Poppy and Aunt Dot spent the evening at the theatre. For a few frivolous hours, Poppy pushed the mystery of who killed Agnes Robson into the wings, as the escapades of Algernon, Gwendolyn, Cecily, and Jack – and the revelation of an abandoned baby in a handbag – took centre stage. Delilah was – as expected – delightful as the love-struck Gwendolyn, and Poppy chortled along with the Newcastle audience at the shamelessly snobbish put-downs of her mother, the ghastly Lady Bracknell. After the final curtain, Poppy accompanied an usher who pushed Aunt Dot towards the bar in the foyer, as the former actress mimicked the most memorable line of the play: “To lose one parent, Mr Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.”
She said it with such aplomb that she received a round of applause as she entered the bar. Once the word got out that this was the Dot Denby from the West End who had herself played Lady Bracknell in a London production back in the day, she was soon surrounded by admirers.
Poppy was pushed further and further back from her aunt until she bumped into someone. She turned around to apologize and realized it was Peter MacMahon.
“Poppy! I’m very sorry.”
“No Peter; it is I who is sorry. However, I am very glad to see you. I was hoping to speak to you. In a professional capacity.”
The journalist cocked his head to the side and said teasingly: “Professionally? Oh that’s a pity.”
Poppy raised an eyebrow in mock disapproval. “Well, seeing as you’re already spoken for by this evening’s leading lady, what choice do I have?” And then, feeling slightly uncomfortable playing the coquette, she added: “Seriously, Peter, I do need to speak to you. About Agnes’ murder and the investigation. You do know that our friend Grace Wilson has been arrested, don’t you?”
Peter nodded sympathetically. “I do, and I’m sorry to hear it. Do you think she did it?”
Poppy was startled and took a step away from the journalist. “I do not!”
Peter raised his hands placatingly. “All right, all right. You know I had to ask. Would you – er – be up for an interview to give Grace’s side of the story?”
Poppy didn’t like being on the receiving end of a journalist’s questions. She’d discovered that much during her short stint as Agnes’ press liaison. But she was glad of the experience; she felt she now had new insight into how her interviewees might feel. On the other hand, she recognized a kindred professional spirit in Peter MacMahon. She too would have used her closeness to the subjects in a murder investigation to get a scoop if she could. But if she played it carefully, she could use this to her advantage.
“Well, Peter, I would have to ask both Grace and Dot for their permission. It is their lives, really, that will be the most impacted by any publicity. However, I could encourage them to do so if it is worth their while…”
Peter looked at her quizzically. “What are you suggesting, Poppy? The Journal does not have the budget to pay sources! I’m surprised you even asked, to be honest.”
Poppy flushed, suddenly realizing how her comment must have sounded. “Oh no, Peter, nothing like that! I just need your help in accessing certain information. As I’m not officially representing a newspaper, I have limited opportunity to question people. Grace’s barrister – who will be arriving here tomorrow – has asked me to dig around a bit for her. But again, it’s not in an official capacity.”
Peter leaned back on his heels and hooked his thumbs into his red satin cummerbund. “What sort of information?”
Poppy looked around to see if Dot was still occupied with her “fans”. She was. Good. She leaned into Peter. “All sorts. Firstly, I would like to speak to the stable lad who allegedly found the so-called murder weapon. Also, I was wondering if you had any sources inside the police here who might give you the heads-up on any developments – such as results of a postmortem, lists of witnesses, and so forth.”
Peter raised a sardonic brow. “Surely you’re not suggesting that we might have a bent copper on the payroll.”
Poppy raised an equally sardonic – although better manicured – eyebrow. “I know how newspapers operate, Peter. I doubt you’re paying anyone – if you did, there’d be corruption charges to be faced if it ever came out – but it wouldn’t surprise me if you had a mutually beneficial relationship with someone on the police. They feed you information in exchange for keeping certain things out of the public eye, or delaying publication, or bumping something above or below the fold.”
Peter shrugged. “I couldn’t possibly say.”
“I would never expect you to. But I would like to know if you will tell me anything you can about the investigation. And in exchange I can arrange an interview with Dot and – if it can be arranged – Grace herself, after she’s been cleared.”
“Only after?”
“Yes,” said Poppy firmly. “Only after.”
Peter rocked back and forth on his heels, mulling over the offer. Finally he said: “Agreed. But it must be an exclusive. Foster will want the same, I’ve no doubt.”
