[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “Why’s he here? Is he trying to get a scoop?”

  “No,” said Poppy, annoyed at MacMahon’s apparent pettiness. “He’s accompanying his wife who is Mrs Wilson’s legal representative. He’s here in a private capacity. Besides, even if he does write something about it, The Daily Globe is hardly your rival, is it Peter?”

  MacMahon was quiet for a moment, then said: “No, I suppose it’s not. All right. He can come along. See you at nine tomorrow.”

  Poppy rang off then turned around to see Rollo standing there. He grinned. “Of course the Yankee Dwarf will be writing about it. Why else do you think I’m here, Poppy?”

  Poppy felt herself flush, as if she were a small child caught doing something silly. “Er, to support your wife?”

  “Well, yes, but in case you’d forgotten, Miz Denby, Agnes Robson is an internationally renowned artist. Her murder will be making headlines worldwide. You should’ve known that I’d be here for the story.” He laughed and took a sip of his whiskey. “No ma’am, hell and high water wouldn’t have kept me in London once I’d heard about it.”

  “But I just told Peter –”

  “I heard what you told him, but you were wrong.” He grinned. “Despite rumours to the contrary, I have not become domesticated, Miz Denby. Your leave is cancelled. As of now we’re both back on the job. So when you’re finished with Yazzie, you and I need to start drafting some articles. And before you ask, yes, I have brought my typewriter with me. Oh, and I’ll also need that phone.”

  Poppy sighed ruefully. So, my holiday’s officially over.

  CHAPTER 16

  SUNDAY, 6 OCTOBER 1924, NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE

  The River Tyne was a thick, watery artery that wound its way from the life-giving forests of Kielder in Northumberland to the wide sandy beaches of Tynemouth on the North East coast. It had long been a strategic boundary, marking the edge of Roman Britain from the barbarians in the north, before the invaders pushed a few miles further on and built a wall. By 1924, Hadrian’s Wall had long been abandoned as the boundary between Scotland and England, and the Tyne and its bridges were no longer militarily strategic. However, they were still the industrial lifeblood of the region, ferrying goods and resources to the ships that took them across the North Sea.

  Peter MacMahon took on the role of tour guide to Poppy and her American editor as he drove them on a roundabout route from well-to-do Heaton to the shipyards of Wallsend, and then passed the Newcastle Quayside, in the shadow of the “new” castle – built by the son of William the Conqueror. Here cheek-by-jowl warehouses, ferry ports, and mills still looked like something out of a Dickens novel despite it being the third decade of the twentieth century. From there they passed under the railway bridge that had brought Poppy into Newcastle only six days earlier and then continued westwards, past the armaments factories and tanneries that spewed their effluent into the river. Driving along Scotswood Road, made famous by a song that every North East child learned in infant school, Peter pointed out the steep rows of Victorian tenements, built in the 1880s for the factory and dock workers, which had, within a generation, already become slums.

  This, Poppy thought, was what most people imagined when they thought of Newcastle, not the genteel architecture of Grainger Town, or the leafy parks of Heaton and Jesmond. This, and of course, coal. But as long as the majority of the people in the city lived in places like this, she reminded herself, that reputation would be hard to shake.

  “That’s Elswick. It’s where the stable boy lives. His mam and dad both work at Armstrongs, I’m told, building tanks.”

  “What makes you think he’ll talk to us?” asked Poppy, as Peter turned up one of the impossibly steep cobbled roads, driving slowly so as to avoid children and dogs. “It’s highly likely Sherman will have told him not to, don’t you think?”

  “He doesn’t work for Sherman or the Laing. The stables are attached to the gallery, but not part of it. They were there before the Laing was built. It’s owned by the Council and services the businesses and private houses in and around that part of Grainger Town. I know all about it because I recently did a story about the Council thinking of closing down the stables – horsepower’s on the way out, as you know – and offering the property to the gallery for them to convert into storage facilities. Nothing’s been agreed yet though, so the stable employees are not answerable to the gallery management.”

  That could be useful, thought Poppy. Then she added: “The lad – what did you say his name was again – Jimmy?”

  “That’s right. Jimmy Jackson.”

  “Well, Jimmy apparently reported what he’d seen to Sherman at the gallery. And handed the knife in to him.”

