[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  She got off the bus at the Haymarket bus station, opposite the Grand Hotel on Percy Street, and made her way up King’s Walk and through the twin arches that marked the entrance to Armstrong College. She stepped into a beautifully manicured garden where students sat on the lawn enjoying the autumn sunshine, some of them reclining on their book bags, indulging in a pre-lecture cigarette. She asked one of them the way to the art school and was pointed in the right direction.

  Inside the building she was pleased to be informed that Professor Reid would be happy to see her. Five minutes later she was sitting in an armchair in a sunlit bay window being offered a cup of coffee by the professor. Out in the quadrangle the smoking students were stubbing out their cigarettes, picking up their book bags, and sauntering off to their next lectures. Reid looked on with a mild air of disapproval. “Fortunately, they’re architecture students, not ours.”

  Poppy smiled and accepted the cup and saucer from the professor. It was her third cup of the morning and she hoped she would make it through the meeting without needing to go to the lavatory. However, she really needed the boost. It had been a late night, churning out copy with Rollo and telephoning it through to the long-suffering Ike Garfield back in London. She took a sip of the coffee and allowed the rejuvenating brew to do its job.

  Then, for the next couple of minutes Poppy and the professor exchanged the now familiar condolences and expressions of shock: “terrible business”, “poor Agnes”, “who would have thought?” Poppy then explained that she was working with Grace Wilson’s lawyer – because of course Mrs Wilson didn’t do it – to prove Grace’s innocence and find Agnes’ real killer.

  “Goodness, do you think he might still be on the loose?”

  “He or she,” corrected Poppy. “And yes, we believe the police have the wrong person in custody and that means there is still a murderer in our midst.”

  “My word, Miss Denby, do you think he – or she – might strike again?”

  Poppy shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, professor. That will depend, really, on the killer’s motivation. I have worked on cases where there was only one murder, which in the killer’s mind was entirely justified, and that was it. I have worked on others where there were a number of victims – all linked in some way and targeted by the killer. I’m afraid there are cases where the killer will kill again to cover his or her tracks – or to silence witnesses.”

  Professor Reid ran a finger along the inside of his collar. “To silence witnesses?”

  Poppy smiled reassuringly, regretting having alarmed the elderly man. “Don’t worry, Professor Reid; I’m sure this isn’t one of those cases. It has been over three days since Agnes’ death and no one else has been hurt.”

  Professor Reid nodded, putting on a brave face. But his hand trembled as he sipped his coffee. “Well then,” he said, “the sooner we get the real killer behind bars the better. How may I help?”

  Poppy reached into her bag and retrieved three photographs. She laid two of them on the small round coffee table and kept the third upside down on her lap. Peter MacMahon had given the photographs to Delilah to pass on to Poppy when the young actress rolled in in the wee hours of the morning. Poppy gestured to the two prints. “Do you recognize these paintings, professor?”

  “I do indeed. I saw them on Thursday night at Agnes’ exhibition.”

  “That’s right. And, by any chance, is there anything unusual or distinctive about them?”

  Reid leaned forward and picked up the photographs, one in each hand. “It’s funny you should ask that, Miss Denby. There is something most curious about them indeed. In fact, I asked Agnes about it that night, before she… well, before… you know…” Reid’s voice trailed off.

  “Really? What is it?”

  “Well,” said Reid, putting down the lilies picture and then pointing to the bottom right-hand corner of the railway painting with his index finger, “there is no signature. And Agnes always signed her paintings.”

  “May I?” Poppy took the photo from him and examined the place where Reid indicated the signature should have been. And the art professor was right. There was no signature. “Goodness, I never noticed. And Lilies in a Vase?”

  Reid passed that photo to her too. “No signature either.”

  Poppy held up both photographs and looked from left to right, right to left. “And you say you spoke to Agnes about it? What did she say?”

