[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  Leaving the main auditorium, Delilah suggested they get drinks from the bar. Poppy wasn’t comfortable with this. She was becoming more aware by the minute of the glances and whispered asides. “Do you mind if we just have a nightcap at home? I’m awfully tired after the journey up. I’m sure Aunt Dot has a well-stocked cocktail cabinet.”

  “She does,” laughed Delilah. Then, sotto voce, so the tutting woman behind them was bound to hear: “And there won’t be any mother superiors there either.”

  Poppy stifled a giggle and took Delilah’s arm as they made their way onto the street. However, just as they turned back towards Rothbury Terrace, Poppy felt a tug on her shoulder, and before she realized what was happening the strap of her sequinned evening bag was wrenched off her arm. A young lad wearing baggy flannels and a flat cap raced off down the street. “Stop! Thief!” she screamed at the top of her voice.

  She started to give chase as best she could in her Cuban heels, but was soon overtaken by a tall, athletic gentleman in a tuxedo. The tuxedoed gent picked up speed and, like a sprinter in the Paris Olympics, rapidly gained ground on the lad. He deftly weaved between motorized vehicles and horse-drawn carts and, despite the boy’s efforts to shake him off, had him collared in under a minute. The boy bellowed out a string of profanities for which he received a clip around the ear.

  Poppy and Delilah and a gathering crowd waited for the man to drag the thief back to the theatre. As he did, a bobby on a bicycle pulled up and assisted him.

  “Righto, DI Hawkes. I’ll take him in. Can you ask the lady to come and make a statement in the morning?”

  “I will, sergeant,” said the tuxedoed man, then he turned towards Poppy, with her evening bag in his outstretched hand. “I believe this is yours, miss.”

  Poppy, flushed with excitement and relief, took it from him. “Golly sir, thank you ever so much.”

  “You are most welcome, miss. Sheer luck that I happened to be coming out of the Scala at the same time. My name is Hawkes. Sandy Hawkes.”

  “And you’re a policeman?” asked Poppy, checking that the contents of her bag were all accounted for.

  “I am. I’m a detective inspector with the Newcastle upon Tyne City Police, Criminal Investigation Division. But I’m off duty tonight, accompanying my mother and sister.” He nodded to two women huddled under the eaves of the theatre. Poppy’s heart sank when she recognized one of them as the tutting woman who’d sat behind them.

  “Have you ladies become separated from your escorts?” he asked, looking around for any spare gentlemen that might belong to them.

  “We have not,” said Delilah, once again taking Poppy’s arm. “We’re up from London,” she said, by way of explanation, “and are staying with relatives. Lucky for us you have the same taste in moving pictures, Inspector Hawkes!”

  Hawkes smiled and for the first time Poppy noticed that he was a pleasantly handsome man. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with blond hair, neatly parted, and a smartly trimmed moustache. She could not tell the colour of his eyes, but they seemed friendly and inquisitive.

  “Well, thank you ever so much for your help, Inspector. I assume you will have to take my details. My name is Miss Denby. Miss Poppy Denby. And I’m staying with my aunt on Jesmond Vale Terrace.”

  Hawkes nodded in acknowledgment. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Denby.”

  “And I’m Miss Marconi. Miss Delilah Marconi. You might have heard of me? I’m playing Gwendolyn Fairfax in The Importance of Being Earnest at the Theatre Royal.”

  Hawkes smiled politely at Delilah. “I’m afraid I haven’t managed to book tickets for that, Miss Marconi.”

  “Then I shall arrange to get you some! It’s the least I can do to thank you for saving us!”

  “That is very kind of you, Miss Marconi. Although I was just doing my duty.”

  “But you’re off duty! And you were very, very brave! The scoundrel might have had a weapon!”

  Hawkes was beginning to look uncomfortable as Delilah gushed her thanks. Poppy took pity on him and interjected: “So do you need me to make a statement now or later, Inspector? I heard your sergeant say I could come into the station tomorrow. Is that correct?”

  Hawkes nodded in agreement. “If you could, Miss Denby, that would be grand. Do you know where the station is on Pilgrim Street?”

  “I don’t, I’m afraid, but I can find out.”

