[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “All right,” said Poppy. “That was Tuesday. But what about Wednesday – the morning I was out in Ashington with Agnes opening the community hall? Do you remember seeing it then?”

  All eyes at the table were on Grace. No one queried why Poppy was going down this line of questioning; there was a sense that it was important. Very important. Something that had been staring them in the face all along…

  “No, Poppy, now that you mention it, the knife was not there. The last time I saw it was when I collected the milk that morning. But by lunchtime, when you and Agnes returned, the knife was gone. I thought perhaps the decorator had come to collect it without us knowing. Although on reflection, that wouldn’t have happened. He wouldn’t have just let himself in. I did think of asking Betty about it, but I didn’t get around to it.”

  “Had anyone come to visit that morning? Aunt Dot, do you remember?”

  “Well actually, yes! Oh good heavens! Thank you God!”

  Grace smiled at Dot and her friend beamed back. “That’s right,” said Grace, “it was Maddie. Maddie Sherman popped in to visit. I had asked her to go back into the hall and remove her muddy boots – just like I did the morning she came to offer her condolences – so she had time, alone, on Wednesday to see the knife and pick it up.”

  Poppy was immensely relieved. “That’s exactly what I think happened too. I also don’t recall seeing the knife there when I returned from Ashington on Wednesday. And I expect if we ask Betty who cleaned the house that day, she too will remember it being there and then not. Yasmin? What do you think?”

  But Yasmin was already up and heading out of the room. “Where are you going?” asked Poppy.

  “If Mohammed won’t go to the mountain, the mountain must go to Mohammed. I’m calling a taxi. Actually, I’d better call two. We’re all going to the police station. Oh, and Poppy, ask Betty to come with us too.”

  CHAPTER 30

  WEDNESDAY, 9 OCTOBER 1924, ASHINGTON COLLIERY, NORTHUMBERLAND

  Poppy and Sandy sat together in his police issue Model T Ford, sharing a flask of tea.

  “So Gus was exactly where Gerald said he would be, waiting to get on the ferry. He tried to run – poor blighter – but we caught him. Took him into the harbour police office and told him that we knew he was Agnes’ son. And then we told him that we thought we knew who killed her. But we needed his help to find out – conclusively – once and for all.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “Well, he didn’t have much of a choice. I threatened to charge him with forgery and fraud if he didn’t. But I think he would have agreed anyway, once I laid out our…” he smiled at Poppy, “…your theory of what happened.”

  Poppy flushed. “It wasn’t just me, Sandy. It was definitely a team effort.”

  His smile grew wider and he clicked his tin cup against hers. “And that’s one of the things I like about you, Miss Denby – your humility. And,” he winked, “your beautiful blue eyes.”

  Poppy flushed again. “Are you flirting with me, DI Hawkes? Perhaps an eyeballing is not the best place to do that.”

  “An eyeballing?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh Poppy, you’ve been reading too many detective novels.”

  Poppy, slightly stung, tried to keep the edge out of her voice when she asked: “Then what would you call this, Sandy?”

  “This,” he gestured to the industrial landscape in front of them, “is a carefully laid plan to gather the last evidence we need to confirm who killed Agnes Robson.”

  Poppy looked to the right towards the pit head where Michael Brownley had died so many years ago, and to the left where she expected soon to see her mother and Sadie Robson.

  The previous night, after Poppy and her team had finally managed to track down Sandy Hawkes and tell him everything they had discovered, he had driven Poppy through to Morpeth to speak to her mother. It was after midnight when she knocked on the door, and her father, used to parishioners calling him at odd times, had answered in his dressing gown. He had not, however, been prepared to see his daughter and a police detective. But after the initial shock he invited them in and woke up his wife. Sandy and Poppy told Alice their plan and left, an hour later, with her commitment to get Sadie Robson to the pit head at the agreed time the following day.

