[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 9

  Poppy ascended the stairs, pushed open the door fully, and stepped out onto a catwalk. There was enough light from the moon and the streetlights below to show that the narrow pathway circumvented the roof of the gallery, leading towards the tower on the far side. As far as Poppy knew, the tower – with its arched cupola, covering what could have been a belfry, but it had no bells – was merely a folly, with no access from the main building, apart from the roof. The catwalk appeared to have been installed for workmen to maintain the roof tiles and gutters. There was a ladder of around ten feet in height leading up the side of the tower from the far side of the catwalk.

  “Agnes!” Poppy called into the cool autumn night. “Are you out here?”

  There was no answer, but then a light – possibly a match – flashed briefly under the cupola of the tower. She’s having a cigarette. Silly place to have one…

  Poppy, who was feeling a little unstable after her two glasses of champagne, decided not to try to negotiate the catwalk, high above the city streets, and resolved to go back inside. She reminded herself that Agnes was not her responsibility. If the woman was trying to avoid the publicity of the exhibition then that was Gerald’s job to deal with, not hers. And if she just wanted some time alone after, perhaps, an emotional encounter with her mother, Poppy felt she should just leave her. She understood how difficult mother-daughter relationships could be.

  Poppy slipped Agnes’ comb into her little evening bag and reminded herself to give it back to her later.

  But just as she clasped the door handle, she heard the sound of raised voices behind her. One voice was clearly recognizable as Agnes’. And it sounded terrified. “Leave me alone! Leave me, I tell you!” The other voice retorted but was lower, quieter, and less distinct. Poppy could not place it. Nor whether it was male or female. But one thing she was sure of –

  Agnes was very upset.

  “Agnes! Agnes! Are you all right?”

  Poppy threw caution to the wind, lifted up her dress train and picked her way along the narrow catwalk, grateful for the railing running along the side of the roof. Still, it was a low barrier, the walkway was damp, and her dress and shoes were not designed for clambering around on rooftops. But Agnes needed her. The shouting had turned to screams and Poppy could now see the silhouette of two people struggling under the cupola of the tower. Agnes, her long hair loose and flailing, was blocking Poppy’s view of her assailant. Poppy called out again: “Stop! Stop it! Leave her alone!”

  But then her foot caught in her hem and she stumbled. She threw out her arms and grabbed the railing, arresting her fall. For one awful moment she caught sight of the cobbled street and pavement of Higham Place below her, imagining herself lying there, broken on a blanket of fallen oak leaves. She took deep breaths to steady herself, then looked up to the tower, just in time to see Agnes clutch her throat, step backwards, and fall over the railing. There was no sound until the body hit the pavement below with a sickening thud. Poppy screamed.

  CHAPTER 9

  Does anyone have any brandy?”

  Aunt Dot took a hip flask from a helpful gentleman and held it to Poppy’s lips. Poppy was shaking uncontrollably, despite three layers of jackets placed over her shoulders.

  Walter Foster, Peter MacMahon, and his photographer came through the door to the back stairwell, shaking their heads.

  “Whoever was there isn’t there now, Poppy, but…” Peter looked anxiously at Delilah and Dot, hovering over Poppy, “…you’re right. Someone has fallen off the tower.”

  A gasp went around the green room, which was quickly filling up as guests, on hearing that something terrible had happened, made their way back from the various exhibition halls.

  Poppy saw, once again, in her mind’s eye, Agnes falling, her hair billowing around her like a black cloak. Poppy remembered how she’d got up and immediately ran towards the tower. But then she’d stumbled again, tripping over her train. This time she fell towards the roof and her head slammed against the tiles. Everything went dark. In retrospect, she couldn’t say how long she had lain there. Had it been seconds? Minutes? Or longer? Whatever it was, it was long enough for Agnes’ assailant to slip past her and back into the gallery. Had he gone down into the stables and out onto the street, slipping away into the maze of streets and alleys in this part of Newcastle? Or perhaps he – if it were a he – had come back inside. Poppy looked around her at the anxious faces of Agnes’ guests. There was Gerald and Gus… and Delilah and Grace… and there was the young girl Edna, crying in heaving sobs. Dante Sherman was in earnest conversation with the three journalists who had just been out on the roof.