  “Oh I do!” said Delilah. “It’s not far from the theatre. I’ll take you there tomorrow, Poppy. Then we can have a spot of lunch.”

  “Then that’s sorted. May I walk you home? Jesmond Vale Terrace, you said? That’s on Heaton Road, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” smiled Poppy. “Thank you for your offer, Inspector, but I don’t want to put you out. Besides, your sister and mother appear ready to go home.”

  Hawkes glanced over at the two women, who were not hiding their impatience. “Won’t be long, Mother!” Then to Poppy and Delilah: “Perhaps then we can all share a cab.”

  It really wasn’t a long walk home, but now that the adrenaline of the chase was wearing off, she was feeling a little tired. Besides, spending a little more time with the charming police detective was not the worst fate in the world. “Thank you, Inspector Hawkes. That will be most welcome.”

  CHAPTER 4

  TUESDAY, 1 OCTOBER 1924, NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE

  Poppy and Delilah got off the bus at the Eldon Square war memorial. Poppy asked Delilah to hold on a moment while she took the flower from her lapel and laid it at the foot of the monument, as St George on his steed looked on. The monument had been unveiled the previous year so this was the first time Poppy had seen it. She said a little prayer in memory of her brother Christopher and the other young men of the region who had died in foreign fields. As often happened when she thought of her brother, tears came to her eyes. But she wiped them away, fixed a smile on her face, and turned to her friend who was lighting a cigarette: “Thanks, Delilah. Where to now?”

  Delilah put her arm around Poppy’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “It’s a beautiful statue.” Then, brightening: “I just need to pop into the theatre to confirm my rehearsal schedule for this evening, then I’ll take you down to the police station. After that, we can go shopping in Fenwick’s! It’s a fabulous emporium! Who would have thought they would have something like that in Newcastle?”

  Poppy chuckled. “Why aye,” she said in her best Geordie accent, “there’s nowt London ’as that we divvint!”

  Delilah giggled. “Oh, you’re such a card! I can’t wait for you to meet my new friend Peter. He’s going to be joining us for lunch.”

  Startled – although she knew she probably shouldn’t be – Poppy asked: “New friend? That’s quick; you’ve only been here a week!”

  Delilah took her friend’s arm, steering her left down Blackett Street towards Grey’s Monument. “He’s the arts correspondent from the local newspaper. He interviewed me a few days ago. And well, what can I say, we got on… erm… awfully well.”

  She smiled, and Poppy thought she had never seen her more beautiful. Her dusky Mediterranean complexion was offset to perfection by a lilac turban, with the tips of her bobbed black hair brushing her cheeks.

  Poppy was once again wearing her red Chanel day suit, which she knew suited her blonde hair and fair skin. Although her wardrobe was nowhere near as extensive as Delilah’s – who had managed to pack a dizzying number of outfits for her brief tour north – she knew that each ensemble was carefully chosen for style, quality, and durability. Her frugal nature was influenced not so much by her salary (which was actually fairly generous) but by her Methodist upbringing. She had grown up being told time and again that not everyone was as lucky as she. And “waste not want not” was a mantra she had imbibed from the nursery onwards. Since moving to London she had loosened her purse strings considerably – her job required a certain level of presentation – but when she could she bought clothes on sale or even second-hand. If she had had any talent whatsoever as
a seamstress she would have sewn her own clothes, but she was a woman who knew her creative limits.

  Despite her efforts at living as simply as she could relative to the bright young things with whom she socialized, she knew her mother would still not approve of what she considered “frippery”. The Chanel suit would most certainly not be worn to her father’s sixtieth birthday party on Saturday. But her parents were not here today, and she loved spending time with her stylish friend and would indulge – modestly – in whatever shopping spree Delilah had planned.

  She and Delilah turned right at the imposing column of Lord Earl Grey and down the exquisite curve of the street named after him. Architecturally, Poppy thought, it rivalled any street she had seen in London, and she wished people wouldn’t only think of coal when they thought of the northern city. It was mid-morning on a Tuesday and the streets were scattered with shoppers and office workers stepping out for a breath of air. Market stalls on the pavement sold everything from fresh fruit to feather dusters, and behind them the formal shops lured in the more well-todo shoppers. Poppy cast a glance into the regal mosaic-lined Edwardian Central Arcade, and wondered if the music shop – JG Windows – was open. She might pop in there later and buy some sheet music as a present for her mother. She had already bought her father a leather-bound volume of John Wesley sermons that he preached on his tour of Northumberland.