  “Yes he did,” answered Peter. “But only, it seems, because his boss told him to. By the time the knife was found, everyone knew about the murder, so the lad was advised to take it straight to Sherman – who then, so my source in the police tells me, handed it to DI Hawkes. However, and this could work for your friend Grace, it seems that in the process any prints that there might have been had been smudged.”

  “Well, it certainly weakens the prosecution’s case,” observed Rollo.

  Peter pulled up outside a two-up two-down terraced house with a line of nappies strung across the yard. Outside on the road sat a grimy little girl of around eight pushing a battered and torn pram back and forth.

  Peter got out of the car and approached her. “Is Jimmy in, petal?”

  The girl stared at him with suspicious eyes but didn’t say a word. He reached into his pocket and took out a coin. The girl snatched it and ran into the yard behind her, leaving the pram unattended. Poppy got out of the car too, and noticed, just in time, a rivulet of sewage leaking from under a drain cover. She gingerly stepped over it and approached the pram, resuming the rhythmic pushing to and fro. She looked under the hood and saw, to her relief, that the occupant was still asleep, its lips pulsing around a dummy.

  A few moments later the girl returned with a teenage boy in tow. The lad eyed up Peter, Poppy, then Rollo, who had remained in Peter’s car with the window rolled down, and said: “What canna do for ya mister?”

  “Are you Jimmy Jackson?” Peter asked.

  “I am. Who’s askin’?”

  “Peter MacMahon from the Newcastle Daily Journal. And this is Miss Poppy Denby from – well, she’s just visiting Newcastle. We were both at the Laing the other night when that lady was killed.”

  “I’ve already telled the police all I know.”

  “I know you have. And you’ve done a grand job. But we were hoping you might tell us too.”

  Jimmy lowered his eyes to the rivulet of sewage inches from Poppy’s suede Mary Jane shoes, then raised them again. “I might.”

  Peter reached into his pocket again and took out a crown, holding it between thumb and forefinger. He rolled the coin back and forth as he spoke. Jimmy watched it as if hypnotized.

  “Good. So, can you tell us what time it was when you found the knife?”

  “Must’ve been a bit after eight. I’d heard the church bells ringing a bit before that. I was ganning in to muck oot the bay mare that belongs to the fella who owns the jewellery shop doon the road. And me fork hit metal. I bent doon and foond the knife. I’d heard what’d happened the night afore so I went straight to the gaffer. He called Mr Sherman from the gallery and I gave it to him.”

  “Right,” said Poppy. “Thank you Jimmy. And was that when you told him about the lady you saw the night before?”

  “Aye it was, miss.”

  “And what did you tell him? What did you see?”

  “Well, I was finished for the night and I’d locked up. The gaffer sometimes lets me do it. He’s training me up to be an assistant manager, ya kna?”

  Poppy nodded, looking suitably impressed. “So what happened then?”

  “Well I realized I’d left me bait box behind. Me mam’ll have had me guts for garters if I’d forgot it. So I went back. I was already roond the corner and heading along
New Bridge when I remembered.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Just after nine at night.”

  Poppy was surprised. “You work twelve-hour shifts?”

  Jimmy straightened up, obviously proud of his own work ethic. “Fourteen hours that day, miss. We’d had a lot on with the do at the gallery. Folk had been comin’ and goin’ all day. The gaffer asked me to stay on.”

  “All right, so you returned to the stable and you saw…”

  “A lady comin’ doon the stairs from the gallery.”

  “And what did the lady look like?”

  “Tall, thin, short grey hair. Posh lookin’. She was wearing a blue frock.”

  Poppy looked at Peter and nodded. Yes, that described Grace.

  “Did you see where she went?”

  “I didn’t. Just that she was comin’ doon the stairs. Me bait box was on a shelf near the door so I just got it and left.”

  “You didn’t speak to the lady?”

  “I had no need to, miss. She wasn’t doing no wrong.”

  “Do a lot of people come down the stairs from the gallery? It must make it a bit difficult to work with them disturbing the horses all the time.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Not a lot, miss. It’s locked most of the time. But sometimes I’ll see Mr Sherman and Mr Helsdon. He’s the caretaker.”

  “So not many ladies?” asked Peter.