  “I’m calling the police!” he announced and stalked off.

  “Wh-where are Agnes’ brother and mother?” asked Poppy.

  Dot looked around her. “I can’t see them. Anyone?”

  Maddie Sherman, Dante’s mother, stepped forward. “They ran out as soon as the fellows came in and said someone has fallen off the roof. Oh dear God, you don’t think…”

  She looked at those huddled around her, as the realization dawned on all of them, that if it were Agnes who had fallen, her family were about to see her dead body.

  “But – but –” said Poppy, clutching at straws, “what if she’s just injured? It was a long fall, over three storeys, but people have survived worse, haven’t they?” Poppy thrust the flask back at Dot, tossed off two of the three jackets, got up, and ran towards the rotunda landing, followed by the rest of the guests. At the top of the stairwell she was overtaken by Peter MacMahon, Gus North, and some of the younger men, who sprinted down the stairs two at a time.

  By the time Poppy and the rest of the guests got downstairs, through the Marble Hall, and out of the front door onto Higham Place, there was already a small group of people gathered at the foot of the tower. On her knees, with her daughter’s head on her lap, was Mrs Robson. She was sobbing and repeating the same phrase, over and over again: “Oh me bairn, me poor bonny bairn.”

  A devastated Jeremy Robson stood behind her, wringing his hat in his hands. Also on her knees was a nursing sister, in uniform. Poppy looked beyond her to the lying-in hospital where a group of pregnant women and their attendants had gathered in the doorway.

  A huffing, out-of-breath Gerald Farmer appeared at Poppy’s right shoulder. “Is she dead?”

  “I – I – think so,” said Poppy. “If she wasn’t I – I – think they’d be rushing her off to hospital. There’s a nurse with her, but she doesn’t look like she’s treating her.”

  “Oh God.”

  Just then, Gus North emerged from the huddle and walked towards them, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was signing something. He appeared too distraught to speak.

  “Are you sure?” asked Gerald, his voice incredulous.

  “What is it?” asked Poppy.

  “I think –” said Gerald, swallowing hard before continuing, “I think Gus just said Agnes’ throat has been cut. But I could be wrong. Am I wrong, Gus?”

  Gus shook his head slowly and sadly, then ran his finger along his throat.

  The string quartet had packed up and the caterers cleared the detritus of the evening’s refreshments by the time the witnesses to Agnes’ death returned to the building. It hadn’t taken long for the police to arrive from the station on Pilgrim Street, in the form of DI Sandy Hawkes, his sergeant (a fellow called Jones), and four constables. Poppy watched as Sandy took control of the scene, asking the nurse to bring a sheet from the hospital and to take Mrs Robson and her son back with her, under her care. After the immediate family and the nurse left the scene, Sergeant Jones set about creating a cordon around the body, positioning the four constables at compass points, and barking at the photographer from the Journal to “have some respect for the dead”.

  Sandy turned to the crowd and asked who had found the body.

  “Technically that would be Agnes’ mother and brother, and I think the nurse,” said Peter MacMahon, for once his face devoid of its cheeky smil
e. “But Foster and I spotted her from the roof and –” he cast a glance over his shoulder to the ashen-faced Poppy, “Miss Denby believes she saw her fall.”

  Sandy locked eyes with Poppy. The charming tennis partner was no longer. In his place was a steely, professional police officer. “Is that right, Miss Denby?”

  “It is,” said Poppy, “I saw Agnes arguing with someone and – although I can’t be sure – I think she was pushed.”

  Everyone from inside the gallery had already heard this, yet could not restrain themselves from letting out another gasp of horror. That, coupled with the quickly circulated news that Agnes’ throat had been cut, meant there was no doubt in any of their minds that they were at the scene of a murder. The air was charged with ghoulish curiosity and abject sorrow, depending on how close in life the onlookers had been to the deceased.

  Sandy’s eyes narrowed. “Right, then I’ll need to speak to MacMahon, Foster, and Miss Denby. Did anyone else see Miss Robson go into the tower? Or know that she intended to?”