  Reid shrugged, pursing his lips. “Well, that was even more curious. She seemed as if she were bottling up some anger when I brought it to her attention. I said, ‘Why haven’t you signed these, Agnes?’ and she answered – rather curtly if I might add, and that’s not Agnes, at least not with me, we’ve always got on well – but she said, ‘Well I wouldn’t, would I?’ And then she flounced off.”

  “Flounced?”

  “Well, I suppose it was more of a stomp. But that would not be very gentlemanly of me to say so, would it?”

  Poppy tried to keep the smile out of her voice. “All right, so she ‘flounced’ off. In a bit of a huff or in anger?”

  “Hmm, let me think…” Reid took out his pipe, bashed out the old tobacco into an ashtray, then stuffed some fresh baccie into the bowl.

  Poppy’s forefinger started tapping the way it did when she was losing patience. She told herself to relax and allow the gentleman to tell his story in his own way, in his own time. It’s what Rollo had always taught her.

  “I think it was more annoyance. Yes, I would say she was annoyed.”

  “Then where did she go? When she flounced off in annoyance.”

  “To corner Gerald and Gus. She seemed quite cross about something. I didn’t hear what she said but her body language was quite animated.”

  “Hmmm, interesting. And could you describe Gerald’s and Gus’ body language?”

  Reid took out a match, struck it, and lit the pipe, taking a good few sucks on it. Eventually he pulled it out and said: “Well, Gus seemed angry too. He stood up to her, face to face. And Gerald appeared to be trying to placate them both – mediate perhaps, I don’t know. As I say I didn’t hear what was said, but that’s what it looked like to me.”

  Poppy nodded, filing this information in the ever-growing folder of “it certainly looks like Gus and Gerald are not telling us the full story”.

  “Thank you, Professor Reid; that could prove very useful. I shall pass on the information to Mrs Rolandson, the barrister.”

  “Mrs Rolandson. A lady barrister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gracious me, we never had lady barristers in my day. Not that it’s a problem of course, but it is unusual, wouldn’t you agree? We have a lady professor here at the college too. Not in this department, over in the science building; it’s very unusual, very unusual indeed.”

  “It is,” said Poppy, her voice devoid of any encouragement for the professor to continue down this track. “So, what happened after you saw Agnes speaking to Gus and Gerald? Where did she go then?”

  “Then? Well, she went out of the room with your Mrs Wilson.”

  Poppy was not expecting that. “She what?”

  “Yes, they left together. I told the police that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Left for where?”

  “I don’t know. They just went through a door together. The door into Gallery B. That’s where the back door onto the roof is, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But as far as we know Grace and Agnes did not go out that door together. Grace would have said if they had.”

  “Well, I can’t say for certain where they went. But they did leave Gallery A together, whatever Mrs Wilson has told you.” Reid drew again on his pipe, rolling the smoke from cheek to cheek.

  Poppy made a note, wondering if this was something Yasmin was aware of. “All right, thank you. So, to clarify, you noticed that these two paintings had not been signed by Agnes. And when you asked her why, she gave an ambiguous answer questioning why she would
even do so. But, you also told me that Agnes usually signs her paintings. Why do you think she didn’t in this case?”

  Reid shrugged, cupping the bowl of his pipe in his palm. “I have no idea. Not all artists sign their work. And some do so inconsistently. But Agnes, to the best of my knowledge – and I’ve been studying her work for nearly ten years now – was not one of them.”

  “Are you aware that the two paintings in question only arrived at the gallery a few hours before the exhibition?”

  “I wasn’t, no. But I was surprised to see them, as they weren’t in the pre-published catalogue.”

  “That’s right, they weren’t. But were you aware of their existence? Did you know that Agnes had painted them?”

  Reid shook his head. “I have seen similar paintings to the Lilies – she seemed to like them as a subject matter. But not that specific one. The Lilies in a Vase currently hanging in the Laing was only painted a few weeks ago.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The paint was still tacky.”