No doubt he would. Poppy weighed this up for a moment. What might she need from Walter Foster that Peter MacMahon couldn’t give her? Possibly information about Agnes’ background. The Morpeth Herald was better placed than the Newcastle Daily Journal for that. But the Journal was right here in the middle of Newcastle where the current investigation was taking place. Hmmm, she would have to think of another way of dealing with Foster if she needed to… She pulled herself up, suddenly. Since when had she become a wheeling dealing newspaper hack? What happened to an honest answer for an honest question and pure human decency? She gave herself a mental shake. Then she reached out her hand.
“Deal. Do you think you could find out who the witness is who said they saw Grace in the stables? Or do you know already?”
“I don’t, no. All I know is that the stable lad told the curator – that Sherman fellow – that he’d seen a lady in the stables, who it turned out matched Grace’s description. And then Sherman told Hawkes.”
“What did Sherman tell Hawkes?” came a voice from behind her. A chill went down Poppy’s spine as she recognized the voice of Sandy Hawkes. She turned around to see the police inspector looking dashingly handsome in a tuxedo.
“DI Hawkes. Good evening. I didn’t know you were at the show.”
Sandy nodded at Poppy, his face inscrutable. “Delilah arranged some tickets for me.”
“I thought you might have been too busy with the investigation…”
“I have a team of Tyneside’s best investigators working for me, Miss Denby; they can hold the fort for a few hours. Besides, I was hoping to see you here, rather than going around to your aunt’s. It’s less… well, it’s less formal.” He gave a little smile.
Poppy’s heart did the funny little pirouette it had started to do whenever she thought of the detective. She willingly calmed herself. Surely now that her aunt’s companion had been arrested for murder, there was absolutely no hope for any budding romance between them.
But Hawkes did not seem put off. “May I get you a drink, Poppy?”
Poppy. He had called her Poppy…
“Er, yes please.”
“MacMahon?”
“No thanks, Hawkes. I’m going to meet Delilah backstage. I said I’d head out with the cast for drinks afterwards. Are you coming with us, Poppy?”
Poppy shook her head. “I would have, but apparently Gerald and Gus are coming around tonight to pick up Agnes’ things. Assuming, DI Hawkes, the police have finished with them?”
“We have taken what we need. They can take the rest. Unless her next of kin want it?”
“I think Gerald is going to arrange to have everything returned to Agnes’ mother. That’s what Dot said. Anyway, no Peter, I shan’t be joining the cast. I’ve already told Delilah. But shall I see you tomorrow so we can continue our conversation? I’m off to Morpeth for my father’s birthday party, but I should be back early evening.”
“I’ll call by then. Good evening to you. And to you, Hawkes.”
Sandy waited until Peter had left then said: “Right. Drinks. What will it be?”
Poppy again looked to see if Dot was nearly ready to go. But the former doyenne was still deep in conversation.
“A glass of white, please.”
Sandy returned with two glasses of white wine. “So,” said Poppy, after taking her first sip, “why did you arrest Grace?”
Sandy peered at her over the rim of his glass, took a sip, then lowered it. “Because we had sufficient evidence to charge her.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what I will be showing to her barrister when she arrives. I believe you have secured the services of a famous lady lawyer from London.”
“We have,” said Poppy. “She is a personal friend of the family.”
“And the one who got Mrs Wilson out of prison early last time.”
Poppy cast a glance towards Aunt Dot. She looked like she might be wrapping things up.
“That’s right. I see you’ve been doing your research.”
Sandy chuckled. “What else did you expect? I’m not just a dumb copper from a northern toon.”
“I never said you were. I’m sure you are very good at your job. But in this case, I believe you have got it wrong. Grace did not do it.”
“Then who did?”
It was Poppy’s turn to chuckle. “Surely a clever copper like you should be able to find out.”
Sandy was suddenly serious. “Oh I will, Poppy, I will. But there is enough to hold Mrs Wilson on for now. I will continue to look for evidence to strengthen the case against her – or to release her. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t interfere. I heard you were impersonating a lawyer at the gallery earlier today.”
Poppy choked on her wine. “I did nothing of the sort! Mrs Rolandson – the former Miss Reece-Lansdale, KC – asked me to try to get some information for her in advance of her arriving tomorrow. I told the constables on guard there that that was what I was doing and that is what I attempted to do. There was nothing underhanded about it.”
“So is that why you were sneaking around the gallery?”
“I was not sneaking! Now listen here…”
“Is everything all right?” Aunt Dot approached them in her chair.
Sandy straightened up. “It is, Miss Denby, yes. I was just laying down some boundaries for your niece. Just like in tennis she seems to struggle to keep within the lines.” He made the last comment with a playful twinkle in his eye.
But Poppy was in no mood for games. She thrust her glass back at Sandy, then said: “Are you ready Aunt Dot? I think we need to get home.”
