[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  Dante put his hand on his mother’s shoulder and lowered his voice, whispering into her ear: “Don’t say a word, Mother.”

  “Shut up, Dante!” she snapped, to the surprise of everyone listening. Then to Sadie: “All right, I’ll tell you. Mother to mother. Because that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Mothers trying to protect their children.”

  “Aye, Mrs Brownley, I believe it is. You go first, then I’ll tell you what I know. How did your son kill my Agnes?”

  “It wasn’t him.”

  “Of course you’d say that.”

  “It’s true. Dante didn’t do it. But I thought he might. Ever since he found his father’s notebooks – and read what he’d been up to – some kind of darkness settled on him. He – well – he interfered with other children at school, and –”

  “Mother, don’t you dare!”

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I have tried all my life to protect you. But I could never protect you from his blood in your veins, could I? Then when I found out you were bringing Agnes up here, that you were obsessing over her, I feared the worst. You kept notebooks yourself when you were a boy. And I read them. All your fantasies about what you would do to the girl you believed killed your father. To Agnes. So I decided to warn her. I saw her go out of the gallery with Gus that night and decided to follow. I listened in and heard what they talked about, when she told him that she was his mother. Then Gus went back in. I was hiding up the steps, on the way to the roof. And when Agnes finally gathered herself and was ready to go back into the party, I confronted her.

  “I had brought a knife with me – a Stanley knife I’d found – but I didn’t intend to use it. Just to frighten her. I wanted to warn her off. I’d already tried before – I’d sent Agnes a letter with a photograph of that disgusting painting Michael had done – and I’d told her to stay away from Newcastle, but she didn’t listen. I knew if she came Dante would try to hurt her. And I didn’t want her to be hurt. I swear to you. But more than that, I didn’t want Dante to do something that could cost him his life. So I needed to warn her. Or to threaten her. Whatever it took to get her to leave.

  “I knew that Dante sometimes went onto the roof to have a cigarette. I knew he enjoyed going out there to look over the city. And it seemed like a good place for me and Agnes to have a talk without anyone walking in on us. I had taken a key earlier, just in case the back door was locked. I had intended to ask Agnes to step out with me, but I hadn’t accounted for other people finding that the door was open – like Grace Wilson and Poppy Denby. Although, I must admit, having Grace there was useful in terms of diverting the police’s attention away from me – as was the knife. That hadn’t been my intention when I first picked it up – framing Grace, that is – but it did turn out to be helpful.

  “But I digress. So, Agnes and I, we went out onto the roof. And along to the tower. She was frightened, so I offered her a cigarette. And I had one, just to calm us down. I really didn’t know what I was going to say to her. I thought I might threaten her, warn her off, act like a madwoman so she’d be scared of what I might do. But I didn’t really want to do anything. I just wanted to stop my son from getting himself into trouble – just like my husband had got into trouble. You see, Mrs Robson, your daughter was the stumbling block on which both my boys fell. And she had to be removed.”

  “So you killed her?” Sadie asked, her voice cracked with emotion.

  “Yes, I did. When she told me what Michael had done to her, I knew she couldn’t be allowed to tell it to anyone else – not least Dante. So I killed her. I slit her throat. I didn’t push her though. But if she hadn’t fallen, I would have. Just like she pushed my Michael down this mine shaft. So I suppose justice was finally served.”

  There were tears streaming down Sadie’s face. “But Agnes didn’t push him.”

  “She said she did.”

  “I know. She told me the same thing – right back when it happened. But I didn’t believe her. She was never a good liar.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Dante. “Of course she killed him. Everyone knew she did. There was just never any proof.”

  “There was no proof because she didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know?” asked Gus, his eyes on his grandmother’s lips.

