She now had four lists:
1. Known fedora-wearers who were definitely or might be in London:
• Lionel Saunders
• Harry Gibson
• Albert Carnaby
• Faizal Osman
• Dr Giles Mortimer
(She then remembered that Rollo had pointed out that Lionel was considerably shorter than the height Poppy had described. She put a question mark next to him.)
2. Non-fedora wearers who definitely were or might be in London (and might have borrowed a fedora as a disguise):
• Fox Flinton (boater)
• Jonathan Davies (derby)
• Herr Stein (homburg)
• Herr Weiner (homburg)
• Howard Carter (homburg)
• Arthur Conan Doyle (bowler)
(She put a question mark against Fox Flinton’s name – as far as she knew he had stayed at Winterton to support his cousin Ursula. Then, on reflection, she crossed out Sir Arthur’s name. Surely he had been far too busy seeing to his wife to play silly games.)
3. Other males of unknown hats and unknown location:
• The Winterton staff – ask Ike to get staff list if possible.
• 4. Males who are definitely innocent:
• Rollo
• Sir James Maddox
• Daniel
(She put a smiley face next to Rollo, a sad face next to Sir James, and a heart next to Daniel.)
She reread her notes and decided that on the evidence to hand, four men had obvious means (wearing fedoras) and opportunity (being at both Winterton and in London): Albert Carnaby, Harry Gibson, Faizal Osman, and Giles Mortimer. The question that was less clear was motive.
Albert Carnaby was an odd fish, she had to admit. On the basis of what she’d seen at the séance, she would go as far as to say “emotionally disturbed”. Yes, he was a very strong candidate. Harry Gibson she’d known for nearly two years. Like his colleague Lionel Saunders, he was a nasty piece of work and she wouldn’t put it past him to have decided to terrorize her just for the fun of it. It was he, after all, who had been driving the car when the Globe Model T had been pushed off the road. Faizal Osman she’d met just once, but she could not for the life of her fathom why Yasmin Reece-Lansdale’s brother would want to toy with her in such a cruel way. So that just left Giles Mortimer. Again, she had no idea why he might want to do it, but she didn’t know enough about him to discount him, and, she reminded herself, he did work at the British Museum…
A coal dropped onto the hearth. Poppy unfurled herself from the armchair, picked up a pair of tongs, and popped it back into the fire. As she did, the mantelpiece clock struck eleven. Golly, is it that time already?
CHAPTER 21
Poppy was swimming in the sea at Whitley Bay. Her brother was with her. The waves lifted them up and down, their legs kicking frantically under the water to keep them afloat. Their mother called to them from the shore: “Be careful! Don’t go too far out!” and their father waved to them, a pease pudding and ham sandwich in hand. It was getting dark and a light swept over them in a wide arc: it was coming from St Mary’s Lighthouse.
Suddenly her brother cried out and disappeared under the waves. Poppy waited for him to pop back up or to grab her ankle and pull her down, pretending he was a shark. She waited. And she waited. The light from St Mary’s was sweeping from left to right faster and faster. She looked to shore but could no longer see her parents. She thought she could still hear her mother’s voice, distantly calling: “Come back Poppy; come back!” But she couldn’t leave without her brother. She dived under the water to find him.
As her eyes adjusted to the murk, she saw him below her, face down, his arms and legs splayed like a tortoise in his redand-white striped bathers. His blond hair was spread out like a halo. She dived down further and grabbed his collar and pulled him up. His body rotated until he faced her – wearing the death mask of Nefertiti. The beautiful jet eyes bored into Poppy’s. She tore off the mask to reveal the face of her nine-year-old brother, his blue eyes lifeless.
She took a fistful of bathing suit and dragged Christopher upwards, towards the sweeping light. But as she burst through the surface she lost her grip and he drifted away from her, back below the waves. She flipped herself over to dive again but then someone grabbed her shoulders and pulled her upwards. She fought, she screamed, then she stared into the face of the man in the fedora hat. He too was wearing Nefertiti’s death mask. She clawed at the artefact, trying to tear it from her stalker’s face. He laughed and pushed her under the water until her lungs were about to burst.
She screamed. She woke. She cried.
It was eight o’clock when Poppy got off the bus on the Victoria Embankment and walked the short distance to New Scotland Yard. She strode with purpose, utterly incensed with what she had found half an hour earlier on her doormat, and was determined to show it to the police. In her mind it was proof that she had not imagined the events of the previous evening. It was a letter, with her name on it, and no stamp, hand-delivered before the morning post, possibly sometime during the night. She had torn it open.
In a sloping, cursive hand was the following:
Dearest Poppy,
I was so happy to speak to you again after all these years through Madame Minette. However, it hurt me that you ran out of the room.
I understand that you have questions – you were always a curious child – but if you come to another séance I will explain everything.
I have so much I want to say. And messages to send to Mam and Dad too. I came to your house last night but you would not let me in.
I hope one day you will. It is cold and lonely in the spirit realm without you.
I look forward to the day you will join me.