“I am, yes. Gerald and Gus will be waiting for us.”
“Would you like a lift?” asked Sandy, holding two half-empty glasses.
“No thank you,” said Poppy. “I think we both know where those lines are now, DI Hawkes. My aunt and I shall get a taxi.”
Poppy took hold of Aunt Dot’s chair and spun her round, then marched them both out of the theatre.
Gerald and Gus were waiting for them on the porch when Poppy and Aunt Dot pulled up in the taxi. “So sorry we’re late,” said Dot. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Just a few minutes,” said Gerald.
Poppy opened the door while Gus pushed Aunt Dot’s chair up and over the front step. Grace and Dot had not yet got around to putting in a ramp to the front door. Gerald was at Poppy’s shoulder and said quietly to her: “Look Poppy, I’m sorry we said anything about Grace and Agnes’ feud. I hope that’s not what got her into trouble.”
Poppy pushed the door open and removed her hat. “I don’t think so, Gerald. Besides, I also told DI Hawkes about it – after you mentioned it – so in that case we are both to blame. But no, he said they have more evidence against her.”
“Like what?”
“Apparently there’s a knife linked to her. But I haven’t found out yet how it is linked and why they assume it’s hers.”
“It’s utterly ridiculous! Grace wouldn’t hurt a fly – everyone knows that.” Dot took her hat off and passed it to Poppy. “And she certainly isn’t the type of woman to carry around a knife.”
“Did they speak to you about the knife, Aunt Dot, when they questioned you this morning?”
“They did. They asked me if any knives were missing from the house. I said I had absolutely no idea – I’m not the keeper of the cutlery.”
“So you didn’t corroborate it then. I wonder who did?” asked Poppy, hanging Gus’ bowler hat on the hatstand.
“Don’t worry, Poppy,” soothed Dot, “Yasmin will get to the bottom of it. She sent a telegram, by the way. She’ll be arriving at three o’clock. Will you be able to meet her?”
“I don’t think we’ll be back from Morpeth by then. I’ll ask Delilah if she can pick her up. Do you think she can use the Rolls?”
“Of course! She knows where the keys are kept. Right, Poppy, will you take the gentlemen upstairs to Agnes’ room? I’ll get us some drinks for when you get back down. Shouldn’t take you too long. Sherry, everyone?”
Gus, Gerald, and Poppy all said yes to a nightcap and then went upstairs. Agnes’ attic bedroom was not as neat as she’d left it. Clothes and personal items were scattered across the bed and the floor after the police had searched them earlier in the day. Poppy hadn’t been there when it happened so wasn’t sure what they had taken. There wasn’t much anyway – just the contents of a large suitcase that Agnes had brought with her. Her fur coat was still at the Laing, and of course the beautiful green velvet gown she had worn to the reception was with her at the mortuary. Poppy and the two men wordlessly started gathering and folding, placing everything back in the suitcase. Poppy came across the catalogue for the Robson exhibition at the Laing under a discarded silk stocking. She matched the stocking with its mate on the bed and then paged through the catalogue. She could not find the two paintings she had seen earlier that day.
“Er Gus, Gerald…” she said.
Gerald tapped Gus’ arm and turned him towards Poppy so he could see that she was speaking to them.
“Gentlemen, when I was at the gallery this afternoon the caretaker told me that he had last opened the back door in order to bring in two paintings that arrived late. Do you know anything about them? They’re not in this catalogue, so I’m wondering if they were intended to be at the exhibition in the first place, or were just afterthoughts.”
Gus and Gerald looked at one another. Gus nodded to Gerald to speak on their behalf.
“Er, yes. We brought them up with us on the train.”
“So you brought them in with you when you arrived at the exhibition?”
“No, we brought them around earlier. We came straight from the station, dropped off the paintings, and then went to the hotel for an early supper before we came to the exhibition proper.”
“Oh,” said Poppy. “All right. That makes sense. So you dropped them at the back entrance?”
Gerald nodded. “Yes. All paintings get received there. Out of the public view. Sherman sent us instructions in a telegram.”
“Mr Sherman was in contact with you?”
“Of course. Agnes never dealt with these sorts of arrangements. That’s why she hired a manager. I set the whole exhibition up with Sherman. Which was why it was such bad luck when I fell ill. Poor Agnes had to come on her own.”
“Why didn’t Gus come with her?”
Gerald looked at Gus. Gus replied. It was the first time she had heard him speak since the previous evening. “Agnes and I would have struggled without Gerald.”
“But you are – were – her assistant.”
