Yasmin gave each of her offspring a kiss and a cuddle, warning them to be good for Daddy and Auntie Dotty, before depositing both on Dot’s knee. “All aboard!” cried Dot, while Rollo made choo-choo noises, as he pushed Dot’s chair out of the dining room, to the accompaniment of squeals of delight from the children.
Yasmin shut the door behind them with an audible sigh, then opened her briefcase and took out a document folder, a sheaf of notepaper, and a pen. The two women settled down at the table.
“First up,” said Yasmin, “as I mentioned to Dot yesterday in the telegram, I have managed to secure the services of a local solicitor. He went to see Grace yesterday and has set the ball in motion to have her released on police bail. Unfortunately, by the time he had met with her and filled in the requisite paperwork it was after four o’clock on Friday. The local magistrate does not sit over the weekend so I’m afraid the earliest we can get a hearing is nine o’clock on Monday. However, the solicitor has agreed to meet with me tomorrow morning – apparently he is not a churchgoing man, and I offered to pay double his usual fee – and I hope that he can arrange to get me in to see Grace then. If not,” Yasmin gave a wan smile, “I don’t think we should worry too much. Grace, unfortunately, has experience with the justice system so will be able to handle a couple of days in the slammer.”
Poppy bit her lip, remembering how resigned Grace looked when she left her on Friday morning. “I hope you’re right. Do you think she’ll remain in the police holding cells for the weekend, or will they have taken her somewhere else?”
“The local solicitor – Wylie’s his name – said they’d be keeping her there. Was the place all right?”
Poppy, who had also seen a few holding cells in her time – but not as a prisoner – said that it was.
“Good. So, what do we know? Wylie has only been given access to the bare minimum so far. They have a witness who saw Grace in the stables soon before Agnes’ death, when she said she was in the gallery. Being caught out in a blatant lie hasn’t helped her cause. He also tells me they have found a weapon and the medical examiner has confirmed that it was the one used to slash Agnes’ throat. However, and this is interesting, apparently the laceration to the throat did not go deep enough to kill her. In other words, if she hadn’t fallen – or been pushed – off the tower, she might very well have survived.”
Poppy’s mind was once again assailed with the horrific image of Agnes falling to her death. “If only I hadn’t tripped I might have got to the tower and saved her…”
Yasmin gave Poppy a sympathetic smile. “Don’t do this to yourself, Poppy. From what Wylie tells me about the distance between the door to the roof and the tower, I doubt you would have made it there in time. I will, of course, have to see it for myself, and Wylie tells me he hasn’t personally been up there, but judging from what he could see from street level, he says it would have been impossible. So stop beating yourself with that rod. You are not doing Agnes any favours by dwelling on a false sense of guilt.”
Poppy nodded, grateful for Yasmin’s attempts to soothe her conscience. But she still felt bad. Nonetheless, she knew Yasmin was right and she wasn’t helping Agnes or Grace by allowing herself to be crippled by it.
“Did Wylie say how they have linked the knife to Grace?”
Yasmin nodded and flipped a page in the folder and read through some notes. “Yes. Apparently it was a Stanley knife – those ones with a triangular blade used by decorators to cut wallpaper. That’s why the wound was so shallow. A longer blade would have done more damage. It’s unclear – as yet – whether the killer realized that or not. If so, then there may be a question of whether or not there was genuine intent to kill. Which might prove useful if – God forbid – they ever get Grace to trial.”
“But she didn’t do it!”
Yasmin frowned. “Getting emotional about this is not helping, Poppy. Legally, I will do all I can to get the charges against Grace dropped before it ever goes to trial, but if I don’t succeed, well, then I need to be prepared to try to at least have the charge reduced from murder to manslaughter. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not start preparing for various possible outcomes, even at this early stage.”
Poppy knew Yasmin was right. “I’m sorry.”
Yasmin nodded. “Right, so as I was saying, Wylie said it was a Stanley knife. The police, apparently, interviewed Grace and Dot’s decorator…”
Poppy remembered the man with the roll of wallpaper who had been here when she arrived last Monday.
“… who said that he had accidentally left his Stanley knife here on Wednesday, the day before the murder. He said he’d left it on the hall table.”
“Why did the police interview him? Surely that’s a big leap to make.”
“His name was engraved on the knife’s handle.”
“Ah. Then why haven’t they arrested him for the murder?”
“Because his story was plausible – he’d left the knife here. Plus he was not to anyone’s knowledge at the exhibition. Grace was. The police’s case so far is that Grace found the knife and brought it with her to the exhibition. On Friday morning when DI… whatsisname,” she looked at her notes, “DI Hawkes came to interview Grace and Dot at the house, I believe you weren’t here, is that correct?”
“It is. Unfortunately. I was taking a walk in the park.”
“Well, apparently Hawkes asked Grace if she had found a Stanley knife. She said she had seen it on the hall table and assumed it was the decorator’s. Hawkes asked her to get it. When she couldn’t find it, he arrested her.”
“Good heavens! Surely it’s a set-up!”
Yasmin nodded. “Yes, that’s the theory I’m working on too. But I need to prove it. I will have to interview the decorator, of course.”