  Gerald Farmer raised a nervous hand. “Farmer, Gerald Farmer. I am – was – Agnes’ manager. I think I might have been one of the last to see her. I was chatting to her, then she said she needed to go to powder her nose. I never saw her again after that until – until – Miss Denby here came in in a state, telling us she’d seen Agnes fall…”

  He started to choke up, and Gus put a calming arm around his shoulder.

  There was a shuffling silence from the crowd as they waited for the inspector to respond.

  “All right. Then for now – and I mean just for now – the rest of you are free to go.”

  “Er – excuse me, Sandy – I mean, DI Hawkes – do you need me?”

  “No, Miss Marconi. You may leave. But first, please give your name and address to Sergeant Jones. And that goes for the rest of you too. We will be in touch with each of you over the next few days. Do any of you intend to leave town?”

  Again there was silence but then a quivering female voice said: “S-sorry Inspector, we – me and the lass – need to go home to Ashington. Is that all right?”

  Mrs Storey had her arm around a quivering, sobbing Edna. Poppy was glad to see Sandy’s face soften as he looked towards the mother and child. “Aye, that’s fine. Ashington isn’t too far. Now take the girl home. I’m sorry she had to see all this.”

  Mrs Storey nodded, caught the eye of the art teacher, and asked: “Will you take us home?”

  The young man said he would. After the Ashington folk left, the rest of the crowd formed a makeshift queue to give the sergeant their details. Then Sandy indicated, with his finger, that the self-identified witnesses should follow him. “Oh, and Mr Sherman, will you come too please? I will need someone from the gallery to show me around.”

  “We’ll wait for you, Poppy,” said Aunt Dot, with Grace behind her holding the handles of her wheelchair.

  “No need for that, Miss Denby, I will give Miss Denby – Miss Poppy Denby, that is – a lift home. I shall visit you and Mrs Wilson tomorrow. And you too, Mrs Sherman; I believe you live nearby?”

  “I do,” said Maddie Sherman, hovering at her son’s shoulder. “Number six. Just two doors down. Shall I come to Miss Denby’s house?”

  “If you could, that would be very helpful.”

  “And what time will that be?”

  “Whenever I am able to, madame,” said DI Hawkes and he turned on his heel. Aunt Dot, Grace, Maddie, and Professor Reid from the art school huddled together and waited for Sergeant Jones to take their details as Poppy, Gerald, Gus, Dante Sherman, and the two journalists accompanied the inspector back into the gallery.

  “Right,” said Sandy, “talk me through it. Mr Farmer, is it?”

  “It is.”

  “So where were you when you were speaking to Miss Robson?”

  “In the main exhibition hall,” said Gerald, leading the group from the rotunda landing into Gallery A where Agnes’ paintings lined the walls. Poppy realized she still hadn’t actually had a chance to look at the exhibition. She felt a lump form in her throat. Dear God, poor Agnes. Please, help us to find out who did this to her.

  “And I was standing right here, I think, in front of this still life of Lilies in a Vase. And Gus was over there in front of The Railway Family. Isn’t that right, Gus?”

  Gus nodded.

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Oh, this and that. She was asking how I was feeling – I’d had a gippy stomach – and thanked me – thanked us – for coming up anyway. She’d told me that she’d had some tricky interviews with some journalists…”

  Sandy cast a glance at Peter MacMahon and Walter Foster.

  “We did nothing more than our jobs, Hawkes,” said Peter.

  Sandy raised his hand to silence him. “You can tell me about it later, MacMahon. And you too, Foster. For now I want to follow Miss Robson’s last movements. Carry on, Mr Farmer.”

  “Well, that was the main thrust of it really. Oh, that and her idea about the bursary for artistic girls. She wanted me to action that straight away. She said she had spoken to Dot Denby and Grace Wilson about it and they were keen to get involved.”

  Gus pulled at Gerald’s sleeve and began signing. Gerald, with a deep look of concentration on his face, translated. “Gus says – I think – that he was shocked – no, not shocked, surprised – that Mrs Wilson would be interested in helping Agnes.”

