[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “Well, not entirely nothing,” said Poppy, who told her friends that she was going to do a bit of investigating on Yasmin’s behalf. After waving off the yellow Rolls, Poppy went into the Fenwick’s tearoom, ordered a pot of Earl Grey and a currant scone, and took out her notebook. With pencil poised she planned out her strategy to find out as much information as possible before Yasmin’s arrival. This was not her first murder case, but it was the first one she was investigating that was not linked to a journalistic story she was working on. In the past her investigations were always tied into the editorial needs of the newspaper and this both inhibited and enabled her. The inhibition came with needing to assess the information received for newsworthiness and not being able to devote as much time as she would like to leads that would not provide column inches. Yes, her primary motivation was always to find the ultimate truth and for justice to be done, but that always had to be coupled with the need to produce copy that would sell newspapers. However, the benefit of always being on the payroll of a paper was that she had a certain authority – and protections – as a representative of the press that would enable her to ask questions and gain entry to places which might otherwise be closed to her. Like the police press conference, for instance. Which got her thinking… She made her first note:

  1.Go see Peter MacMahon at the Journal and find out what he knows. Can he help in any way? NB let him know I’m not there as a rival journalist, just a concerned friend.

  2.Ditto Walter Foster in Morpeth.

  Drat! Morpeth! It’s Father’s birthday tomorrow! And Yasmin’s coming! But she won’t be here until late afternoon. I could still get to Morpeth and back before she arrives. Father is having a lunch. Mother won’t be happy that I’m rushing off early, but that can’t be helped. Surely she’ll understand when I tell her the circumstances. If I get up to Morpeth early morning I can get to see Walter Foster before the birthday party… Actually, didn’t he say he was going to be at the lunch?

  Poppy made another note beside point 2 and circled it: ring Morpeth Herald and arrange meeting with W.F.

  She poured herself another cup of tea and looked up to see Gus North and Gerald Farmer arrive in the doorway. The room was busy and every table was occupied. She tried to wave them over, but they didn’t see her and turned around and left. Ah well, never mind, she’d try to see them later. She made another note:

  3.Arrange interview with Gus and Gerald – staying at the Grand. Initial chat to find out more about Agnes’ business in London and how the exhibition was set up. NB Yasmin will want to speak to them too.

  4.Get guest list of who was at exhibition, plus, if possible, a staff list. Go to Laing… speak to Dante Sherman… tell him I am acting on behalf of Grace’s legal counsel… might get me more access…

  5.Arrange to speak to Agnes’ family in Ashington – will it be best to wait for Yasmin?

  Poppy put a question mark in a circle next to this one. Then finally, after picking the last currant from her tea plate and popping it into her mouth, she wrote:

  6.Find out about so-called murder weapon and who the witness was who saw Grace.

  Poppy rolled her pencil between thumb and forefinger. How was she to get that information? She quickly wrote “Sandy” and underlined the name three times.

  CHAPTER 12

  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 carri
ed 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.”