He started searching through the painting stacks – peeking under coverings, grunting, then covering them back up again. Eventually he started talking.
“Do you recall last Wednesday, Miss Denby, when Agnes and I opened the memorial hall in Ashington?”
“I do indeed,” said Poppy, relieved that his train of thought was going in the direction she hoped it would.
“Well, if you remember, there were some embarrassing shouts from the crowd about Michael Brownley and Agnes’ supposed involvement in his death.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Then you will also recall how I brushed it aside, saying something along the lines of he was remembered well by the college, or words to that effect. The truth is, however, I lied.” He faced Poppy while holding an unframed painting against his body. “You see, Michael Brownley is not remembered fondly here at all. Twenty-seven years ago I was his supervisor. I remember receiving a telegram from a policeman asking me to come through to Ashington. I met him at the hall we were then using to run our community art classes. The policeman told me that Brownley’s body had been found in a mine shaft. He had apparently stumbled into the pit intoxicated. The coroner returned a verdict of ‘death by misadventure’, as there was no conclusive evidence to suggest whether it was an accident or suicide. Or, as you no doubt heard on Wednesday, whether someone else had caused his death.
“But at that stage the policeman did not know any of that. What he did know was that he had found some troubling paintings in a cupboard at the hall. A key had been found on Brownley and it unlocked the cupboard. It held art supplies, as expected, but, at the back, were half a dozen canvases of naked children. He asked me if I knew anything about them. I of course didn’t. But I recognized Brownley’s style. To cut a long story short, the policeman and I came to the conclusion that Brownley had been using his young pupils as models – without their parents knowing. I begged the policeman not to say anything about the paintings. I convinced him that it would destroy Brownley’s reputation and that his family should be protected from that.”
Poppy was eyeing the canvas in Reid’s hands, wishing he would reveal what it was – although she suspected she already knew. “Just his family’s reputation? Or the art school’s too?”
Reid nodded, his face awash with shame. “Yes, the school’s too. But I can assure you, Miss Denby, if the paintings had been found before he died I would have put a stop to it immediately and allowed him to face the consequences – legal or otherwise. But he was gone. No one would benefit from the paintings coming to light. So, I arranged for a payment to be made to the police benevolent fund, and another to the Miners’ Institute, and I whisked the paintings away. I have barely thought of them for the last twenty-seven years, until you showed me that photograph today.”
Finally, he turned the painting around to reveal the original oil canvas of the naked girl in the photograph. “If you haven’t realized already, Miss Denby, this is Agnes Robson as a fourteen-year-old.”
Poppy looked at the eyes, dark hair, and dusky complexion, finally recognizing in it a youthful version of the woman she had known. “Yes, so it is. But you said there were half a dozen others. Of different children?”
The professor nodded his assent.
“Where are the rest of them?”
Reid looked sheepish. “I destroyed them. In a bonfire.”
“Why not this one?”
Reid shrugged. “I don’t really know. There was something different about it. The others were – well, without putting too fine a point on it – more explicit, bordering at times on obscene. But this one is quite tastefully done. She is no different from the young muses often used by artists. There is a tenderness to it, a beauty. I – well – I suppose I wanted to keep something of Michael alive. Something positive. He was my student. I struggled to accept that all he had been in life was a pervert. This showed something – well – slightly nobler.”
“She was only fourteen,” said Poppy accusingly.
Professor Reid nodded, avoiding Poppy’s eye. “Yes, she was. But as I said, young models are not unknown. And for that matter, neither are nudes of young children. But, well, it’s the way they are depicted that’s the problem. And the others, in my opinion, crossed that line. This one, I believe, does not.”
Poppy suppressed an urge to further shame the professor for his dubious judgment. She needed to keep him onside. “Fair enough,” she said, “as far as the painting goes. But are you aware that Brownley entered into sexual relations with Agnes?”
The old professor flushed and turned away. “Yes. I heard the rumours,” he said quietly.