  “Because she was trying to protect someone – her little brother Jeremy. Your uncle. Me other bairn. He’d followed her that night when she slipped out. He saw her meet Brownley. He was drunk. Agnes was upset. He brought her here. He was going to have his filthy way with her again. But Jeremy would have none of it. They were standing here beside the shaft. The gate was open, she told me. He – Brownley – started kissing her, pawing her. And she let him. But Jeremy saw it and ran at them. He pushed Brownley off his sister. But he didn’t know the lift wasn’t there and there was a dead drop down the shaft. And that’s how he died.” Sadie gestured to Maddie and her sons. “Your husband. And your – and your – father.”

  Silence fell in the wheel house. Poppy waited for someone to say something. For Maddie or Dante or even Gus to cry out, to run, to do… something. But nothing happened. And then Sandy pushed open the gate of the lift and he and his men stepped out and revealed themselves. Maddie gasped and cowered. Dante laughed, scornfully, turning to face Poppy and the posse of policemen.

  He opened his arms wide, as if to show he was unarmed, then said: “I see the game is up. How sneaky of you, Miss Denby. How very sneaky. But as you heard, Inspector, I am not guilty of murder. And you shall be hearing from my solicitor.”

  “I look forward to it, Mr Sherman. Take them away.”

  Two constables handcuffed Dante, while the sergeant took Maddie by the arm and escorted them out of the wheel house.

  Standing side by side, watching them go, were Gus and Sadie.

  “Can they have some time alone?” asked Poppy.

  “Aye,” said Sandy, “they can.”

  CHAPTER 32

  MONDAY, 21 OCTOBER 1924, LONDON

  The Flying Scotsman let off a welcoming hoot of steam as it chugged into King’s Cross Station, greeted by bundled-up passengers waiting for its return journey north. Golly, thought Poppy, it’s good to be home. She was surprised to find herself thinking that. Since when had she started calling this city home?

  She smiled as she thought of her friends and family that she’d just left behind in Newcastle and Morpeth, glad that she could visit them whenever she wanted. But if she were honest, she was relieved that she had a life of her own here in London.

  It had been an exciting – although tragic – few weeks up north. She – as well as the Rolandson family who had travelled with her back down to London – would need to go up again in the spring when Dante and Maddie Sherman’s trials were scheduled, but for now they were free to go. Aunt Dot, Grace, and Delilah would be spending a couple more weeks there. Dot and Grace had the finishing touches to put on the town house before they could turn it over to the housekeeper they had hired to supervise the property when the new lady tenants moved in. Delilah, whose run at the Theatre Royal had finished, had decided to spend a few weeks seeing the sights of Northumberland – and perhaps popping up to Edinburgh – with her latest beau, Peter MacMahon. Whether anything would come of the fledgling romance, Poppy was not quite sure.

  As far as her own fledgling romance went, Sandy had seen her off at Central Station. He said he would most definitely be staying in touch – personally and professionally – and looked forward to seeing her again. She had not tried to dissuade him, and was pleasantly surprised to hear him say that he was considering asking for a transfer down to London. His work on the Agnes Robson case had drawn the attention of the powers that be at Scotland Yard, and a promotion to the capital was being touted.

  “What do you say about that, Poppy?” he had asked.

  “I say let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.” Then she had kissed him on the cheek.

  On the journey down, when the Rolandson twins finally fell asleep, she
allowed her thoughts to drift to the possibility of furthering her romance with DI Sandy Hawkes. Oh, he was most definitely attractive, and it was clear that there was a mutual admiration between them, but there was just something, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, that gave her pause for thought. She still wasn’t really sure she could trust him, and she didn’t know why. Perhaps, though, in time, her concerns would be allayed. They had hardly had much time to spend alone together, without the professional complications of a murder investigation between them. So yes, she would welcome him visiting if he came down to London. And she would see him – and everyone else – again at the trial.