  “Yes, I noticed that too. And The Railway Family?”

  Reid raised the pipe to his lips, then changed his mind and lowered it again, jabbing it towards Poppy to punctuate his point. “Now that’s an interesting one. I first saw it at a private viewing before the big Robson show at the Tate. I believe you covered that show, Miss Denby.”

  “I did. Around five months ago. But I don’t remember seeing that painting.”

  “That’s because it had been withdrawn from the exhibition. The Tate – after receiving a few complaints from art experts who viewed it in advance – decided it was too controversial and withdrew it from the main show.”

  “I don’t remember that happening!”

  “You wouldn’t. It wasn’t made public and everyone who was there agreed not to mention it to the press.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because they didn’t want the Tate’s or Agnes’ reputation to be sullied – on a mere suggestion.”

  “And what was that suggestion?”

  Reid leaned forward and jabbed the pipe in Poppy’s direction. “Am I speaking to you, Miss Denby, as a journalist, an investigator for a defence barrister, or as a friend of the victim? Or for that matter, a friend of the person accused of murdering the victim?”

  Poppy let out a sigh. It was a fair question. “The honest answer, Professor Reid, is that I am all of those things. And you’re right to be wary. But I can assure you that my primary motivation is to seek the truth: to find out who killed Agnes and to bring that person to justice. I understand that my role in this is a bit – what’s the word – murky, but I can assure you my reasons for speaking to you today are not. If there’s anything you can tell me that will help me – us – discover who killed Agnes and why, you will have done the right thing. So please sir, tell me what you know.”

  Reid leaned back in his chair and rocked his head from side to side, as though loosening a stiff neck. Then he looked directly at Poppy. “All right, I’ll tell you. It’s nothing you wouldn’t find out yourself if you asked the Tate, anyway.”

  Poppy thought of Ike, who was going to be heading to the Tate this morning. She wondered if he was in the process of hearing the very same information as she was now. “Thank you, Professor. Yes, we are sending someone to the Tate, but it would still be helpful if you tell us what you know.”

  “Well, in that case, I will tell you that there was some question about the authenticity of the painting. One of the learned gentlemen present queried whether it was, in fact, an Agnes Robson.”

  “Because of the lack of a signature?”

  “No, because of the style and subject matter. You see, Agnes is known for her Post-Impressionistic style and often prosaic subject matter. Lilies in a Vase is classic Robson. But this one – even though she has in the past painted roads and railway lines – was more, now what’s the word…?”

  “Narrative?”

  Reid’s eyes lit up under his sparse grey brows. “That’s it exactly! The two figures seem to be telling some kind of story. That’s not what Agnes usually did.”

  Poppy looked at the photograph of the painting and studied the woman and child. They appeared to be leaving somewhere, with the young woman, her long black hair caught in a plait, carrying a heavy sack. The child looked back at the viewer, its face fraught with emotion. Was it fear? Grief? It was hard to tell. But the child definitely appeared distressed. Who were they? Where were they going? Where had they come from? Why did they feel the need to leave?

  “So,” said Poppy, “it was just that it was not the usual subject for Agnes to paint. Surely an artist is able to experiment and change? Perhaps this was something new she was trying.”

  Reid nodded. “Well yes, of course. But I’m afraid that’s not all, Miss Denby. You see, one of the other learned gentlemen, and I must admit I supported him in this, also suggested that the figures had been painted after the fact. That the way the paint was applied implied that the railway line had been originally painted some time ago. But the mother and child were only recently added.”

  Poppy looked again at the photograph. It was not something she could judge from a black and white image. Nor, she admitted, would she have the skill or knowledge to judge it from the original painting. “All right,” she said, “so Agnes added them later.”

  There was a pained expression on Reid’s face. “Oh no, Miss Denby. You see, that’s the problem. It was suggested that the figures were not painted by Agnes at all. That they were added by another artist entirely.”