“And the witness who saw Grace in the stables,” added Poppy. “She admitted that she was there but said she hadn’t seen anyone. The caretaker – I think he’d be worth interviewing – told me it was the stable boy who had seen Grace. The stable boy then told the curator – I’ll tell you about him in a minute – and the curator told the police. The caretaker was actually very helpful. He told me that there was a key missing to the back door.”
“Oh really? That is interesting,” Yasmin made a note. “Did he say who had access to the key?”
“He did. He said officially it was him and Mr Sherman. But he also said that it was kept on a hook in his downstairs storeroom. I accompanied him when he put a mop and bucket back, and he didn’t unlock or lock it. I don’t know if that would be different after hours, but it wasn’t locked while he was there. So anyone could have got their hands on it if they knew where to look.”
Yasmin pursed her lips as she wrote. “All true. But still, that does narrow it down to people who knew where the key was kept. Which means someone with inside knowledge – or at least access to inside knowledge – of the workings of the Laing.”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
“Did you manage to get a list of who was at the exhibition? Staff and guests?”
Poppy frowned. “Unfortunately not. Dante Sherman – the curator – refused to give it to me.”
“Oh really?” asked Yasmin, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow above her striking Egyptian nose. “Let’s see how long he refuses after I get a court order.”
Poppy grinned. “That’s what I told him. But here,” she tore a couple of pages out of her notebook and passed it over the table, “these are the names of the people I’ve remembered who were there. I’ve made a note against each one of what I can remember – or what I’ve found out – about their whereabouts at the time of Agnes’ death. I’m sorry it’s not more exhaustive.”
Yasmin perused the notes then nodded her thanks. “It’s a good start, Poppy. It will get me going until I’ve managed to secure the full list from the police or the prosecution.” She ran her finger down the list until she came to the name of Dante Sherman. “You said you had something to tell me about the curator. This Sherma
n fellow?”
Poppy nodded eagerly. “Oh yes. I’m sure he’s hiding something, Yasmin, I really am.”
“Oh?”
“Definitely.” Poppy went on to tell Yasmin exactly what had happened in the curator’s office, how defensive and antagonistic he had been, as well as what she had spotted about the Tate gallery and the letter about the authentication of The Railway Family painting. It was at this point that Rollo entered the room and joined the women at the table. He listened to Poppy’s explanation with interest.
“So, you say those two paintings came late? That they were not in the exhibition catalogue?” asked Rollo.
“That’s right.”
“Do you have any photographs of the paintings?”
“I don’t, but I think the reporter from the Newcastle Daily Journal might. Why?”
Rollo took a sheet of paper from the pile in front of his wife and started writing. “Because I can send them to Ike Garfield in London and ask him to drop by the Tate to find out what they know about them. I’ll get him to do it anyway, with or without the photographs. I think you’re right in focusing on them as something out of the ordinary. Don’t you agree, darling?”
Yasmin said she did and that getting The Daily Globe’s senior reporter on it was an excellent idea. “You say there were two paintings?”
“Yes. The Railway Family was one and another called Lilies in a Vase. The lilies one was still a little tacky. I wondered why they had been brought up separately. Apparently they came up with Gerald Farmer and Gus North.” She went on to tell Yasmin and Rollo about what Gus and Gerald had said about the paintings.
Yasmin was making furious notes. “Interesting. Very interesting. So they said Sherman had insisted they bring them up with them? That he had wanted them here and they felt unable to say no?”
“That’s right. They said he was an influential man and that they didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. They said he could make things difficult for them with other galleries.”
“How strange,” said Yasmin. “I thought Sherman was a young fellow. And that this was his first big exhibition. Why do they think he has such power?”
Poppy shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought it odd too. He certainly has an imposing personality, but I would have thought that Gerald had dealt with far more influential people than him in his time. He is, after all, just a curator of a regional gallery. Sure, the Laing is the biggest gallery in the area, but it’s not exactly the Louvre or the New York Met, is it? Agnes has been exhibited worldwide; why would they be worried about him bad-mouthing them to a few northern galleries?”
Rollo was folding a discarded linen napkin into a swan as if the children were still needing to be entertained. “Perhaps,” he said, without taking his eyes off his creation, “Sherman is blackmailing them. Or has some other hold on them – something personal. Nothing to do with the art business after all.”
Yasmin tapped her lip with her pen. “Yes, that is a possibility. But it does seem most likely that it has something to do with art. The letter Poppy saw from the Tate, for instance…”
“As I said, I’ll get Ike on to that. But,” he tapped his nose with the side of his finger, “my newshound nose is twitching. How about you, Poppy?”
Poppy gave a playful twitch of her own nose, which brought a smile to Rollo’s face. “Well, actually, there are a couple of other things I haven’t told you about yet. Which might back up your theory, Rollo – at least partially.”
She pulled a photograph out from the back of her notebook. It was the one she had found in Agnes’ room of the painting of the naked girl. She explained where she had found it and that both Gus and Gerald said they had never seen it before. She also told them that Gus had left the room very upset afterwards. “Gerald said it was just that he was upset by Agnes’ death. But I think it was more. I think we should try to speak to Gus about it again.”