  Fortunately, Gus North would only be at the trial as a witness. Yasmin had managed to get Sandy – and the Newcastle Director of Public Prosecutions – to not lay any formal charges against him regarding the fraud, as long as he and Gerald returned the money they’d received for the paintings and gave the collectors real Agnes Robsons in exchange, a deal the collectors were not likely to argue with, as the originals would be worth a lot more now that the famous artist was dead. In fact, her estate would now be worth a fortune. Agnes’ solicitor had revealed that she had filed a new will with him the morning before she died – having it signed and witnessed at an office in Newcastle. The will had been read after Agnes’ funeral. She was buried in Ashington, next to her father.

  She had named Gus North – formally known as Augustus Northanger – as her majority heir. But she had also left money to her mother and brother Jeremy. Jeremy, it was decided, would also not face legal consequences for the death of Michael Brownley. It was too long ago, he had only been eleven years old, and all the witnesses were dead. On top of that, there were questions about the culpability of the mine owners for not having a secure gate over the lift shaft. Agnes had also left a sum of money to St Hilda’s so their roof could be fixed. And then, finally, she had been true to her word and had set aside some money for a bursary fund for gifted young female artists. She had named Dot Denby, Grace Wilson, and Alice Denby to be co-trustees. Poppy chuckled to herself. Oh, that was going to be a challenging relationship. However, all three women agreed that they would work together.

  Poppy smiled as she thought of her mother. Yes, it had been a distressing few weeks for everyone. But one of the good things that had come out of it was that she and her mother had developed a new respect for one another. Alice had told her she was proud of her and finally, after all these years, given her her blessing to go back to London and work on the newspaper. Perhaps that’s why Poppy finally felt free to call London home.

  The train had now stopped and Rollo, Yasmin, and the nanny were gathering the children and luggage. Little Cleo was niggling. Poppy had discovered she had a knack of soothing the child, although it didn’t seem to work quite so well with the other twin.

  “Here, give her to me,” said Poppy, and she took the child from Yasmin.

  Poppy and the family stepped out of the carriage while Rollo called a porter to help them with the luggage.

  As he did, a tall man in his early thirties walked towards them, grinning.

  “Well, I’ll be darned, if it ain’t Danny Boy Rokeby!” Rollo strode towards his old photographer and pumped his hand up and down. “What are you doing here, old sport? I thought you were still down in Africa.”

  Daniel smiled down at his former editor. “Well, I’m back. And I was wondering if you might have a job for me?”

  “For the best darned press photographer in London? You bet I do! When do you want to start?”

  “Well that depends…”

  “On what?”

  “On whether the best reporter in London wants to have me here.”

  Rollo, suddenly serious, looked back at Poppy and his family. He cocked his head. “I think you two had better have a conversation. Let me know what happens.”

  Then he took his daughter from Poppy and ushered his family away.

  “Good luck,” whispered Yasmin as she left.

  Poppy was struggling to hold back her tears. She couldn’t believe it. Here, on the platform of King’s Cross Station, almost in the very spot they had first met, was the love of her life. All thoughts of Sandy fell away.

  Daniel stepped towards her and stopped. She stepped towards him, then stopped too. Between them were four and a half years of love and longing.

  “You’re back,” she whispered.

  “I’m back.”

  “But the children? Your sister?”

  “Maggie’s had a baby.”

  “I heard.”

  “Her own baby. She – well – she doesn’t have as much time for Amy and Arthur any more. And Arthur never really settled down there. He missed his London school friends. He’s eleven now. He should be going to grammar school. And Amy’s eight. She wants to see her grandparents. They were never that happy we left either.”

  “And you, Daniel, what do you want?”

  Daniel pushed his hat away from his forehead so Poppy could see his beautiful warm grey eyes. His skin was tanned – it suited him – although there were a few more wrinkles around his eyes than she’d remembered.

  “I want you, Poppy. I always have. I wanted you to come with me to South Africa, but I loved you enough not to make you. I knew you’d never be happy there.”