  Meanwhile, earlier that day, under threat of arrest for fraud, but also with the positive incentive of helping to catch his mother’s killer, Gus had gone to see Maddie Sherman. As instructed, he told her who he really was and that he knew who had killed Agnes – without actually saying who it was. He also told her that he didn’t care that his mother was dead, as she had never been alive to him, and he couldn’t forgive her for keeping it a secret from him for so many years. He told Maddie that he would keep quiet about what he knew about Agnes’ death, as well as Michael Brownley’s perversion, if she brought £1,000 to the pit head in Ashington by six o’clock that evening. The police had already checked the Sherman bank account and knew that she did in fact have that amount of money available. After an initial denial that she knew anything about it, Gus, as instructed, said that he had evidence that her son, Dante, was Agnes’ murderer and he would give the evidence to the police if she didn’t comply. She had then, tearfully, agreed. After that he went to visit Dante Sherman at the gallery and told him the same thing. But this time he said he had evidence that Dante’s mother was the murderer.

  “But what if Dante and Maddie compare notes and find out Gus has told them two different things?”

  Sandy shrugged, then took a sip of tea. “It doesn’t matter. What’s clear is that Gus knows one of them is the killer, if not both.”

  “Do you think they’ll come? And if they do, will they bring the money?”

  Again Sandy shrugged. “I think at least one of them will come. Hopefully both of them. I think they’ll want to confront Gus once and for all, now that it’s all out in the open who he is. I think they’re both emotionally trapped by the death of Brownley and need to free themselves from it. Agnes was a link to that. And so, too, is Gus. Which is another reason I suggested they come here. It’s an emotionally charged place. And Brownley’s ghost – so to speak – will be here too. They might be prepared to just pay Gus off. Or they might – and this is unfortunately possible as at least one of them has killed before – try to silence him.”

  Poppy’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh Sandy! Should we be putting Gus in danger like this?”

  Sandy smiled at her. “And that’s another thing I admire about you, Poppy. Your kindness. But sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Don’t worry: I’ve briefed Gus, and he knows that me and my men will be close by and will be there to help if one of them tries anything.”

  “And Sadie?”

  “She’ll be fine too. We’ll be right there, Poppy, don’t worry. I’ve made arrangements with the mine manager to help us hide in the lift where we’ll be able to hear everything. Gus has been instructed to stand as close to the lift as he can. We’ll be out of there in a flash if either he – or Sadie – needs us.” He turned to look at Poppy, his face earnest. “Trust me, Poppy.”

  But Poppy, as before, was not entirely sure that she did.

  Poppy held her breath as she waited for Gus North to take his position near the lift. They were in a disused mine shaft, which had been closed due to the lowering of demand for coal since the end of the war. But all the equipment – including the lift – was still there, waiting to be called into action if and when it was needed again. The lift was a large cage that would take miners – and ponies – up and down at the beginning and end of their shifts. Even though it was currently not in use, it still smelled of sweat, coal dust, and horse manure. At the top of the shaft, the lift was further separated from the wheel house by a wooden gate. This was usually locked with a padlock, but this evening, by Sandy’s request, it was just loosely hooked. The gate was made up of horizontal slats of wood, sufficiently rough-hewn and shoddily constructed to leave small gaps here and there between the pl
anks to allow Poppy, Sandy, a sergeant, and two constables scope to peer out on whatever transpired outside. At nearly six o’clock in early October there was still enough natural light to create a dusky setting.

  Despite Sandy’s initial protestations, he had reluctantly agreed to allow her to hide in the lift to witness the final showdown between the family members of the late Michael Brownley: his widow and his two sons. Poppy was aware that 200 feet below her was the floor of the mine shaft where Brownley’s body had been found. Sandy told her that records from the time showed that during the month in which the art teacher died, this particular shaft was again not in use, being shut for repair, and the lift itself had been temporarily removed for upkeep. So, all that had been between Brownley and the hard, dark floor of the mine below was a wooden gate, which, the police inspector at the time had discovered, was rarely locked. In fact it was Brownley’s death that had caused the mine management to put more stringent safety measures in place.

