[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “We haven’t. Good day to you, Mrs Storey.”

  Mrs Storey pursed her lips and looked to the door. “What can I do for you ladies? It’s nearly dinnertime and the shop’ll be busy soon.”

  “We won’t keep you long. We’ve just been to Mrs Robson’s house to offer our condolences,” said Poppy.

  “Aye, it’s a terrible thing that happened. Our Edna’s having nightmares.”

  “I’m sure she is,” answered Poppy. “It was a horrible thing to see. And a child should never have to be subjected to it. But if you don’t mind, I have a few questions for you. You see, they haven’t yet caught Agnes’ killer –”

  “I thought they’d got that Wilson woman. That’s what it said in the paper.”

  “She’s been released on bail and the police admit that the case against her isn’t watertight. They are looking at other suspects.”

  “Oh aye, who might that be?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say. But I’m sure we’ll all find out in a few days. For now, we – Mrs Rolandson and I – are talking to as many people as possible who might have seen something at the exhibition. Mrs Rolandson here is a barrister.”

  Mrs Storey looked at Yasmin as if Poppy had just announced that she was a two-headed horse, then crossed her arms across her chest. “I’ve already told the police what I’d seen and didn’t see.”

  Poppy smiled, but not too widely. Mrs Storey seemed like the type of woman who would be suspicious of pleasantries. “I’m sure you have. We’ve all been interviewed. But, in mine and Mrs Rolandson’s line of work, we’ve noticed that people often remember things after they’ve been interviewed. Or perhaps don’t even realize the significance of something that has happened or that they’ve seen.”

  “Oh aye? Like what?”

  “Well, for instance, I noticed you talking to Mr Dante Sherman at the gallery on Thursday night – the man in charge of putting the exhibition on.”

  “There’s no law about talking to someone, is there?”

  “Of course not. But I couldn’t help noticing that you and he seemed already familiar with one another. And I was wondering where you had met him before?”

  Yasmin shot Poppy a quick glance, her eyes approving.

  “Well, what if I have? Nowt wrong with that, is there?”

  “Well no, obviously not. I was just wondering where it was you had met him.”

  Mrs Storey’s eyes narrowed and she looked up at the clock on the wall. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because,” said Yasmin, stepping forward, “we need to eliminate people from our enquiries. We don’t want innocent people to be arrested now, do we? Innocent people such as yourself, who may know something that could help the case but might be understood – wrongly I’m sure – to be hiding evidence.”

  Mrs Storey’s eyes opened wide. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  “We’re sure you haven’t,” chipped in Poppy soothingly. “And if you tell us what you know, we can ensure that the police know that too.”

  Mrs Storey’s lips pursed, then relaxed. “All right. But there’s nowt in it. He came into the shop about a month ago. He was asking questions.”

  “About what?” asked Yasmin.

  “Old history. He wanted to know if I was one of the bairns that Brownley fella taught.” She looked at Alice Denby pointedly. “You know the one.”

  “And were you?” asked Poppy.

  Mrs Storey’s eyes flicked to the door and back. No one was coming in. “I was. I was one of the younger students. I was about eight or nine. I don’t remember much.”

  Poppy wondered if she should ask whether or not Mrs Storey had posed naked, but she decided against it. She didn’t want the woman to clam up in shame. “I see,” she said instead. “And what else did he ask?”

  Mrs Storey shrugged. “Oh, this and that. He wanted to know if I remembered what had happened the day and the night when Brownley died. I told him I didn’t remember much personally, but told him what people had said had happened. They talked about it for years after, they did.”

  “And what did they talk about?” asked Poppy.

  Mrs Storey lowered her eyes. “I can’t remember now.”

  “Come on, woman,” said Yasmin, as if she were addressing a witness at the Old Bailey, “we already know there’d been talk about Agnes pushing Brownley down the shaft and that she was pregnant and had an abortion. Was that what you told Sherman?”

  “What if it was?” asked the shopkeeper, her eyes defiant. “It’s no crime to pass on a bit of gossip, is there?”