Yasmin nodded. “Yes, about that and the other two paintings. Also, Rollo, would you be able to ask Ike if he can do a search of Agnes’ studio and flat in London? I will arrange to get a court order to allow entry.”
“Good idea,” he said. “Actually, let me do it now. Where’s the telephone, Poppy?”
“It’s in the hall. But before you go, there’s something else I need to show you. Look here.” She flipped over the photograph and pointed to the handwritten note: Stay away. “That’s what seemed to upset Gus. And now, look at this.” Also from the back of the notebook she removed an envelope, addressed to Mrs Malcolm Denby, The Manse, Morpeth Methodist Church. There was no return address, but it was postmarked Leeds, three weeks earlier. She opened the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper. She read it out loud:
Dear Mrs Denby,
It has come to my knowledge that you knew the artist Agnes Robson when she was a girl in Ashington and that you helped her get rid of a baby. I believe you have kept this secret for twenty-seven years. May I suggest you keep it for twenty-seven more? As you know abortion is illegal, not to mention a mortal sin in the eyes of God. This is just a friendly warning for you to keep your mouth shut lest your husband’s employer hears about it and he loses his job.
Most sincerely,
A concerned Christian.
For the first time in the four years Poppy had known him, Rollo Rolandson was dumbstruck.
“As you can see,” said Poppy, laying the threatening note and the back of the photograph side by side, “it’s the same handwriting.”
“I see that,” said Yasmin, her intelligent eyes taking it all in. “When did you get this letter?”
“Just this afternoon. My mother gave it to me at my father’s birthday party. Incredibly, she actually wants me to do some sleuthing.”
“What did she say about the letter?”
Poppy pursed her lips. “She said it arrived in the post last week. She was shocked to read it, but didn’t show it to anyone at the time, because she said she had sworn to Agnes and her mother never to talk about what actually happened.”
“Which was?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Good God, what game is your mother playing?”
Poppy bristled. “She is not playing a game. She gave me this letter because of what happened to Agnes. She said it suggested that something from her past might have contributed to her death. And I think she’s right.”
“But she won’t tell you what did happen?”
“She said she needs to ask Mrs Robson’s permission first. Surely that’s fair enough.”
Yasmin didn’t look convinced but nodded brusquely. “All right. When will she do that?”
“Monday. She’s going to try to arrange for you and me to meet with Mrs Robson. She will telephone us when she has something set up.”
“All right, fair enough.”
“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” asked Rollo.
Yasmin asked for a whiskey – if there was any – and Poppy, wanting to keep a clear head, asked Rollo to ask Betty to make some tea. The editor quickly withdrew to get the drinks.
Yasmin picked up the photograph again and read the writing on the back. “You say this was in Agnes’ things?”
“Yes, I found it in a skirt pocket.”
“Was there anything else? A letter? An envelope?”
Poppy shook her head. “No. Nothing. But the police had searched the room earlier that day and taken things away. They might have found something else but missed this.”
Yasmin made a note. “I’ll check. When do you think your mother will call about the meeting? What time on Monday?”
Poppy shrugged. “I doubt it will be before lunch. Mrs Robson is not likely to have a telephone so Mother will have to go to Ashington herself to speak to her. Then she will have to telephone us from the post office. She knows it’s important for us to speak to her, but she will still want to be respectful of Mrs Robson’s grief. Hopefully though we can get up there on Monday afternoon.”
“All right, that’s fine.
I’ll be at the arraignment hearing in the morning anyway. And while I’m doing that, do you think you might be able to question Gus again about the photograph?”
“I’ll try,” said Poppy. “I also might try to see if I can get someone else to identify it.”
“Oh, who’s that?”
“There’s an art professor I met the other day. He opened the community hall in Ashington with poor Agnes. He seemed to be an expert on her work…”
Before Poppy could finish her explanation about Professor Reid, the telephone rang. She heard Aunt Dot call out: “Poppy! Can you get that?”
Poppy jumped up. “Excuse me a minute, Yazzie.” She went into the hall and picked up the receiver, just as Rollo exited the parlour carrying two tumblers of whiskey.
“Good evening, the Denby residence.”
“Poppy? Is that you?”
“It is. Who’s this?”
“It’s Peter MacMahon from the Newcastle Daily Journal. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come around as promised – something has come up at work – but I thought I’d give you a ring to tell you that I’ve found out where the stable boy from the gallery lives. Would you like to come and see him with me tomorrow morning?”
“Oh, yes please, Peter! Thank you. Where will I meet you?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll pick you up. Is nine o’clock too early?”
“No, that’s perfect. Oh, and Peter,” Poppy watched Rollo push open the dining room door with his foot, “would you mind if I brought someone with me?”
“Who’s that?”
“My editor, Rollo Rolandson. He’s just arrived in Newcastle.”
“The Rollo Rolandson? The Yankee Dwarf?”
Poppy turned her shoulder and hunched over the receiver, lowering her voice. “That’s right. Mr Rolandson – the American gentleman.”
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 16