“Her studio assistant. I helped her keep her paints in order. Primed her canvases. Framed her paintings. We got on very well. But socially… she struggled with me being deaf. She was shy and needed someone to talk for her sometimes. I couldn’t do that easily. Gerald could. So…” He spread his hands and shrugged. Poppy waited for him to say more. He didn’t.
“So,” she continued, feeling she still hadn’t got to the bottom of the paintings, “why did you bring them up separately? Gerald?”
“Sherman asked for them. Agnes hadn’t put them forward for display – as you can see from the original catalogue – but Sherman had seen them on a visit to Agnes’ studio and specifically asked for them.”
“How strange,” said Poppy. “Why didn’t Agnes put them forward? Do you know?”
Gerald looked at Gus who, after pausing to formulate his words, said: “Agnes had decided to rework Lilies in a Vase. She had never been happy with it. She didn’t think it was ready to show.”
“So, that’s why the paint wasn’t quite dry… How strange, though, that you brought it even though it was wet.”
Gus shrugged. “Oil paints can take many weeks to dry properly. Sherman wanted it and we saw no need not to bring it.”
“No need? What about that Agnes didn’t want it shown?”
Gerald and Gus looked at one another. Gus nodded to Gerald, who took over the conversation. “Agnes could be… well… she could be erratic. What she said one day wasn’t always what she said the next. So we took the chance that she wouldn’t mind. And besides, Dante Sherman can be very persuasive.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
Gerald cleared his throat. “He’s, well, very influential. For a man of his age. He has got one of the top jobs in the region. And he has friends at other galleries. If he took offence to something, it might influence other galleries.”
Poppy was surprised. She had always been under the impression that it was famous artists that called the shots, not gallery curators. But, she had to admit, she didn’t know that much about it. Might be worth doing a feature article on it when she got back to London… She brought herself back to the present.
“So had Agnes changed her mind? When she saw the paintings had arrived?”
Gerald shrugged. “I’m not sure. She didn’t say.”
Poppy nodded. From what she had gathered so far, that was very much like Agnes. She would often bottle things up – not say exactly what she felt. “I see. Oh – and the railway one – why didn’t she want that one to be exhibited?”
This time it was Gus who spoke, slowly and carefully. “That I don’t know. She just didn’t put it forward. She never gave a reason.”
“But it’s been seen before, hasn’t it? By the Tate?”
Gus shook his head. “No, it wasn’t at the Tate exhibition.”
“And why’s that?”
Again Gus shrugged. Poppy frowned. She had not yet mentioned the letter she had seen from the Tate about authentication. But why had neither Gus nor Gerald mentioned it? Clearly the Tate had seen it, even if it hadn’t been exhibited. Was there some question over its authenticity? Poppy felt she needed to talk to Yasmin about it and decided not to press Agnes’ colleagues further now.
“All right, thanks.”
“Why do you ask?” asked Gerald. “Do you think this has something to do with her death?”
“I honestly don’t know, Gerald. It’s just something that struck me as out of the ordinary. Those are the first things I look for when I’m investigating.”
Gerald opened his eyes wide in surprise. “You’re investigating?”
Poppy picked up a skirt and folded it along the waistband. “Not officially, no, but Yasmin has asked me to do a bit of digging. And as you probably know, I’ve done this sort of thing before.”
Gerald grinned. “Yes, your sleuthing exploits are well known, Miss Denby.”
Poppy smiled and continued folding. As she did, a photograph slipped out of the pocket of the skirt. She bent down and picked it up. It was a photograph of a painting of a young woman – not much older than a girl – with long black hair. The girl was naked, sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees. The nudity was obvious but no breasts or genitalia were shown. It was, Poppy supposed, what would be considered a “tasteful” nude. The girl looked out of the painting, her dark eyes innocent, not seductive. Who was she? She was vaguely familiar… Poppy turned the photo over and saw some handwriting: Stay away.
She held the photo up for Gerald and Gus to see. “Do either of you know what this is? Is it one of Agnes’ paintings?”
Gerald took it and examined it. “No, not as far as I know. It’s not her style, is it, Gus?”
Gus was looking at the photograph, his face visibly paling. Then he shook his head firmly. “No, I’ve never seen it. Excuse me.” The young man turned on his heel and left.
Gerald called after him: “Gus! Are you all right?” Then he muttered an expletive, apologized to Poppy, and said: “He can’t hear me. I’m sorry Poppy, I need to see if he’s all right. This business with Agnes has hit him very hard. Can you finish here on your own?”
“I can,” said Poppy and watched sympathetically as the manager went to comfort his friend. However, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Gus actually had recognized the painting.
She slipped the photograph into her own skirt pocket then finished packing Agnes’ suitcase.