  “Oh, and why’s that?” asked Sandy.

  “Well, because Grace Wilson and Agnes have a bit of history. Going back to their suffragette days. You see, it’s all about –”

  “It’s all been cleared up now,” said Poppy, anxious not to let Grace be dragged into a murder investigation without her being there to defend herself. “I can tell you about it later,” she added, when Sandy gave her an interrogative stare.

  “All right then. I look forward to hearing about it. So… what else did Miss Robson say before she left you?”

  “Well, that was it to me. She then spoke briefly to Gus, but I didn’t see that. Mr MacMahon was asking me to clarify some things for his article. Gus, what did she say to you?”

  Gus spoke briefly with his hands.

  Gerald nodded. “She just asked him if he was enjoying himself.”

  “And that’s all?” asked Hawkes, looking at Gus.

  Gus nodded.

  “Did she seem upset when she left?”

  “Not at all,” said Gerald. “She seemed relieved that we were here and was beginning to relax. She said she’d see us later. Isn’t that right Gus?”

  Gus nodded.

  “And which way did she go to powder her nose after she spoke to you, Mr North?” asked Hawkes.

  Gus pointed down the gallery. “That way.”

  “So,” said Sandy, wandering in the direction Gus had pointed. “Where does this lead?”

  “Not to the ladies’ cloakroom,” said Dante Sherman. “We only have facilities on the ground floor. That door leads to Gallery B. Part of it is blocked off to make a temporary green room – for the artist and her entourage to relax in – but the rest of it is still part of our permanent exhibition.”

  Sandy pushed open the door to Gallery B and took in the screened-off area in the right-hand corner and the rest of the gallery to the left. “What’s over there?” he asked, pointing down the length of the gallery to double doors at the end.

  “That leads to Gallery C and then beyond that Gallery D. Have you not been to the Laing, Inspector?” Dante asked.

  “I have not. Shall we get back to the business at hand? Right, so we’ve just been in Gallery A; this is Gallery B, which interconnects with two further galleries. Am I correct?”

  “You are, Inspector. The four galleries form an interconnecting square. The entrances to Galleries A and D are on the rotunda.”

  Peter looked back over his shoulder. “So, Miss Robson could have been taking a roundabout route to get to the landing and then down the stairs to the cloakroom?”

&n
bsp; “She could have,” said Dante, “or perhaps she just didn’t know where she was going.”

  “Or perhaps she just got lost,” chipped in Poppy. “It’s a complicated layout.”

  Dante glowered at her as if she had just personally insulted him.

  Sandy gave her a flicker of a smile which was instantly replaced by his professional facade.

  “And where were you while Mr Farmer and Mr North were in conversation with Miss Robson, Miss Denby?”

  “I was on the rotunda. With Delilah. Having a drink.”

  Poppy wondered if she should mention that it had actually been two drinks – albeit two small ones – but she decided not to, just in case the policeman might question her ability to recollect events. She was quite sober, but she did not want to have to justify herself to that effect.

  “And did you see Miss Robson emerge from – what was it now – Gallery D?”

  “No I didn’t. Agnes came out of neither of the doors – to galleries A or D.”

  Sandy nodded, taking it all in. “All right then, how did you get from here to when you saw Agnes in the tower?”

  “I was – er – I went looking for her and ended up on the roof.”

  Golly, just as well I didn’t mention the second drink. I sound as though I was squiffy!

  Sandy gave her a curious look. “And how – and why – did you end up on the roof?”

  Poppy explained how she and Delilah were looking for Agnes and then she’d spotted the door at the back of the temporary green room open. She led the inspector and the rest of the witnesses to the door in question.

  “Is this door always open?” Sandy asked Dante Sherman.

  “No. It’s usually locked. The staff have keys though.”

  Sandy nodded. “Will you be able to give me a list of all the staff members with keys?”

  “I can.”

  Sandy asked Poppy to lead them on the route she followed when looking for Agnes. She told him that she had considered that Agnes might have gone down to the stables until she spotted the comb on the steps above her, leading to the roof.