  Yasmin took a short, controlled breath, then released it. “Unfortunately not.”

  Just then, the doorbell rang, and two customers walked in.

  Mrs Storey smirked. “Well, that’s all the time I’ve got for you. So unless there’s anything else, I’ll ask you to leave.”

  Yasmin and Poppy turned to walk away, but Alice Denby stood her ground.

  “Mother,” said Poppy quietly, “we should probably go.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute, Poppy. You go without me.”

  Poppy and Yasmin looked at one another. Yasmin shrugged.

  “All right, Mam.”

  A few minutes later – during which Yasmin and Poppy assessed the information they’d just received about Sherman – Alice emerged from the shop and handed something to her daughter. It was a penny-bag of mint humbugs.

  “You did a grand job in there, pet. I’m proud of you.”

  Poppy bit back her tears.

  CHAPTER 24

  Poppy and Delilah pulled up outside the large Victorian building on Salters Lane, Gosforth, brooding behind a line of fir trees. Gosforth, one of the more well-to-do parts of Newcastle, was a surprising location for a home for poor and despairing women. It was run by the Anglican Diocese of Newcastle, taken over from the Ladies’ Association for the Care of Friendless Girls According to Poppy’s mother, this is where Agnes had spent much of her pregnancy as well as a few months post-natally before she got a job as a domestic servant in Durham.

  “Golly,” said Delilah, “so this is where they lock the bad girls up.”

  Poppy frowned at her. She knew her friend was being deliberately facetious, but she also knew that if Delilah herself hadn’t been born into money and had the support of a loving family, as well as having more than a bit of contraceptive knowhow, her Bohemian ways might quite easily have landed her in a place like this.

  “Firstly, I don’t think they ‘lock ’em up’. This is a place to help girls who are in trouble, not to punish them. And secondly, how do you know they are ‘bad girls’? Agnes, for instance, was taken advantage of by her art teacher. You don’t know the stories behind these girls and how they ended up in here, do you?”

  Delilah raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Steady on, old girl; I was just joking. You know me. Why are you taking it so seriously?”

  Poppy sighed. “I’m sorry. Yes, I know you were just joking. But what you were saying is pretty much what lots of people think. And it just makes me sad, that’s all: all judgment, no compassion. And no sense of ‘there but for the grace of God go I’. Sorry I snapped at you, old bean.”

  Delilah smiled her forgiveness.

  A few minutes later the doorbell was answered by a young woman wearing a grey dress and a navy blue pinafore. She asked the ladies’ business and then asked them to wait while she went to call Sister Henrietta. Poppy had heard stories that some of these homes, schools, and training facilities were horrible places to live where the women were subject to abuse and forced labour. Her mother had assured her that St Hilda’s was not one of those places. Poppy hoped she was right – both for the girls who lived here now and those who had lived here twenty-seven years ago. It didn’t take long for a tiny, elderly woman, not much taller than Rollo and as slight as a ten-year-old child, to greet them at the door. She wore a dark grey skirt and light grey blouse, with an unbuttoned black cardigan and a large cross on a chain. Her wispy grey hair was uncovered b
ut pulled back from a round, wrinkly face, creased on the cusp of laughter.

  “Good afternoon ladies. May I help you?”

  Poppy explained who they were and asked if she was speaking to Sister Henrietta.

  “You are indeed. And how lovely to see you all grown up, Poppy Denby. You probably don’t remember but your mother brought you and your brother to see me once when you were very little.”

  Poppy smiled, curiously. “I’m afraid I don’t, Sister.”

  “I’m not surprised; you were just a tiddler at the time.” She smiled, her lips widening like a drawstringed bag, to reveal a sparsely toothed mouth.

  “Well, Miss Denby, what can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you about Agnes Robson. I’m sure you’ve heard by now about her tragic death.”

  A cloud fell over the old nun’s face. “Yes, I have. I read about it in the Journal.” She shook her head. “What a waste. What a terrible waste.”