“Well, it’s true. Agnes told me all about it the evening before we came through to Ashington. So while that painting itself may not be completely improper, it does reflect something more troubling.”
Reid nodded. “I quite agree, which is one of the reasons I hid it away. Perhaps I didn’t hide it well enough.”
Poppy looked around, noting the mish-mash of objects, the door with no lock, and the very public nature of the building they were in, and thought to herself, well, that’s an understatement. However, instead of voicing her disapproval, she held up the photograph and said: “Perhaps you’re right, as it does look like someone has found it and taken the time to photograph it. Who has access to this storeroom?”
Reid thought a moment. “Anyone in the building, really. As you can see it’s used for general storage.”
“And that would be anyone for the past twenty-seven years?”
Reid nodded.
“Well, as it turns out, I think we can narrow it down to a shorter period than that. I’m a bit of an amateur photographer myself – no expert, you understand – but I know enough to tell that this is a fairly recent print, no more than a couple of years old. I could get it dated more accurately than that by a professional, but let’s go with that for the moment. And then there’s this…” Poppy flipped over the photograph and pointed to the note on the back: Stay away. “Do you recognize that handwriting?”
Reid took it from her, adjusted the spectacles on his nose, and peered at the message. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“All right. It isn’t much of a writing sample, I agree. But we are hoping to match it to someone very soon. Could you tell me if anyone connected with the Agnes Robson exhibition at the Laing might have visited the art school in the last year or so?”
Reid shrugged. “Goodness, quite a few, I should imagine. There is a lot of professional interchange between us and the Laing. Also, our own gallery – the Hatton – is open to the public and much the same clientele visit us both. But I can’t imagine a casual visitor to the gallery would wander down into the basement…”
Poppy agreed that that was unlikely. “But professionally though, would, say, Dante Sherman visit here at all?”
“Sherman? Yes of course. He’s a graduate of the school. And since he got the job at the Laing we have worked on a number of projects together. However…” Reid looked at the painting which he had now propped against a stack of chairs, “… it would be rather unfortunate if it had been him.”
“And why’s that?”
Reid ran his finger along the inside of his collar in the same way he had done when Poppy had first told him her purpose for visiting. “Well, because of who his father is.”
Poppy cocked her head, remembering what Delilah had told her about Dante’s father when they had first met Maddie Sherman walking her dogs in the park. “He was an ichthyologist, I’ve heard. He passed away, didn’t he?”
“His stepfather, yes. Oh, Miss Denby, I thought you knew. Dante Sherman is Michael Brownley’s son.”
Poppy got off the bus on Heaton Road and walked to Jesmond Vale Terrace. Aunt Dot’s yellow Rolls was not parked outside, indicating that she, Delilah, and Yasmin – and hopefully Grace, if she were granted bail – were not yet back from court. She could, however, hear the squeals of the twins through the open parlour window and the roar of Rollo pretendi
ng to be a bear. She smiled to herself and decided to leave her editor to play for a bit longer with his children. So instead of going inside, she went two houses down, pushed open the neat garden gate, and knocked on the door. She was met by the furious barking of two little dogs.
A few moments later, the door opened to reveal Maddie Sherman, dressed as if to go out.
“Poppy! How lovely to see you. But you’ve come just as I was taking the pups out. I’m dreadfully sorry, but they won’t settle until they’ve had their walk.”
The fluffy white pooches were skipping around on their back legs like poodles in a circus.
“Perhaps I could come with you? I wouldn’t mind a walk in the park myself. Is that all right?”
Maddie beamed. “Of course! We’d love the company, wouldn’t we Susie and Charlie?”
Susie and Charlie yapped their approval. A few minutes later, with both dogs on the lead, Maddie and Poppy crossed the road and entered the park. They took a similar route to the one Poppy and Delilah had taken the other day: down the hill, past the tennis courts and then the bowling green, and around the back of the pavilion. As they walked they shared a little small talk: the weather, how beautiful the trees were in autumn, the very loud children who had just moved into Dot Denby’s house…
Poppy laughed. “They’re my editor’s children. He came up with them to accompany his wife, who is acting as Grace’s barrister.”