  Poppy caught a sob before it escaped her lips. “I would have been happy with you. I know I would have. But you’re right; I would have found it hard to leave my life here. My family. My friends. My job. But don’t think I didn’t lie awake at night, praying and begging God to bring you back to me. Or dreaming of what might happen if I decided to follow you there. I was thinking of doing that. I really was. But then you stopped writing. I haven’t heard from you since Easter…”

  “But I wrote! I did! Something must have happened to the letters. I swear to you, Poppy: I wrote to tell you I was thinking of coming back. That I could no longer live without you. But then you didn’t reply and I thought –”

  It was Daniel’s turn to catch a sob in his throat. Poppy closed the space between them and reached up her hand to touch his cheek. He covered her hand with his own then pulled her towards him. And then, despite the stares and sniggers of passengers on the platform, he kissed her. And she kissed him back.

  Yes, thought Poppy, as she softened her lips against his. This is a man I can trust.

  THE WORLD OF POPPY DENBY: A HISTORICAL NOTE

  In 1920 my great-grandfather, Matthew Gill, was attacked and killed in a working men’s club in the mining village of Crawcrook, County Durham. His assailant (a fellow coal miner) was arrested and charged with murder, but at the trial this was commuted to manslaughter. Matthew left behind his wife, Mary Jane, and five children, including my grandma, Betty, who was fifteen at the time. The story of the “murder” is something I have grown up with, and I have long wanted to write a murder mystery set in a mining village in the North East of England in the 1920s. However, although tragic for my family, there was nothing very exciting about my great-grandfather’s death. It was a cut and dried case. It happened in front of a dozen or so witnesses and the killer was arrested almost immediately. So it was not really an option to fictionalize that story. But the core idea of a murder in a mining village stuck with me.

  Another thing that has stuck with me is the memory of my grandfather, the man Betty Gill was to marry. Fred Veitch came from a working-class family in Newcastle. He made a living out of painting and decorating, but in his spare time was a very gifted artist. I never met Fred – he died in his early forties when my dad was only eleven – but I grew up looking at and dreaming about the beautiful landscapes that hung in my childhood home. Fred’s sister once told me that her brother had always wanted to be a professional artist but never had the opportunity, in her words, to “better himself”. His great-granddaughter, my daughter Megan, is also a gifted artist. She was fourteen at the time I started writing this book, the same age as Agnes Robson when the story begins.

  So art, mining, and the limi
ted opportunities of gifted working-class people to pursue their dreams became the kernel of this book. Readers will know that Poppy Denby comes from the Northumbrian market town of Morpeth, just up the Great North Road from Newcastle. Morpeth is only a few miles from the mining village of Ashington Colliery. In the 1930s and ’40s Ashington became famous for a group of amateur artists who either were or had been miners. They initially worked with a tutor from Durham University called Robert Lyon, but they soon outgrew the course material and he suggested they start producing their own work. In 1936 they put on an exhibition at the Hatton Gallery in Armstrong College, which now forms part of the modern Newcastle University.

  Paintings by members of the Ashington Group (also known as the Pitmen Painters) are still highly acclaimed and widely exhibited to this day. This gave me the idea to have a tutor from Armstrong College travel to Ashington in 1897, and start art courses for the children of miners. This is entirely fictional, but historically plausible, as the managers of Ashington Colliery encouraged and funded a host of recreational and educational activities for the miners and their families. Ashington was set up as a “model mining village” and the welfare of the workers was prioritized. However, two years after this book is set, the 1926 General Strike was to have a devastating effect on the community of Ashington and coal miners across the country.

  But in 1924, the North East of England, with its regional capital of Newcastle upon Tyne, was still enjoying the last rays of economic prosperity from the profits of its ship building and armaments factories which thrived during the Great War. The side of Newcastle shown in The Art Fiasco is that of the art, cinema, and theatre loving middle class, centred on the gorgeous Georgian heart of the city known as Grainger Town. Aunt Dot’s row of splendid town houses overlooking Armstrong Park in Heaton, with its bowling greens and tennis courts, was and still is a real place – and yes, the pavilion really was firebombed by suffragettes in 1913.