  “It is. A tragedy and a waste. So we’re trying to get to the bottom of it. I’m working with a barrister involved in the case. My mother told us what happened to Agnes twenty-seven years ago and that she came to live with you here. Do you remember that?”

  “I do. Please, come in ladies. I think we need some tea.”

  Poppy stared in astonishment as Sister Henrietta served them all tea. On the wall behind the nun’s desk was a painting of a vase of lilies, almost identical to the one on display at the Laing Art Gallery. “May I ask where you got that painting?” asked Poppy.

  Sister Henrietta put down the teapot and turned to look at the painting. She sighed. “Agnes gave it to me. She came to visit back in 1916 when she was up this way for her father’s funeral. I was hoping she would come visit again when I heard she was here for the exhibition. I was planning on going to that, you know.”

  Poppy reached into her satchel, took out the photograph of the painting in the Laing, and passed it to Sister Henrietta. “Did you know that there is an almost identical picture in the Laing? One that has only recently been painted?”

  Sister Henrietta took the black and white photo and looked from it to the coloured original on the wall. “Yes, I see the vase is the same. But that doesn’t surprise me. Excuse me a moment…” She left the office and came back a few moments later with a blue glazed vase. It was identical to the one in both the painting and the photograph.

  “Well I’ll be!” exclaimed Delilah.

  “I’ve had this vase for many years. Agnes told me that she remembers it – and the lilies that I keep in it in summer – from when she lived here. She said that she returns to that image time and again in her paintings. She said it reminded her of the kindness which she received here. And so she gave us this painting as a way of saying thank you. I think it’s beautiful.”

  “And worth a lot of money now that she’s dead?”

  Poppy gave Delilah a warning stare.

  “I have no idea how much it’s worth, Miss Marconi. For me it has sentimental value. And now that Agnes has gone, even more so.”

  Delilah had the decency to look repentant. “Of course. I’m sorry, sister. I should think before I speak.”

  Sister Henrietta smiled. “As should we all, Miss Marconi.”

  She then went on to give Delilah a mini-sermon on what the Bible had to say about the wisdom of taming the tongue. Poppy was amused at Delilah’s obvious embarrassment and allowed the sermon to continue as she considered the new information she had received.

  It explained why Agnes had painted the painting, but, she wondered, why had Gus and Gerald not told her and Rollo that it was something Agnes did? She also wondered if there was some significance in that this painting, along with the one of the railway line, were the ones that Dante Sherman insisted Gus and Gerald bring up with them. That, as she now knew, they (possibly) referenced the same period in Agnes’ life surely had to have some pertinence to the case. Without a doubt she would be telling Yasmin and DI Hawkes about it. Although she still did not know what the mother and child meant. What was it her mother had said? Perhaps it was a wish of something that could have been… But if Agnes herself had not painted it, who might have wished what could have been? Or – and Poppy suppressed a shudder at the thought of it – perhaps it was painted by someone taunting Agnes about what could have been – her baby alive and growing up. But why were they leaving…?

  “It’s actually very curious,” Sister Henrietta said, now finished with her moral lecture and addressing Poppy again, “but you are the second person to ask about this painting in the last few months.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. A gentleman from the gallery was here – oh, sometime in August. He was asking about Agnes’ association with us. He said it was in order to write some biographical notes for the exhibition programme. I told him that her time here was confidential and if he had anything to ask he should ask her.”

  “Good for you. Agnes was very private about her life. The only reason I am asking today is that we are trying to find out what happened to her, to bring her killer to justice. My mother wouldn’t have said anything, otherwise.”

  Sister Henrietta nodded and offered the two younger women a plate of jammy dodgers. Both Poppy and Delilah took one and had a little nibble.

  “So,” continued Poppy, “you said the man from the gallery was asking about the painting too?”

  “Yes, he recognized it as an Agnes Robson. I told him what I’d told you – that she gave it to us as a gift in 1916. The fact that she spent time here I don’t think is a secret. He seemed to know that already. Anyway, he offered to buy the painting from me.” She looked at Delilah and winked. “But not for a huge amount of money, Miss Marconi. Nonetheless, I declined to sell it. He then upped the price to something that might actually have been useful.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “We need our roof repaired. But still, I didn’t think I could actually sell a gift. So he left empty-handed.”

