Silence.
“All right, all right. So that’s why you want to leave the country? To get away from Sherman?”
“Yes.” To Rollo’s relief Gus spoke again.
“Is that the only reason?”
“Of course. What other reason could there be?”
“Well… now Gus, I don’t want you to get upset now. And I hope you know that I will do anything for you. Anything to protect you. You know that, don’t you?”
Silence.
“Well I do. And it’s true. And that’s why I never told the police what I really saw the night Agnes died.”
Rollo’s jaw dropped. Surely it can’t be…
“What did you see?” Gus’ voice was defensive.
“Oh my boy, don’t make me say it. You know what it is. You and Agnes leaving together. Out the back door. But then, only you returned – later. Before Poppy came back and told us Agnes was dead. I didn’t mention it to the police, of course, but – oh Gus – did you? Did you kill Agnes?”
There was silence. A deathly silence. Rollo’s hand gripped the tumbler until his knuckles turned white.
Then, eventually, Gus spoke, his voice quivering on the verge of tears.
“I cannot believe you asked me that. I just can’t.”
Then he stood, catching Rollo off guard. The little editor slipped off his seat and under the table, praying to the God he didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t be seen.
“I’m checking out now, Gerald. You can come with me if you like. Or you can go to the police and tell them what you know. I don’t care. I don’t care at all.”
Rollo, under the table, now had a clear view under the bench between his and the next booth, and saw Gerald struggling to get up. But his large frame would not shift easily.
“Gus! Please! Don’t be like that. Talk to me – please! I’m sorry if it’s upset you, but I need to know. I promise I’ll stand by you either way.”
“Goodbye Gerald.”
Rollo watched the younger man’s legs stride away, then waited to see what Gerald would do. But all he did was weep.
CHAPTER 28
Delilah dropped Poppy on Osborne Road, Jesmond. She needed to get to the theatre so couldn’t accompany her friend on her mission. However, there were plenty of buses that could get Poppy back from Jesmond, and at a push, she could walk the half-hour or so back to Heaton Road. Yasmin, who had plenty to work on after the sensational interview with Dante Sherman, asked to be dropped off at Aunt Dot’s house. And Rollo, who had not been at the Grand Hotel when they went to pick him up, would just have to make his way back alone.
“He’s a big boy,” said Yasmin without irony. And both Poppy and Delilah agreed.
Poppy’s note to the Northangers had borne fruit. Mrs Northanger had called Aunt Dot’s and left a message. She would be in this evening if Poppy would like to call on her. Mr Northanger, however, would not be able to join them as he was working late. Poppy managed to shovel down a ham and pease pudding sandwich and half a glass of milk before she jumped in the Rolls with Delilah and headed off to Jesmond.
And now here she was. Delilah dropped her off outside the beautiful St George’s Church, which Poppy’s father had attended as a child. Lindisfarne Road – where the Northangers lived – was just a short walk away, down a tree-lined avenue that met up, finally, with the genteel Jesmond Dene. It was an area rich in lawyers, accountants, and prosperous medium-sized industrialists. In fact, Poppy’s paternal grandparents had lived not far from here. They had both died a few years ago, within a few short months of one another. Poppy wondered if they had known the Northangers, the couple who had adopted Agnes’ baby all those years ago. And if they had, had they known that her mother, Alice, the woman whom they considered so far below their son, had been instrumental in paving the way for the adoption? It’s something she might ask her father the next time she saw him.
Poppy was very sorry that she had not been able to spend more time with him on his birthday, and vowed to correct that once all this hullaballoo had died down. Poppy still could not believe, however, that her very own mother – the woman who for so many years had been critical of her daughter’s life choices – was actually now supporting her in this “hullaballoo”. Along with the message from Mrs Northanger was another one from Alice Denby, asking Poppy and Yasmin to come back through to Ashington in the morning. She had spoken to Sadie Robson – Agnes’ mother – and there was indeed more to tell. Poppy was intrigued to know what.