With all my love and deepest affection,
Your brother,
Christopher
Poppy strode into the charge office and slapped the letter down on the desk. But her heart sank when she saw who was manning it: a sergeant with a handlebar moustache. Poppy had had run-ins with this man before. She braced herself for his derision and was surprised when he greeted her with a smile and a “Good morning, Miss Denby. It is Miss Denby, isn’t it?”
“It is. Yes.” She noticed a copy of The Daily Globe open on the counter.
“I see you know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.” The sergeant cocked a thumb toward the paper.
“Er, yes. Well, I’ve met him. Just this weekend.”
The sergeant chuckled. “Pity he didn’t stick around for the death of old Maddox, eh?”
Poppy wasn’t quite sure where this was going, but she played along. The last time she’d tried to lay a charge at this station the sergeant had prevented her from doing so. “It was a tragic death. I doubt Sir Arthur could have prevented it.”
“Not if it was poison, no.”
“It wasn’t poison. It was a heart attack.”
The policeman twirled an end of his moustache around his finger. “Oh no, it was poison. Someone murdered him. The autopsy report’s just come in. But listen, I want to ask you a favour… my missus is a Sherlock Holmes fan, and I was wanting to give her a signed copy for Christmas. I was wondering if you could ask Sir Arthur for me, as a special favour, eh? We coppers and you reporters can help each other out from time to time… isn’t that so?”
Poppy was stunned. Poisoned? Sir James was poisoned? The sergeant was looking at her expectantly. “So can you?”
“Can I what?”
“Ask Sir Arthur to sign a book for my missus.”
“I – er – yes, of course,” said Poppy, not knowing how exactly she would get to see Conan Doyle, but deciding she’d figure that out later. “I’ll see what I can do. What’s your wife’s name?”
The man smiled, his moustache lifting like a set of dumbbells at the gymnasium. “It’s Gladys. Ask him to sign it to Gladys. Thank you, Miss Denby. Good fortune for both of us that you came in today now isn’t it?”
“It is,” a
greed Poppy, now wondering how she could get her hands on the medical report. Rollo would know. She’d best get to the office.
“Was there a reason you came in today? Is there something else I can help you with?”
Yes there was, but the news about Sir James’ poisoning had taken the wind out of her sails. Now that she thought of it, perhaps the poisoning gave it a new significance. It is cold and lonely in the spirit realm without you. I look forward to the day you will join me. Was that a death threat? Was she to be the killer’s next victim? Or was she just being hysterical? She needed to give this some more thought. And talk to Rollo about it. And tell him about Sir James’ murder, before the Courier got wind of it. Perhaps now was not the time to give the note to the police...
“Er no, nothing. I just came in to thank you for sending someone around to my house last night.”
The sergeant frowned. “There was trouble at your house last night?”
“Someone kept knocking on my door. But the constable who came scared him away.”
The sergeant nodded. “Good. It was probably just a drunk at the wrong door. Happens more often than you’d think. But you be careful, Miss Denby. And if there’s anything I can do, just let me know. Sergeant Barnes it is. And don’t forget my missus, Gladys – with a ‘y’.”
“Stop the press!” Poppy burst into the newsroom, then dished out her astonishing information about the murder of Sir James Maddox. All hell broke loose. Rollo got on the blower, confirming Poppy’s story with his contact at Scotland Yard, and then jotted down details of the medical examiner’s report. The poison was digitalis – common foxglove – but also used in heart medication. The examiner discounted a mere accidental overdose, as crystallized remnants of the digitalis, found in Sir James’ moustache, proved to be of a different grade and composition than that used in the medicinal preparations. Either Sir James had been given additional digitalis, or his usual supply had been tampered with. A telephone call to Sir James’ usual physician confirmed that he had not been prescribed anything more than or different to his usual dose, so the medical examiner’s conclusion was that unless it was suicide it was “probably” foul play. It was now up to the police to prove it one way or the other.
Poppy suddenly remembered what Sir James had told her on the walk back from the shoot – he had been late taking his dose that morning because he couldn’t at first find it. Rollo was delighted to hear it and swore the journalists to secrecy. “The Courier will no doubt hear about the ME’s report, but they won’t have that little morsel. Well done Poppy! Ike, Poppy, I think we all need to go to Winterton now.”
“My appointment is at ten o’clock. You won’t have time to do the other two interviews first,” observed Ike.
“Not to worry. I’ll call the nursing home and see if I can reschedule old Wally for later – or another day if needs be. We don’t have an appointment with Madame Minette anyway. If she’s there she’s there and if she’s not she’s not. We can drop in on the way back. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Ike.
Poppy and Rollo climbed into the company car as Ike inserted the crank into the front of the motor. As Ike put his back into getting the old vehicle started, Daniel arrived on his motorbike.
Rollo pushed open his window and briefly told the photographer what had happened and that he should find out if the meeting at the museum was still going to go ahead. “We should be back mid-afternoon at the latest, probably earlier.”