  Down the hill 100 yards or so on the left, past the Lloyds Bank building, was the neo-classical Theatre Royal. Delilah led her past the main entrance with its impressive portico of Dorian columns, and turned left into Shakespeare Street towards the stage door entrance.

  “I’ll just be a tick!” she said. And she was. Two minutes later she was back outside and slipped her arm through Poppy’s. “Right, I’m only on at eight tonight. So that leaves us the whole afternoon and early evening to have some fun!”

  “What do you have planned?” asked Poppy.

  Delilah chuckled. “Well, that depends on what happens at the police station.”

  “Oh? It shouldn’t take too long. It was only an attempted bag snatching. We should be in and out in half an hour.”

  “Good golly, Poppy, didn’t you notice? That police inspector’s eyes were on stalks when he saw you. He could have arranged for the sergeant to take your statement there and then. Why do you think he didn’t?”

  “Because the sergeant had his hands full with the thief and the detective inspector was off duty, with his sister and mother in tow.”

  “Fiddlesticks! It was because he wanted to see you again. To give him a chance to speak to you without his millstones there.”

  Poppy rolled her eyes. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels, Delilah. It’s standard procedure to ask someone to make a statement the following day in non-urgent crimes. Besides, I very much doubt DI Hawkes will take my statement himself. He probably won’t even be there.”

  Delilah winked at her friend. “Oh really? Mark my words, Poppy, mark my words.”

  Five minutes later Poppy and Delilah walked up the steps of the Newcastle City Police Station on Pilgrim Street. They approached the uniformed sergeant at the desk, who greeted them with a smart: “Good morning ladies. How may I help you?”

  Poppy was pleasantly surprised at the tone of the greeting. Her usual encounters with the police in London – who resented what they saw as press interference in their cases – were not always as friendly. She had, however, earned the grudging respect of the Metropolitan Police’s Detective Chief Inspector Jasper Martin for her tenacious pursuit of the truth that had helped him catch more than one slippery villain. But up here in Newcastle, despite it being her home county, she was unknown. And she was very grateful for that.

  She smiled at the desk sergeant. “Good morning, sergeant. My name is Miss Poppy Denby. I’m here to make a statement. Last night in Heaton I was the victim of a bag snatching; however, two of your officers were there to assist me and caught the thief. They asked me to come in today.”

  The sergeant nodded. “Did you get the officer’s name?”

  “I’m not sure of the uniformed officer’s name – but he was a sergeant, and he was the one who brought the culprit in –”

  “It wasn’t him! It was Detective Inspector Sandy Hawkes!” Delilah chirruped. “He personally requested Miss Denby come in and ask for him by name.”

  The sergeant nodded sagely. If there was a flicker of a smile under his fine moustache he hid it well. “All right ladies, I’ll see if DI Hawkes is available. Won’t you take a seat please?”

  Poppy glowered at Delilah as the sergeant retreated into the station, and whispered: “Really Delilah, did you have to?”

  Delilah batted her eyelids innocently. “What, Poppy? Did I have to what?”

  Half an hour later Poppy and Delilah came down the steps of the police station and headed towards Fenwick Department Store. Poppy was cringing with embarrassment. “I cannot believe you invited him to play tennis with us!”

  “And I cannot believe you didn’t pack your tennis dress! Really Poppy, you ought to plan these things in advance.” Delilah chuckled and steered her reluctant friend up the hill towards Northumberland Street. “Not to worry though, Fenwick’s has a charming sporting wear department; we’ll get you kitted out in no time!”

  The girls nodded politely to two gentlemen who raised their bowler hats in greeting. As soon as they passed, Poppy hissed: “He didn’t want to come, Delilah. You painted him into a corner.”

  “Poppycock! He nearly bit my hand off when I gave him a chance to see you again. Gracious me, Poppy, you really need to have a look in the mirror some time.”