But first, she needed to find out what, if anything, Mrs Northanger could add to the story. The Northanger house was set back from the road along a gravel drive and hemmed in by a row of pine trees. The wrought-iron gates were closed though not locked, and creaked in protest as she opened them. It was now approaching half past six and Poppy felt uneasy leaving the safety of the streetlights into the shadow of the pines. She could see beyond them and, through a garden plump with shrubbery, the lights of the house. She knew she was being silly, but she was in the middle of a murder investigation and, she couldn’t help noting, the killer had not yet been caught. A rustle to her left brought a gasp from her mouth, forming a cloud of white in the chill autumn air. She squinted through the gloom, readying herself to run if necessary, but was relieved – and amused – to see a podgy hedgehog shuffling out of the undergrowth to hunt for slugs on the lawn. Yes, it was a killer, but a delightful one.
Nonetheless, Poppy hurried on and was soon on the front step ringing the bell. It didn’t take long for the door to be answered by a maid in a uniform worthy of a country estate. Old school, thought Poppy. The maid said Mrs Northanger was expecting the lady, and took Poppy’s hat and coat. When the maid opened the cloakroom door off the hall, Poppy noticed small mackintoshes and three pairs of children’s wellington boots. But there was no sound or sign of children in the well-appointed reception room where Mrs Northanger waited to greet her.
She was an elegant woman, approaching seventy. She had the long sinewy neck and erect posture of someone who had done ballet in their youth, perhaps as part of the curriculum of a girls’ finishing school. She stood, easily, not showing any signs in her body of the age Poppy could see in the lines on her face.
“Miss Denby,” she said, her voice cultured but still unmistakably Northumbrian. “Thank you for coming to see me on such a chill night. Would you like some tea to warm you?” She cocked her head and smiled, charmingly, looking more like the grandmother Poppy suspected she was. “Or perhaps some cocoa?”
Poppy said she would love some cocoa and the maid was dispatched to get some.
Mrs Northanger gestured to the armchair next to her, near the fire, shooing away a white cat that had already claimed it. Poppy sat down, resisting the urge to brush the seat first to remove any pet hair. The two women engaged in small talk: the weather, Poppy’s grandparents (yes, Mrs Northanger had known them), and the antics of George the cat, who did not take too kindly to being usurped and decided to lie along the top of Poppy’s armchair and flick at her hair with his paw. He was eventually sent away with the maid when she returned with the cocoa.
Finally, all distractions aside, they got down to business.
“So, you’ve come about my boy.”
“The child you adopted in 1898, yes.”
“I was wondering when you would.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Oh, not you. But someone. Anyone. Possibly the police… I have spent the last twenty-five years waiting for someone and then two of you come along in one week. Actually, that’s not quite correct. She came for the first time ten years ago – or was it nine?”
“She? You mean Agnes?”
“That’s right. Agnes. Agnes Robson. I think it might have been 1916… Yes, definitely 1916, because my Claudia had just had her sixteenth birthday.”
“Claudia is your daughter?”
“Yes. I had three children. But now I just have two. Claudia and Julius.”
Poppy smiled. “Lovely, classical name
s.”
Mrs Northanger smiled too. “I’m glad you picked up on that. I went to Girton College you know; read History and Classics. That was before the days when women could actually be awarded a degree, of course, but I went up, nonetheless.”
“So,” said Poppy, not wanting to go down a side road of the rights of women to an education, “you had two other children, besides the one you adopted.”
“That’s right. But all three were adopted. We got Claudia and Julius after… after…”
“After your first son died?”
Mrs Northanger bit her lip and shook her head. “No, not after he died. After we – after my husband, Mr Northanger – sent him away.” She looked up, her sea-green eyes awash with tears.
“You see, Miss Denby, Agnes Robson’s baby didn’t die.”