  Poppy’s blue eyes widened in shock. “Are you saying it’s a forgery?”

  Reid shook his head vigorously. “No, of course not. The background – the railway line and the landscape – are believed to be an authentic Robson. But the figures – we think – were added by someone else.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “Good heavens indeed.”

  “Did you – or the Tate – ask her about it?”

  Reid nodded and leaned back again in his chair. He took another suck on his pipe and then exhaled, surrounding them both in a cloud of smoke. “We did. Mr Smythe, the head curator at the Tate, requested a meeting with Agnes. She, according to Smythe, was apparently shocked at the accusation.”

  “Did she deny it?”

  “Of course. But she agreed to withdraw the painting from the exhibition, in order to avoid any controversy. And as far as I knew, that was the end of it. That is, until that very same painting appeared at the Laing last Thursday night.”

  Poppy paged back in her notes and jabbed her pencil at a particular sentence. “You said, Professor Reid, that you asked Agnes why she hadn’t signed it. Didn’t you ask her why she had decided to exhibit it again when its authenticity had been called into question?”

  Reid’s eyes widened in surprise. “Goodness no! That would have been very rude. There was no formal declaration that the artwork was a composite; it was just a suggestion. I had just assumed that, as it was now hanging in her latest exhibition, the Laing had taken her at her word and decided that it was in fact all her own. That was good enough for me. I was just wondering if that were the case, why she hadn’t then gone ahead and signed it. And it was then that she gave me that curious answer of ‘Well I wouldn’t, would I?’”

  “Yes,” agreed Poppy, “that is curious. And perhaps – and I might be wrong – perhaps it suggests that she did not after all believe it was her own.”

  Reid nodded. “Exactly my thoughts, Miss Denby.”

  Poppy picked up the photograph again. And then the one of the lilies. “Has no one suggested the lilies is a – how did you put it – a composite?”

  Reid shook his head. “No, not at all. It wasn’t at the Tate exhibition. And from what I’ve seen of it, it definitely looks as though it is the work of one artistic hand.”

  Poppy slipped the photographs into the back of her notebook. “Thank you, Professor Reid; you’ve been most helpful. I shall pass on all this informa
tion to Mrs Rolandson – and the police.”

  The old man nodded seriously. “Well, I don’t know what any of this has to do with who killed Agnes.”

  “Neither do I. But I’m sure all the pieces of the puzzle will eventually fit together.”

  “Well, it’s been a pleasure seeing you, Miss Denby.” Professor Reid readied himself to stand.

  “Actually,” said Poppy, turning over the third photograph that had been on her lap during the whole conversation, “there is one more thing I would like you to look at.” She placed it face up on the table.

  Reid leaned forward and took in the nude of the young girl, with her hair falling over her crouched limbs. He looked up at Poppy and gasped. “Good gracious! Where did you get that?”

  “I found it in Agnes’ things on Friday night. I wonder if you’ve ever seen it before?”

  The elderly art professor had visibly paled. He picked up the photograph, his hands shaking, then said: “Oh my dear Miss Denby. I think you’d better come with me. There’s something you need to see.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Professor Reid led Poppy out of his office and through the corridors of the art department at a rapid clip for a man of his years. They went through the school’s gallery, lined with paintings and sculptures by students and alumni, and past a lecture hall where undergraduates were scribbling down the words of a young lecturer. Eventually they came to a flight of steps, which led down into a basement. It was only here that Professor Reid showed his age, clearly favouring his right leg as he clung to the banister on the way down.

  “Watch your step, Miss Denby, it’s steep.”

  Poppy was tempted to ask where they were going, but she held her tongue, allowing Reid to tell her – and show her – in his own time, in his own way.

  At the bottom of the stairs he opened a door, pulled a light cord, and ushered Poppy in. They appeared to be in some kind of storeroom with an assortment of furniture piled high, stacks of paintings covered in sackcloth, and the odd – and in some cases very odd – piece of sculpture.