  Poppy sighed. She was embarrassed, yes, but, she had to admit, she was also secretly pleased. She would never have had the courage to invite the handsome detective to anything herself. And a game of tennis would be a fun way to get to know him better in a decent chaperoned environment. Fortunately, she had taken some tennis lessons in London so she would not make too much of a fool of herself – she hoped.

  Poppy and Delilah waited at the side of the court in Armstrong Park, Poppy wearing her new tennis frock. It was a simple but flattering drop-waisted white linen dress with a blue and white pleated skirt and a blue necktie. She had replaced her usual cloche hat with a bandana to keep her curls at bay. Delilah, of course, outshone her with a pink and white Suzanne Lengleninspired creation, whose mother of pearl buttons held together the wispiest of silks.

  Delilah waved as she spotted the confident, striding figure of Peter MacMahon wearing tennis whites and sporting a straw boater. MacMahon was the journalist from the Newcastle Daily Journal whom Poppy and Delilah had met earlier in the day for lunch – or “dinner”, as they called it in these parts. Although physically MacMahon was not Delilah’s usual type of man – he was short, stocky, and freckled – after spending an hour in his company Poppy could see exactly why the actress was so taken. The man was funny, intelligent, and charming, with a grin to match Billy Bunter’s. When Delilah asked him to join them for tennis later in the afternoon, he agreed immediately, then, as an afterthought, asked: “Who will make up the fourth?”

  “Detective Inspector Sandy Hawkes,” said Delilah triumphantly.

  Peter choked on his crumpet. “Good Lord! How did you get that old sourpuss to say yes?”

  “You know him?” asked Poppy.

  “Doesn’t every reporter know their local coppers?” asked Peter.

  Poppy admitted that that was the case and realized, very quickly, that MacMahon and Hawkes must have a very similar relationship to her and DCI Martin. Oh dear, she thought.

  “Oh Sandy! We’re over here!” Delilah hailed the police detective as he rounded King John’s Palace, heading towards the courts. He was wearing a striped blazer over his tennis whites and carrying a large racquet bag over his shoulder. The sporty attire looked good on him, Poppy thought.

  “Good evening ladies. And good evening MacMahon. I didn’t know you’d be joining us?”

  “O
h, didn’t I tell you?” asked Delilah innocently. “Peter agreed to make up the four. Now, I’ve only managed to book the court for an hour, but it should let us get a set in. So, who is going to partner whom?”

  Poppy stood for a moment, awkwardly, knowing exactly whom she would like to be partnered with, but not wanting to appear forward. Delilah gave her a little wink.

  “Why don’t Sandy and Poppy team up and then Peter and I?”

  Sandy smiled at Poppy. She smiled shyly back. “You’ll have to do the donkey work,” she said. “I’m not the best player.”

  He looked at her with open admiration. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be splendid.”

  Delilah coughed to bring them all to attention then spun her racquet on the grass. “Rough or smooth, Popsicle?”

  “Rough please.”

  The four players watched as the racquet fell to the ground. “Rough it is.”

  “Excellent!” said Sandy, then turned his attention to Poppy. “Shall we warm up, first, Miss Denby?”

  “Yes,” said Poppy, accompanying him to the south side of the court. “I think that would be wise. And please, call me Poppy.”

  Poppy had never run so much in her life. She now realized her lessons at the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club had been the gentlest of introductions to the game. Balls flew past her, over her, and, in one embarrassing moment, under her, as she attempted to leap into the air. Peter graciously held back whenever he served or hit a ball in her direction, and Delilah cheered her on, so she didn’t feel too crushed when she lost point after point. Sandy, however, played like a demon, doubling his efforts to make up for her failings, particularly when he served to Peter. A few shots slammed into the male journalist’s body, but he didn’t wince and accepted Sandy’s not-too-convincing apologies. In reply, he served a few body blows of his own. Eventually though – and to Poppy’s relief – the game came to an end when she missed the most benign of lobs from Delilah. The score was 3–6 and she turned, bit her lip, and apologized to Sandy. Despite his obviously competitive nature, he smiled at her sympathetically. “Don’t worry, Poppy, it’s only a game. And you did splendidly.”