Maddie gave a sympathetic tut. “Goodness yes. I heard that the police arrested poor Mrs Wilson on Friday. Has she been in prison all weekend?”
“The police holding cells, not prison. Unfortunately the magistrate would not sit until this morning. Hopefully, she’ll be coming home soon. Yasmin is busy applying for bail now.”
Maddie shook her head, making the feather in her tweed hat quiver. “My goodness, it’s all so terribly scandalous, isn’t it? It’s normally such a respectable neighbourhood.”
Poppy bristled at the implied criticism of Grace. “Yes, I’m sure it is a little embarrassing for the neighbours, but imagine how poor Grace feels? I think embarrassment is the least of her worries. Not to mention Agnes’ family, don’t you think?”
Maddie stopped as her male dog cocked his leg against a park bench. “Oh Poppy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I often don’t think before I speak. Please accept my apologies.” She accompanied her olive branch with a gentle touch to Poppy’s shoulder.
Poppy relaxed, her bristles soothed. “That’s all right, Maddie. I know we all respond to shock in different ways.”
Maddie looked grateful to be let off the hook. They carried on walking.
“So,” asked Poppy, after a few moments of awkward silence. “How is your son holding up? It’s a terrible thing that happened on his watch. And having the police all over the gallery must be very distressing for him.”
“Oh it was! It is! And thank you for asking. I know – of course – that Agnes’ family will have suffered the most from this – and of course Mrs Wilson – but you are the first person to remember dear Dante. The poor boy really does not deserve this.”
Poppy nodded, trying to exude sympathy she did not feel. Correction: she did not feel for Dante Sherman. But she did for his mother. She would tap into that.
“Yes, it must be hard for you as a mother to see him in difficulties like this. Actually, I was at your son’s alma mater today…”
“The art school?”
“Yes, I popped in there to talk to Professor Reid. He – he – mentioned your son very fondly.” This of course was not entirely true. But what was she supposed to say: we talked about your son as someone potentially connected to Agnes’ murder?
Maddie appeared pleased. “Oh, that’s very kind of him. Yes, Dante was one of his star pupils. Professor Reid, and the whole department, were very proud when he got the position at the Laing.”
Poppy smiled encouragingly. She was on safer ground here in terms of verisimilitude. “Yes, he said so. He said they had worked together a lot since. He also said he was your late husband’s – your first late husband’s – supervisor…”
Maddie stopped, turned, and stared at Poppy. “He said that? Why on earth would he mention that?”
Poppy was taken aback. Why would Maddie be so put out about it? “Well, why not? He was saying he was proud of Dante, just like he’d been proud of his father.”
“Really?” Maddie sounded incredulous.
Oh dear; Poppy was getting herself into a muddle here. She looked for a way out of it. Eventually she decided to veer a little closer to the truth. “Well, I can’t remember his exact words, but he did say he enjoyed Michael’s painting style and was very sad that his talent was cut short.”
Maddie nodded, but her usual amiable face looked troubled. “Yes, it was cut short. Did he tell you that I was pregnant with Dante at the time?”
“He did. And I’m very sorry. That must have been a terrible time for you.”
Maddie let her dogs off the lead and sat down on a park bench. The dogs ran off – but not far – snuffling and romping in a pile of autumn leaves. Maddie patted the bench beside her. Poppy sat down.
“It was,” said Maddie. “A terrible time. But thank you for your kindness in thinking of me. I must say, having Agnes in town and all of the hoo-hah around the exhibition has raked up a few memories.”
Poppy wondered if Maddie had heard the rumours about Michael and Agnes’ relationship, but wasn’t quite sure how to raise it. However, to her surprise, Maddie brought it up herself.