Daniel saluted Rollo, winked at Ike, and smiled, lovingly, at Poppy. Her heart skipped a beat, and she wondered when they would next have a chance to be alone together…
“Tallyho!” cried Rollo as the engine caught and Ike jumped into the driving seat.
The old Model T chundled westwards, winding its way from Fleet Street towards West Cromwell Road, which would take them out of the city. Ike observed that perhaps it might be time for Rollo to invest in a new vehicle. The editor just grunted. He was far more interested in thrashing out various scenarios of who could have “dunnit”.
“So Poppy, who’s top of your list?”
Poppy turned her attention from the passing London streets and the Monday morning commuters to her editor in the front seat. She mulled over the question for a moment, then answered.
“I think Grimes is involved in some way. There’s something about him that bothers me. He might not be my stalker, but he’s shifty, definitely shifty.”
“I agree,” said Rollo, “but what evidence do you have that it’s him?”
“Nothing definitive,” Poppy admitted, “but there’s something about the buckshot cartridge. Daniel told me that buckshot would be able to kill a man, whereas birdshot would just injure. Perhaps the shot was intended for Sir James on the day of the clay shooting outing. Perhaps that was Plan A, and when that failed – when the boy accidentally shot himself in the foot and drew attention to the weaponry – it had to be abandoned. Hence Plan B – the digitalis.”
“Hmmm,” observed Rollo. “I think that’s got some legs. But to me, having a different grade of digitalis on hand suggests forward planning.”
“Might the two plans have been prepared in advance?” suggested Ike as he negotiated a bend. “The digitalis could have been bought just in case the shooting failed.”
Poppy thought about this. “Yes, I think that’s very plausible. But the thing that confuses me is, why two very different types of murder? One is quiet, silent, and perhaps might even have gone undetected; the other loud, overt and very, very public.”
“A shooting could still have been put down to being an accident though. Shooting accidents are an occupational hazard for the British upper classes, aren’t they?” Rollo laughed.
Ike joined in then added: “I think you Americans have the prize for that, Rollo!”
But Poppy wasn’t listening. She was still trying to puzzle out the shooting and poisoning plots.
“What I’d like to know is motive. What would Grimes have to gain?”
“A very good question, Poppy,” observed Rollo, suddenly serious again. “My money’s actually on Lady Ursula, because of that very thing: the almighty dollar. It’s common knowledge that she held the purse strings and that she’d called time on her husband’s extravagant hobby. Yazzie also told me that there is a mortgage out on Winterton and some debtors are taking legal action against the Maddoxes.”
“How would Sir James’ death help her then?” asked Poppy.
Rollo shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll have to do a bit of digging. Perhaps there’s a life insurance policy… I’ll ask Yazzie if she knows anything.”
They drove past a sign that declared they were now on the main road to Henley-on-Thames. They should be at Winterton in under an hour.
“Well, that would be a good motive for murder,” agreed Poppy, “but I’m not ready to let Grimes off the hook yet. He did after all deliver the note to the boy. And he had the cartridge in his coat pocket so he obviously knew about the contents of the letter. Perhaps he and Lady Ursula are in cahoots.”
“I’d go along with that,” agreed Rollo. “I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it. My contact at Scotland Yard told me Henley-upon-Thames have requested help from the Met. Our old friend DCI Jasper Martin will be on the case.”
An image of the short, round, detective came to mind. DCI Martin was an excellent detective – although he had blind spots. With a previous case he had been determined to follow a line of enquiry that would have convicted an innocent person. It was only when Poppy and her colleagues unearthed some crucial information that he was able to redirect his enquiries in the right direction. But between DCI Martin and the Globe team, no doubt the truth would eventually come out. The question was, would they find the killer before he or she struck again? If they were going to strike again. Poppy remembered the note from her stalker. She took it out and showed it to Rollo, describing the events of the previous night and how she had ended up at the police station earlier this morning in time to h
ear the news about Sir James’ murder.
Both men chastised her for not calling someone to come and stay with her the previous evening. “Don’t make the same mistake tonight Poppy,” warned Rollo.
“I won’t.”
CHAPTER 22
As the Model T left the London city limits behind, the snow lay more thickly on fields and dry stone walls. West Cromwell Road became the Great West Road, wending its way along the River Thames, which looked breathtakingly beautiful cloaked in frost. But the old car was not built for such inclement weather, and at one point they got stuck in a dip in the road. Rollo and Poppy had to get out and push until Ike caught traction again. It was with some relief that they eventually turned into the grounds of Winterton Hall, watched by the two sphinxes wearing fluffy white wigs of snow. A few minutes later they pulled up behind a Black Mariah police van, already a quarter of an hour late for Ike’s appointment with Lady Ursula.
They rang the doorbell and didn’t have to wait long for it to be answered by a sombre-faced Grimes. He greeted Poppy and Rollo by name, expressing surprise that they had not telephoned in advance to say they were coming.
“Ah, but I did. I’m Ike Garfield. We spoke yesterday afternoon. Lady Ursula agreed to see me at ten o’clock today. My colleagues here asked if they could catch a lift as they have work to do out this way.”
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