  Sandy checked his pocket watch. It was five to six. “Where is he?” he muttered. But then, just as Poppy was beginning to stiffen with anxiety, wondering if the whole plan was going to be scuppered, Gus North appeared, silhouetted at the entrance to the wheel house. He looked nervous, flicking his eyes to the lift and back out the door. Sandy had told Poppy that Gus had been brought here earlier and held in the manager’s office until the time they had agreed to send him to the wheel house. He could of course have done a runner, but Sandy had spoken with him long enough to know that, although frightened, he was willing to play his part in catching his mother’s killer.

  Poppy knew too that Sandy had spent some time with Sadie Robson and her mother, coaching Sadie on what she needed to do. She had been taken to the mine manager’s office earlier in the day and introduced to her grandson, Gus. Poppy would have loved to have been there for the emotional meeting, but she would just have to settle for hearing about it from her mother. Would Gus and Sadie now try to forge a relationship? Poppy hoped so. For Agnes’ sake. Her heart broke thinking of all the lost years of regret, of the unspent love. Why, oh why, hadn’t Agnes told Gus the truth when she first found him four years ago? Why had she not then gone public with the news that he was her son? Yes, Poppy knew that it was not the done thing for a single woman to publicly acknowledge she’d had a child out of wedlock. Children were often raised believing a grandmother or an aunt was their mother, to spare the reputation of the family. But Agnes was not a normal woman, constrained by societal norms.

  She had run off to Paris and lived openly with her lover. On her return to London, buoyed into higher social strata by the money she’d inherited, she did not pretend to be a Mrs so-andso. She was open about who she was and was not. So, worrying about social stigma was not her real concern – although she was grateful her money bought her some respectability and entrance to circles that a poor girl of dubious reputation would not ordinarily have. Poppy had thought long and hard about it, remembering her own conversations with Agnes, and later, Mrs Northanger, and had come to the conclusion that Agnes was most concerned by the fear of rejection by those she loved. What if she told Gus who she – and he – really were and he turned on her? As things stood, she could see her son daily at the studio and was able to watch him develop into a gifted artist and (his forging activities aside) an admirable young man. But, finally, as Mrs Northanger had said, Agnes had summoned up the courage to tell him the truth. And according to Sandy, in his police interview, Gus had confirmed that was what she had done.

  Agnes had approached him at the gallery, standing in front of The Railway Family painting, and had tried to talk to him about the mother and child, asking him again why he had painted them. He said it was a dream he kept having, of him, as a small child, walking hand in hand with a woman he thought was his mother. It wasn’t along a railway line in his dream, but he said when he’d seen the painting he just felt that the woman and child belonged there. So he added them.

  She had then tried to speak to him, but he found it difficult to read her lips as she was mumbling and not forming her words properly. So, after noticing Grace Wilson slipping out and then, later, returning through the back door (which finally cleared Grace of any involvement), he suggested they go out to the stables where Agnes could speak more freely. So it was there, not on the roof, that she had told him who she really was. And it was there, not the roof, that he had first shouted at her, blaming her for all the years of pain and hurt he had endured. And there that she had begged him not to leave her. As she sobbed in front of him, his heart had softened. He had told her that he just needed a bit of time to work through it all. He asked her not to tell anyone else just yet. She had agreed, and he had come back in while she spent some time gathering herself. He had slotted back into the party, finding Gerald and pretending that nothing had happened. He and Agnes had arranged to meet the following day – once the hullaballoo of the exhibition had calmed down – to talk about things further.

  Poor Gus, thought Poppy. Poor, poor Gus. His face was deathly pale, making his dark brown eyes and black curly hair stand out even more in the dusky light. He held his hat in his hands, worrying at the fabric with his beautiful long artist’s fingers.

  Sandy looked at his watch again. It was ten past six.

  “Do you think they’re not coming?” whispered Poppy.