Poppy felt the blood drain from her face. “But the records at the women’s home –”
“Were false. Although Sister Henrietta didn’t know. Please, I don’t want you to think that. My husband…” She looked to a cluster of gilt-framed photographs on the polished grand piano. “… my husband told them the baby had died. He said it was for the best. He said if it was known that the child was alive there would be all sorts of complications: people pressuring us to keep him, blaming us for giving him away, and so forth.”
Poppy shook her head in confusion. “What are you telling me, Mrs Northanger? That the baby got measles but didn’t die and you – you – gave him away?”
The older woman hunched her shoulders and shivered, then in a voice as brittle as an autumn leaf: “Please, Miss Denby, don’t judge me until you hear the full story. Then you may think of me as you like. That’s what I told Agnes too when she first came to see me.”
“Back in 1916…” Mrs Northanger began.
1916… Of course! Poppy remembered Agnes had visited Sister Henrietta that same year. Had she too asked to see information about her child’s adoption? She must have. Why didn’t Sister Henrietta say?
Mrs Northanger, her cocoa untouched, saw the distracted look on Poppy’s face and waited for her to return her attention to the conversation. When Poppy nodded her assent, she continued her tale.
“My husband, you must understand, could be a very – well, a very forceful man. He worked hard. He had – in fact still has – a pickle factory down by the quayside. But he was a self-made man and married ‘up’. I loved him for exactly who he was, but my family weren’t always so kind. As a result he felt he had to always prove himself worthy. He had a dream of having a son whom he could leave the business to. But I – unfortunately – was unable to produce a child. I was forty-two when we realized a baby would never come by natural means, so we decided to adopt.
“That’s how Augustus came to live with us – another classical name, you might note. He was a beautiful boy. He had a mop of black curls and looked, I thought, like a young Roman emperor. We had him for two years before – well, before he became ill. As you already know, I believe, it was the measles. Other children in the neighbourhood got it and made a full recovery, but Augustus didn’t. We thought for a while we were going to lose him. He survived, thank God, but not without impairment.
“You see, the illness had left him deaf. We hoped for a while it was just temporary, and that his hearing would return, but after a few weeks the doctor told us that it was likely to be permanent, and that it would affect his ability to speak and learn. We were told that he would most likely end up an imbecile. Now, an imbecile was not the type of child one could leave a thriving business to. I didn’t care; he was my son and I loved him. But my husband saw things very differently. As I said, Miss Denby, he could be a very forceful man, and I dared not defy him.”
Poppy nodded her understanding and waited for Mrs Northanger to continue with her tale.
“So, he paid the doctor to falsify a death certificate, and arranged for the lad to go to an institution on the outskirts of London. I begged him not to, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He did, however, allow me to accompany Augustus down to the institution and I was able to see the place for myself. It appeared to be well run and the children clean and as happy as they could be with their various handicaps. We would pay for his upkeep until he was eighteen. It was agreed that he would be told when – or if – he was ever able to understand, that his parents had died. We all agreed that it was the kindest thing to do. Better that than to know… to know that…” Mrs Northanger wiped away a tear from her cheek, “… to know that he’d been rejected. That he’d been considered defective and returned like used goods.”
Poppy swallowed hard. Augustus Northanger. Gus North. It had to be. Agnes’ son was not only alive but had been working for her for the last four years. Had she known? She cleared her throat and, making every effort to keep any note of condemnation out of her voice, said: “That must have been a very difficult thing for you to do, Mrs Northanger.”
The older woman, perhaps hoping for vindication, answered: “Oh it was, Miss Denby; you need to believe that. I would never have given my boy away if I had another choice.”
Poppy nodded. “Yes, I can see with your husband being, as you say, so forceful, that your options were limited. However, there’s something you said earlier that I would like to clarify. You said Agnes Robson came to see you – twice. Once in 1916 and then again, just recently. Is that correct?”