  Not totally empty-handed, thought Poppy. He now knew about the painting…

  “Can you remember the name of this man?” asked Poppy.

  “I’m afraid I can’t. But he was young, late twenties perhaps. He said he was curating Agnes’ exhibition.”

  “His name is Dante Sherman.” Poppy decided not to add the further information that he was the son of Michael Brownley, who was also the father of Agnes’ baby. She was here to get information, not to give it. “So,” she said, finally bringing the conversation around to the point of their visit. “My mother – and Agnes’ mother – told me she came to live here when she was pregnant. Then after the baby was born you got her a place as a domestic servant in Durham.”

  “That’s correct. Agnes was a very clever girl and could have done much better for herself, given half the chance, but at least a position in service was a start. It was the best we could do for her.”

  Poppy nodded at the painting. “I’m sure it was. And by the sound of it, Agnes was grateful. However, what we really need to know is about the baby. My mother said you arranged for an adoption.”

  Sister Henrietta put down her teacup and clasped both hands together. “We did.”

  “And are you able to tell us who the adoptive parents were?”

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  Poppy pursed her lips. “I don’t really know, to be honest, but I just have an instinct about these things sometimes. And something tells me that it might help us find out what happened to Agnes.”

  Sister Henrietta nodded, then closed her eyes. After about a minute, Delilah looked across at Poppy and mouthed, “Has she fallen asleep?”

  Poppy shook her heads and gestured with her hands: praying.

  A moment later, the nun opened her eyes and said: “Yes, I think the Lord wants me to tell you. It’s not just instinct, you know, Poppy; don’t forget to give God the glory.”

  Poppy nodded. “I won’t. Thank you. So, can you tell us who the parents were?”

  Sister Henrietta got up a
nd went to a wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. She pulled open a drawer and riffled through some leather-bound books. Eventually she pulled one out and returned to her desk. She paged through it until she found the entry she was looking for. “Here. Mr and Mrs Matthew Northanger, Lindisfarne Road, Jesmond.”

  “Jesmond?” said Poppy, surprised. “They’re here in Newcastle?”

  “Well they were, in 1898. And I believe a few years after this. There’s a note here that sadly the baby died two years later. Measles. They sent a note to tell us in case we wanted to let the birth mother know. It was very kind of them to do so. They were under no obligation to tell us anything. Once a baby is adopted that’s it.”

  “And did you let the birth mother know?”

  Henrietta nodded. “I told your mother, Poppy. I allowed her to decide whether or not to do so.”

  Poppy shook her head. “She didn’t. She decided not to. Agnes was already in France and she felt it would not do anyone any good to scrape open an old wound.”

  “She was probably right. She’s a wise woman, your mother.”

  “So,” chipped in Delilah, “does that mean Agnes still thought her baby was alive?”

  “I imagine it did,” said Poppy. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that if Agnes thought her baby was still alive she might have gone looking for him. Or, perhaps, someone could have pretended to be the boy…”

  Sister Henrietta smiled. “You’ve got quite the imagination there, Miss Marconi.”

  Delilah looked put out. “Well, I was just mulling over some ideas, that’s all.”

  Poppy nodded to her encouragingly. “Actually Delilah, I think those are some very good ideas. Very good ideas indeed. And,” she added, hoping Sister Henrietta would not be too offended, “I think imagination is a strength, not a weakness.”

  The old nun chuckled. “And you are right, Poppy. You take after your mother for that. She was never scared to say things as she saw them, and neither are you. I’m sorry Delilah, go ahead.”

  Delilah shrugged. “Well, that’s all I’ve got so far. Just a thought. You see, I’m in a play at the moment, and it’s all about a baby that was lost at birth and everyone thought he was dead. But he wasn’t. And he comes back years later, under another name. But there are two people pretending to have the same name, and it’s very complicated – and funny, and of course this real story isn’t – but it just got me thinking about missing babies who may or may not be dead.”