  “I don’t know. Let’s give it a bit more time. Sadie won’t come until they’re here. She’s with one of my men who has sight of the wheel house.”

  Poppy shifted her weight from leg to leg, as Gus paced back and forth in front of the lift. It was pointless speaking to him – he would not be able to hear. But he and Sandy had locked eyes through the gate slats and he knew they were there.

  And then, at quarter past six, Maddie and Dante Sherman arrived. She was dressed in her boots and tweeds as though she were just out walking her dogs. He was in one of his less flamboyant suits and a bowler hat. Poppy noted that he was walking with a slight shuffle and limp, confirming to her that it was indeed Dante who had attacked her the night before. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to control the rage that welled inside her.

  Dante gestured for his mother to wait in the doorway and shuffled forward, positioning himself directly in front of Gus so the deaf man could read his lips.

  “Let’s get this over and done with, shall we?”

  Gus nodded. “All right. I see you brought your mother.”

  “Yes. We both want to make sure you’re serious about keeping quiet.”

  “You brought the money?”

  “Some of it.”

  Gus put his hands on his hips. “I told you, I want £1,000 or I’m going to the police.”

  Dante curled back his lip into an approximation of a smile. “I see they raised you well at that orphanage. No moral backbone.”

  “How do you know I was raised in an orphanage? I never told you that. Just that I was adopted.”

  Dante shrugged. “I have done a little digging.”

  “Why? Why did you need to do any digging?”

  Dante paused, then looked over at his mother before returning his cold gaze to Gus. “Because when I first met you it was like looking into the face of my father that I’d once seen in a photograph. The resemblance is remarkable. Do you know that he was only a year or two older than you – than us – when he died?”

  Gus did not say anything.

  “Isn’t that right, Mother?”

  Maddie Sherman stepped forward, her body language screaming that she’d rather be anywhere other than where she was now.

  “I said, isn’t that right, Mother?”

  Maddie mumbled something.

  “You’ll have to speak up! The boy’s deaf!”

  With an enormous effort, Maddie looked up at Gus. “Yes, you look like him. Far more than his real son does. But Dante takes after me.”

  Dante laughed. “Oh, you always said that, Mother. But I don’t think it’s true. I might look more like you, but not in personality. Not in appetites. Di
d you know, dear brother, that our father liked fornicating with little children far younger than your mother?”

  Gus’ eyes widened in shock.

  “No? Well, he did. Your mother was almost at a decent age. But others weren’t.”

  “That’s a lie, Dante, a lie. I know that’s what people said, but it wasn’t true,” declared Maddie, wringing her gloved hands.

  Dante shook his head, as though pitying the woman. “But it is. You could just never face up to it, saying it was just the drink. But it was more than that. And you knew it. I found his letters, his notebooks in the loft. Don’t you remember? When I was twelve?”

  “I remember.” Maddie’s voice was so soft that Poppy barely heard her. But Gus didn’t need to hear. He could read her lips and her expression.

  But before he could speak, another voice, a female voice, entered the conversation: “And so do I. I remember as well.”

  Maddie and Dante jerked their heads towards the door where Sadie Robson was standing. She wore her best black coat and best black hat, as though attending a funeral.

  “Who are you?” asked Dante.

  “Don’t be coy, lad. You met me at the gallery. I’m Agnes’ mam. And this lad’s grandma.”

  “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”

  “I brought her,” said Gus.

  Dante smirked. “Is she after money too?” Then to Sadie: “All right, how much do you want?”

  Sadie Robson spat on the ground in front of Dante. “You can keep your money, you filthy pervert. You’ve taken me bairn. Nowt’ll bring her back.”

  “Then why are you here?” asked Maddie, stepping in front of her son, as if trying to shield him.

  “I’ve come to make an exchange.”

  “An exchange?”

  “Aye. An exchange of truth. I’ll tell you what really happened to your husband, Mrs Brownley, if you tell me what happened to my Agnes.”