  “No. She’s the only one I’ve seen.”

  “Who else did you see that day?” asked Poppy. “You said people had been coming and going all day.”

  “Aye, they were. Because of the do they was havin’. But not so much up and doon the stairs, but in and oot the doors. But now that I think of it there was a bit of up and doon this week too, with all the paintings comin’.”

  “Do the paintings always come in through the stables?” asked Peter.

  Jimmy nodded, his eyes turning once again to the rolling coin. “Aye, sir, they do. Cos their back door comes through our place. Daft setup, but there you gan.”

  Poppy smiled. “Aye, it does seem a little daft.”

  Jimmy grinned at Poppy’s slip into dialect.

  “So who else was coming and going?” prompted Peter.

  “Mr Helsdon came and went a lot that day.”

  “And Mr Sherman?”

  “I just saw him the once.”

  “When was that?”

  “When those two dandy toffs arrived.”

  “Dandy toffs? Can you describe them?” asked Poppy.

  “Aye, I noticed them cos they was different from the usual delivery blokes what bring the paintings. They’re just workin’ fellas loading and offloading. But these fellas were posh.” He looked Peter up and down. “Posher lookin’ than even you, mister.”

  Peter grinned and shrugged. “So what did they look like, Jimmy lad?”

  “One was old and fat, lots of chins. Mebby sixty years or so. The young’un was thin and good lookin’. Mid-twenties. Mebby thirty. Thick black hair. Gypsy eyes. He talked funny too. Like he was deaf or summit.”

  Poppy and Peter’s eyes met: Gus and Gerald. This wasn’t news to Poppy, however, as they had already told her that they had delivered the two paintings through the back door before the exhibition started. But it was still good to have it corroborated.

  “So you saw Mr Sherman meet these two ‘toffs’?”

  “Aye, I did, miss.”

  “Did you hear anything that was said?”

  Jimmy eyed the crown.

  Poppy reached into her bag and took out a half-crown. “I’ll add this to what Mr MacMahon has there, Jimmy. You’ve been a grand help so far.”

  She gave Jimmy the coin and he took it gratefully. “Much obliged, miss.”

  She smiled at him encouragingly. “You’re welcome. Now, please carry on. What happened when the toffs met Mr Sherman?”

  Jimmy looked over at the car and frowned. Rollo had climbed out and was picking his way gingerly towards them.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “That is Mr Rolandson, and I expect you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth, lad!” Peter snapped.

  Jimmy mumbled an apology.

  “Sorry,” said Rollo, “I was struggling to hear. But now I can tell it’s the accent not the distance. Geordie, is it?”

  Jimmy looked down at Rollo, his mouth agape both at the size of the man and the way he spoke.

  “Eeee, he’s just like them little fellas in the gangsta films! Me gaffer takes me and the other lad to the pictures as a treat sometimes. Nice fella, me gaffer.”

  “Jimmy!” said Poppy chastisingly. “Can you concentrate please?”

  “Aye miss, I’m sorry. As I was sayin’, the young toff talked funny. Funnier than him. Like he was deaf and couldn’t talk proper or summit.”

  “Yes, you said. But what did he actually say?” prompted Poppy.

  “Well he was arguin’ with Mr Sherman. Real angry he was.”

  “Angry? Tell me why. What did he say?”

  “He was gannin’ on aboot Mr Sherman breaking his word. He said summit about Mr Sherman promising him summit and not giving it. Then he said: ‘They shouldna be hangin’ in there.’ But he said it posher – and funnier.”

  “What ‘shouldna be hangin’?” asked Rollo.

  “I divvint kna. He didna say. But I think it was the paintings they brought. There was two of them.”

  “Did you see what they looked like?”

  “I didn’t miss. They was wrapped up. But there was a bigun – aboot the height of the little fella there, and then a littlun, about yay big.” He gestured with his hands a shape about a foot by a foot and a half. Poppy noted that the sizes matched the two paintings that Gus and Gerald had told her they had brought.

  Rollo spoke again: “Did the deaf fella say why they shouldn’t be hanging?”

  Jimmy looked down at him and answered: “No. He didna say. But Mr Sherman said: ‘They’re going inside. I need her to see them. I need her to know I mean business.’”

