, Helsdon?”
Helsdon – the elderly caretaker – doffed his cap to the constable. “Aye, sir, I can. This way, miss.”
Helsdon picked up the bucket and mop and led the way into the gallery. Poppy felt two sets of eyes boring into her back. She let out a sigh of relief when the doors of the gallery swung shut and she and the caretaker stood alone in the sepulchral silence of the Marble Hall.
Poppy turned to the stooped gentleman carrying the bucket. “Thank you for accompanying me, Mr Helsdon. And thank you for cleaning that up outside. Not a pleasant job for anyone.”
Helsdon peered at her from under his cap, his eyes pale blue and red-rimmed. His skin hung in loose waves from his cheekbones. He had the look of a man who had once carried some weight but had lost his fullness. But there was a kindness there and Poppy warmed to it. She remembered something Dante Sherman had said last night to DI Hawkes: that the caretaker was the one who knew who had keys for the back door of the gallery.
“Mr Helsdon,” she said, as he led her across the hall, under the rotunda, and to a room labelled “caretaker”, tucked under the stairs. “I don’t know if you know but I was here last night and saw Miss Robson fall from the roof.”
“Oh miss, that must have been a dreadful thing to see.”
“It was,” said Poppy quietly, Agnes’ final ghastly moments etched forever in her mind. “And Miss Robson was a friend. So you see, apart from what I said to the policemen outside about temporarily working for a lawyer – which is entirely true – I have personal reasons for wanting to find out what happened last night. I thought it only fair to tell you.”
As Poppy had expected, the personal confession endeared her to the kindly looking old man. He opened the door of the caretaker’s room and put the bucket and mop inside, then closed the door again. He rubbed his hands down the sides of his overall coat. “Well, thank you for sharing that confidence with me, miss. And I’m very sorry about the loss of your friend. But I’m confused. I heard you say that you worked for the lawyer of one of the accused. I heard they arrested a lady. Do you know her?”
Poppy nodded. “I do. She too is a friend. But I know for a fact she didn’t do it.”
“Oh aye? Who did then?”
Poppy opened her hands wide. “I don’t know, Mr Helsdon, but I intend to find out. For both my friends’ sake – the one who died and the one who has been falsely accused.”
“I heard they have evidence.”
“Oh yes? And have you heard what that evidence is?”
“The stable lad found a knife in the straw. I heard it belonged to the lady who has been arrested.”
“And who did you hear that from?”
“The stable lad. He heard the inspector – that DI Hawkes – tell Mr Sherman.”
“Hmmm, and was it the lad who saw Mrs Wilson – the lady they’ve arrested – in the stable last night?”
“Aye, it was. He saw her last night before he went home. Then he found the knife this morning and told Mr Sherman about it.”
“I see,” said Poppy, wondering how she might get to speak to the stable lad. One witness at a time though. “Thank you. That’s very useful. However, there’s something else you might be able to help me with. I imagine someone like you knows all the ins and outs here at the gallery. And Mr Sherman mentioned last night that you would know who had keys to the back door and whether or not it was left open last night.”
Helsdon turned to Poppy with a guarded expression. “I’m sorry, miss. Like I told the polis, I was sure the back door was locked before the exhibition started. We had brought up the last of the paintings earlier in the day. The ones that got here late.”
“Oh? Which were they?”
“Two came up in a separate delivery from the rest. One was of a mammy and bairn walking along a railway track, and the other one was of some flowers. I can’t remember what they were. Mr Sherman was very relieved when they arrived and he asked me to make sure everything was locked up afterwards.”
“So you locked the door then?”
Mr Helsdon stiffened. “Aye, I did, miss. But…”
“But what?”
The elderly caretaker looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “But not all the keys are accounted for.” He pulled a large ring of keys from his pocket. “I keep these with me, but there’s spares in me room downstairs. When the polis asked me to show them all the keys I went to get them and it wasn’t there.”
“The second key for the back door was missing?”
“Aye miss, it was. And it still is. But it’s not my fault. I swear by me granny’s grave. It was there when I went home last night.”
Poppy smiled gently at the worried man. “I believe you, Mr Helsdon, and I’m sure the police will too.”
He nodded. “I hope you’re right, miss. I don’t want it on me conscience that that poor woman died because of my mistake.”
Poppy bit her lip. She knew exactly how he felt. If she only hadn’t tripped on the roof last night she might have got to Agnes in time…
“It wasn’t your fault. Whoever pushed Miss Robson from the roof was to blame. And that wasn’t you or me. And if killing her had been their intention from the start, then they would have found a way to do it even if they hadn’t been able to get a key to the door. Which reminds me: the door to the roof – does it have a key?”