“It’s not true, you know – what they said about Michael and Agnes. Michael would never have done such a thing. What happened to him was a dreadful accident, but one that could have been avoided if he’d cut back on the drink. Unfortunately, Poppy, my late husband enjoyed the sauce a bit too much. I was hoping – with the baby coming – that he would have reined himself in a bit. And he tried, I’ll grant you that, but in the end he was just – well, he was just too weak. Michael was a drunk, Poppy, but he was not a pervert.”
Poppy didn’t quite know what to say. She watched the dogs chasing each other round in circles. Then, eventually, said: “It must have been difficult for you though, knowing about the old rumours, when your son became involved with Agnes Robson and the exhibition.”
Maddie nodded. “Yes, it was, on one hand, but on the other, it finally assured me that Dante had laid his anger about it all to rest. He treated Agnes like any other artist. And of course, she is – was – internationally renowned. He would have been very silly to allow personal issues to get in the way of such a career-advancing relationship.”
“His anger?” prompted Poppy.
“Oh yes. It was terrible for a time. All consuming. But perhaps I need to go back a bit to explain… I married my second husband, you see, when Dante was around two. The dear man legally adopted the baby and gave him his surname. We never went out of our way to hide the fact that he was not Dante’s real father, but we never thought there was a need to remind the boy of it either. Michael’s parents were both dead so there was no family from his side to visit and muddy things.
“But when Dante was about twelve, he was playing in the loft and found boxes of Michael’s old things. He questioned me about it and I told him they belonged to his other father, the one who died before he was born. Dante went mad. He flew into a rage, accusing me of deceiving him and lying to him all these years. Well, let’s just say we had some very difficult years with him. But,” she turned to Poppy and smiled gently, “then he went off to war. I know your brother died there Poppy, and I’m so sorry for your loss, but for our family it was different. He came back a changed boy – actually, he came back a man. Whatever rage he had about his father was gone. He then went on to study art and, as you know, got himself a very good job. We – his late stepfather and I – were very proud of him. And I still am.”
The dogs were growing tired of their game and came and sat at Maddie’s feet. Poppy stroked the one nearer to her. “Yes, that much
is very clear. He’s very lucky to have a mother who is so supportive of him. And a loving stepfather too.”
“Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do?”
Poppy thought of her own mother and the tension between them over her life choices. Is it simply because I’m not a boy? But she soon shook off her self-pity and turned her attention back to Maddie. She wanted to ask about the painting of Agnes and whether or not she knew if Dante had seen it, but then she remembered that Professor Reid had said that the reason he had confiscated and hidden it in the first place was that he didn’t want Michael’s family to be distressed. Besides, it wasn’t certain that it was Dante who had photographed the painting – although she was expecting the handwriting on the back to match Dante’s, so it would be surprising if he hadn’t taken the photograph too. She wondered if Yasmin had made any progress in getting writing samples… If it was his hand, then that meant he had written the threatening letter to her mother about the abortion Agnes was supposed to have had. How had he found out about that? And what on earth was her mother doing facilitating an abortion? She knew her mother to be strongly against such things. Had she had different views when she was a young woman?
The dogs suddenly tore off in a frenzy of excitement. “Susie! Charlie! Come here you naughty dogs!”
They were jumping up at a tree. “Squirrel,” said Maddie, chuckling.
Poppy chuckled too. But on the inside she was churning. How would poor Maddie take it if it was revealed that her golden boy was in fact a murderer?
CHAPTER 21
This time when Poppy returned to Aunt Dot’s house, the yellow Rolls was outside. She said goodbye to Maddie – who asked her to pass on her regards to Grace if she were there – and hurried up the path to the front door. She was greeted by Rollo holding the hands of the twins, who were waddling down the hall.
“Poppy! Howdy doody? How about you taking RJ and Cleo for a while? The nanny is helping cook lunch, Yazzie is sorting some paperwork for the case, and Delilah claims she’s allergic to children.”
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 21