Mrs Northanger took a moment to blow her nose and dab at her eyes. “Yes, that’s right. I had no idea who she was at first. She was a very elegant lady, as you know. Nothing – of her appearance – suggested to me that she was the poor daughter of a coal miner who had a baby out of wedlock. She told me that she was hoping to do a fundraising event for the women’s sanctuary. That’s how she got into the house. But it didn’t take long for her to reveal her true purpose. She wanted to know about the baby. What happened to him. Where he was buried. She wanted to visit his grave…”
At this, Mrs Northanger’s voice cracked and she lowered her chin to her chest and sobbed, her bony shoulders jerking up and down. Poppy could not take it anymore. She jumped out of her chair and kneeled in front of the weeping woman, taking hold of her hands.
“It’s all right, Mrs Northanger, it’s all right. It’s a terrible tale, but you need to finish it. I assume you know that Agnes Robson is dead. That she was murdered last Thursday at the Laing?”
Mrs Northanger nodded through her sobs.
“Well, I need to hear the rest of the story. Because I think that it’s got something to do with why she was killed, and who did it.”
Mrs Northanger nodded again. Poppy stayed on her knees until Mrs Northanger had composed herself, and then sat back up and waited to hear the rest of the woman’s story. She told it, quietly, with her emotions contained.
“When Agnes asked to see the grave I could not lie to her any longer. I told her everything I have told you. She was shocked, yes, but said she didn’t judge me. She said she too had been forced to give the baby away. She said we were both guilty of not being good enough mothers. So I told her where Augustus was. She wrote to me, a while later, and told me that she had gone to the school but that he had already left. He was eighteen then and a man. She told me, though, that apparently the school told her that he was a bright boy and that his deafness had not prevented him from getting an education. She went to the address they gave her, but he no longer lived there. They had no forwarding address. She told me that she would, however, keep on looking for him, and when she found him she would let me know.”
A lump of coal fell off the grate and sizzled. Without asking permission, Poppy got up and took a pair of tongs, replacing the coal on the fire. She returned to her seat. “And did she find him?”
Mrs Northanger attempted a brief smile. It lit her lips for a moment then faded away.
“She did. Four years ago, I think it was, I got a letter from Agnes saying she had found him. And she had offered him a job, working for her in the studio. Not surprisingly, considering who both his natural parents were
, he was a gifted young artist. So she took him on as an apprentice.”
“Did he know who she was?”
Mrs Northanger shook her head. “No, she didn’t tell him. She said she was too ashamed. She worried that if he found out he would blame her for giving him away. She wanted to tell him, so many times she said, but each time couldn’t summon up the courage. Until last week…”
Poppy felt an icy hand clutch her heart. Dear God, don’t let it be… “What happened last week, Mrs Northanger?”
“Agnes came to see me. Last Thursday. The morning before… before… she died. She said she had decided to tell Augustus that she was his mother. She said she had hoped he was going to be up in Newcastle for the exhibition, but apparently Agnes’ manager was poorly, and they didn’t come up. So she said that she planned to tell him as soon as she got back to London.”
Poppy absorbed this information, realizing that Mrs Northanger must not have known that Gus actually did come up – that he was at the exhibition. So, did Agnes tell him after all? And if she did, what did he do when he found out?
CHAPTER 29
Poppy got off the bus opposite Aunt Dot’s house at the entrance to Armstrong Park. She was exhausted. It had been an emotionally draining meeting with Mrs Northanger and a long wait for a bus to bring her home. It was now nine o’clock, but she knew the night was far from over. She could see the lights blazing in the town house, and was looking forward to a bite to eat and a warming cup of tea before hunkering down to tell everyone what she had learned in Jesmond. She waited for a motor car to pass before stepping into the road. But as she did, she felt someone grab her around the neck and pull her backwards towards the park. She tried to scream but her air was cut off by a forearm across her throat. She clawed at the arm and kicked at the legs of her assailant.
Think! Think!
Images of a self-defence course that she and Delilah had attended after they had both been abducted during a previous murder investigation flashed across her mind: a knee to the groin, forked fingers to the eyes… impossible from this angle. She felt a sickening pressure against her buttocks and to her horror realized what it was. But… she also now knew where it was.
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 27