Helsdon shook his head. “No miss, not anymore. It did, years ago, but it got lost. Now we just use the bolt. It locks and opens from the inside.”
“Thank you, that’s very helpful.”
They walked through a gallery of contemporary British art, past a 5 × 3 foot oil painting of children playing on a beach, by Laura Knight. Poppy had seen it a couple of years earlier when it was on loan to the Tate. She would have loved to have taken it in again, but she had more important things to do today. Eventually they came to a door with “curator” written on it. Helsdon knocked and waited for a reply.
“Enter!”
Helsdon opened the door and put his head round. “Mr Sherman, sir, there’s a lady to see you. A miss – oh I’m sorry miss, I didn’t catch your name.”
Poppy smiled at him. “That’s all right, Mr Helsdon. My name is Miss Denby. May I come in, Mr Sherman?”
Poppy pushed open the door to reveal the young curator sitting behind an oak-wood desk.
“Miss Denby! How did you get in here?” Sherman looked vaguely annoyed. But then, from what Poppy had seen of him over the last couple of days, vague to outright annoyance was the curator’s default expression. Poppy was used to dealing with recalcitrant interviewees in her line of work, so she adopted her usual air of polite professionalism.
“The policemen said I could see you. I hope that’s all right. I need to speak to you.”
“This lady knows the lady who was killed last night. And the other one what done it,” said the caretaker, cap in hand.
Poppy stiffened. Dante Sherman’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you Helsdon, that will be all. Come in, Miss Denby. Do sit down.”
Mr Helsdon cast a quick look at Poppy. She smiled at him. Reassured, he retreated, closing the door behind him.
The curator gestured again for Poppy to take a seat, but did not rush out from behind his desk to pull out a chair for her. As Poppy sat she noticed that Dante had eschewed his flamboyant Oscar Wilde look from the night before for a more conventional day suit. His only nod to Bohemia was a pink silk handkerchief and rose quartz cufflinks. He had replaced his monocle with a pair of ordinary spectacles over which he peered at his guest.
“So, Miss Denby,” he said, closing a file – but not before Poppy had a quick glimpse of the contents. It was a letter from the British National Gallery – otherwise known as the Tate – with the subject line: “Authentication query of Agnes Robson’s The Railway Family.” The Railway Family… Could that be the painting Mr Helsdon referred to? Poppy filed the question and the information away in a mental folder entitled “must follow up”.
“Now, how may I help you?” asked Dante, his fingers templing protectively over the closed file.
“Well, Mr Sherman, as you probably know already, my aunt’s companion, Mrs Wilson, has been arrested for Agnes’ murder. She is, of course, innocent.”
“So you believe.”
“Indeed. As does anyone who knows her.”
“Not quite everyone…”
“What do you mean?”
Dante picked a loose thread from his jacket cuff. “Well, I overheard Gerald Farmer tell DI Hawkes that Gus North said there was some history between Agnes and Mrs Wilson. Some kind of bad blood.”
Poppy smarted. “It is no secret that Grace and Agnes had a falling out some years ago. But I can assure you that they were in the process of laying that to rest. And even if they weren’t, Grace would never murder anyone!”
“Oh really? Wasn’t she involved in the death of that suffragette back in –”
Poppy slapped her hand onto Dante’s desk. “Mr Sherman, I am not here to dredge up ancient history.”
“No?” said Dante, cocking his head to the side then straightening his glasses with his finger. “Well, someone seems to be. And DI Hawkes thinks there’s enough evidence to arrest her. Have you heard about the knife in the stables?”
“I have. But I have not heard what evidence connects it to Grace? Have you?”
“I have not.”
“Well then. Best not jump to conclusions. The last I heard we are still subject to impartial justice in this country and are innocent until proven guilty. Which, I have no doubt, Grace will be. And to that end, I would like your help… please.”
Poppy willed herself to calm down. Getting into an argument with Dante Sherman would not help her get what she had come here for.
Dante leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers over his stomach. “Oh really?” he drawled. “And how may I be of help, Miss Denby?”
“I am here on behalf of Mrs Yasmin Rolandson, KC. Formerly known as Yasmin Reece-Lansdale, KC. Have you heard of her?”
“I have indeed. I read about her in the papers when she became the first woman to be admitted to the bar at the Old Bailey. That was a few years ago, wasn’t it?”
“It was. Anyway, she has agreed to represent Grace and will be arriving from London tomorrow. In the meantime, she has asked me to gather some evidence on her behalf. Do you have a copy of the guest list from last night as well as the names of all the members of staff present – including the catering staff and the musicians? Oh, and I will also need the name of the stable boy, please.”
Dante picked up a pen and twirled it between thumb and forefinger. “I have already given that list to DI Hawkes.”
“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.