  “What did he mean, ‘I need her to know I mean business’?” asked Peter.

  Jimmy shrugged. “I divvint kna sir.”

  “What happened then?” asked Poppy.

  “Well, the fat bloke tried to calm the young’un doon and said they should leave. He said they can talk aboot it back at the hotel.”

  “And what did the young fella say?”

  “I divvint kna, cos he stopped talking with his mooth and started with his hands.”

  “And what did Sherman do?” asked Rollo.

  Jimmy took in all three of them with a glance from shortest to tallest. “Aye, that was a funny thing. He laughed. A real nasty laugh he had too. Never heard him like that afore, I haven’t. And then Mr Helsdon came and Mr Sherman told him to take the paintings in and hang ’em.”

  “And what did the two men do?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Nowt. They just left. But I could tell, the young’un was still seethin’.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy, that’s very helpful. Did you see anything else after that? Did Mr Sherman say or do anything more?” asked Poppy.

  “Nowt funny, no. He just followed Mr Helsdon back up the stairs.”

  “Did you see him lock the door behind him?”

  “I didna see it, but I heard it. I heard the key turn in the lock. That’s what they a’ways do. So we canna get in and nick the paintings.” He grinned.

  Poppy smiled at him again. And then, just as a last thought: “Oh, one more thing: did you see anyone go up the stairs to the roof that day?”

  Jimmy lowered his head and started scuffing the cobbles with the toe of his shoe.

  “Jimmy?”

  “Aye, I did miss. I saw Mr Sherman.”

  “When was that? Before or after you saw the lady come down the stairs?”

  “Before. But long before. Before the do in the gallery started. Around five o’clock. I sometimes go up there for a tab.”

  “A tab?” asked Rollo.

 
“A cigarette,” said Peter.

  “Aye, a cigarette. I went up there to have a quick’un and I saw Mr Sherman.”

  “What was he doing?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Nowt. He was just lookin’.”

  “Looking?” prompted Poppy.

  “Aye miss, he was looking from the tower doon to the road below.”

  Poppy, Rollo, and Peter shared a startled look.

  “Did you tell the police this, son?” asked Rollo.

  Jimmy shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Cos they never asked. Not like yous’uns did. If you hadna asked I wouldna said.”

  “Why not?” asked Poppy, trying to keep any tone of censure out of her voice.

  “Cos I’m not supposed to be up there. It’s not allowed. Too dangerous. Only Mr Helsdon is when he lets the workmen up to fix the tiles or clear the gutters.” Jimmy then raised his head and looked at Poppy with an air of self-justification: “Daft buggers should put a proper lock on it though if they don’t want folk gannin. Pardon me language, miss.”

  “That’s all right, Jimmy; you’re right. They should put a proper lock on it. Thank you for telling us. However, we will have to tell the police what you told us.”

  “Oh miss, please divvint!” Then, as if to ensure she really understood him, he tried again in as posh an accent as he could muster: “No miss, don’t. Please don’t.”

  Poppy reached out and touched his shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you don’t get into trouble. There are far greater crimes afoot than a young lad sneaking a tab, I can assure you.”

  But Jimmy didn’t look assured.

  Peter stepped in. “Miss Denby is right, lad. You won’t get into trouble. In fact the opposite. If what you’ve told us helps to catch whoever killed Miss Robson then you’ll be a hero. Here.” He tossed the crown in the air and Jimmy caught it. “You deserve it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Peter dropped Poppy and Rollo on Percy Street, outside the Grand Hotel, before heading back to his office to type up his latest article on the Robson murder. On the drive back into the centre of Newcastle, they had come to the conclusion that Gus and Gerald would be unlikely to talk in front of someone who was only there in the capacity of a reporter. Gerald, of course, knew Poppy and Rollo from London and was friends with both Aunt Dot and Yasmin. Rollo and Poppy considered waiting for Yasmin before they went to see the two men, but neither knew for how long Yasmin would be busy with the solicitor. Also, Yasmin was going to try to get in to see Grace at the police station; that would also take time. No, decided the two London journalists, they would strike while the iron was hot. After what young Jimmy had told them about the argument between Gus and Dante Sherman, they were convinced that Agnes’ staff knew more than they had originally told Poppy.