abruptly past her and out into the corridor, Kathy on her heels. The main stairs lay ahead, and Poppy was down them and out into the front lobby before she caught up with her.
‘Poppy!’
But Poppy didn’t stop until they were out on the street and Kathy had hold of her arm.
‘Let me go!’ she yelled in a real state of panic, and a passer-by stared at the two of them.‘Leave me alone or I’ll fucking scream!’
‘Poppy, for God’s sake, talk to me!’
She glared wild-eyed at Kathy. ‘Don’t you see? It’s a warning to Stan, not by Stan!’ Then she turned and ran off through the rain.
18
Kathy took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and began walking west down Piccadilly. The rain had eased to an irregular spit and umbrellas were being folded away. She passed the arched entrance to the forecourt of the Royal Academy where a large group was waiting to get into a new exhibition, then she turned into Burlington Arcade. The little shops lining the arcade were stuffed with luxury items-jewellery, clothing, travel paraphernalia and curious little accessories that might have been essential to the ladies and gentlemen of another age-and Kathy couldn’t help thinking that, as desirable objects went, they could hardly be more different from the pieces that Stan Dodworth had to offer.
At the north end of the arcade she continued into Cork Street, lined with commercial art galleries. She spotted the sign for Adrian Schropp’s and pushed the door into a brightly lit space displaying large hazy landscapes, painted, so the publicity said, by a well-known Norwegian artist. A young woman at the front desk pointed the way to stairs leading down to a basement, crammed with paintings in tall racks, at the back of which Kathy found the owner’s office.
‘Mr Schropp?’ She tapped on the door, and a large man with plump pink features emerged with outstretched hand.
‘Do come in. Grab a pew.’ They settled themselves. His accent was an odd mixture of upper-class English and German. ‘Vell, you seem to have your hands full over in Northcote Square, by all accounts. After you phoned I listened to the news on the radio. My goodness! Poor Mrs Zielinski!’ Adrian Schropp’s jowls trembled indignantly.
‘Yes. As I said, Mr Gilbey thought you might be able to help me make sure that all of her artworks are accounted for.’
Schropp leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You think theft vas the motive? My God, the violence they use now!’ He shuddered.
‘Not necessarily, it’s just something we have to check. It seems her paintings were her only valuables.’
He nodded vigorously. ‘Mm, mm, that vas my impression, too. I called in at her house several times during visits to Reg, vhen she vanted to sell something. Some of the furniture may be worth something, but so bulky! I tried to check my records…’ He indicated papers pulled from the drawers of a filing cabinet.‘I’m not sure if I’ve found them all, but I can probably remember, anyvay. Do you vant to know vhat vas there or vhat I bought?’
‘Both, if you can. I have a list of what’s left there now, and Reg told me what he could remember.’ She handed over the typed lists and he considered them.
‘Ah, the Ben Nicholson, I’d forgotten that… Mm, mm, that looks pretty complete. Vait a minute, there vas a little Bacon, mm, very tasty.’
He smacked his lips appreciatively and Kathy was unsure if he was talking about food.‘Bacon?’
‘Mm, Francis Bacon, a little study for one of his figures at the base of the crucifixion. I made her an offer for it the last time I vas there, towards the end of last year…’He rummaged through the papers.‘Here ve go, last December, she sold me a small Eric Ravilious vatercolour, but she never vent ahead vith the Bacon. Maybe she got a better offer.’
‘She was in touch with other dealers then, was she?’
‘I vasn’t avare of any until that last time. I mean I vouldn’t have minded if she had got a second opinion, of course, but I alvays offered her a fair price and Reg told her not to bother.’
‘But last December she said she had spoken to other dealers?’
‘Yes, she said Fergus Tait had been around to have a look at her things, and had been quite interested in several of them.’
‘Fergus Tait? I thought he was strictly contemporary.’
‘Oh yes, but he vouldn’t let an opportunity pass him by.’ Schropp chuckled. ‘Come to think of it, of all the things she had, the Bacon would be most up his street- rather bizarre, and vith a quite contemporary feel to it.’
‘Could you describe it to me?’
‘Mm, not easy. An oil sketch, roughly eighteen inches square, grey figure, orange background. The figure is strange, like a dog vith a long neck and a mouth instead of a head.’
‘Thanks. Any others you can remember?’
‘No, I’m pretty sure that’s the lot.’
Kathy closed her notebook.‘Well, thanks very much for your help, Mr Schropp.’
‘Adrian, please. Delighted to be of service. And how is Reg these days? I must call in again. I dare say these horrible events vill have shaken him up. You know the poor voman vas a model of his, years ago? I just hope it doesn’t put him off that portrait he’s doing. Have you seen it?’
‘The judge? Yes, it looked pretty well finished to me.’
‘I hope so. I vas the one who recommended Reg to Sir
J. He’ll never forgive me if the old rascal doesn’t finish it in time for the exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery.’
‘You know Sir Jack, then?’
‘Oh yes, he’s been a client for years. A great collector, and not just from me. He’s even invested in some of Fergus Tait’s monstrosities.’ He led Kathy back to the stairs. ‘Did you have a look at our show upstairs? Vonderfully atmospheric, aren’t they? Perhaps I could interest you in one?’
Kathy smiled.‘That would be great, but I’d have to find a bigger place to live first.’
‘Who are you interested in?’ Schropp was being flirtatious.
Kathy wasn’t sure, but the name that popped into her head was the one that Deanne and Reg Gilbey had said Gabe Rudd was obsessed by.‘Henry Fuseli?’
Schropp looked both surprised and impressed. ‘Vell, that’s a minority taste all right. You’ve been to the Royal Academy?’ Seeing the puzzlement on Kathy’s face he said, ‘His Diploma Vork. Every painter elected to the Academy must give them a piece of their vork in exchange for the diploma, and these hundreds of vorks make up their permanent collection. Of course not all are on display, but you should take a look.’
Kathy did as he suggested on her way back to the tube station, passing up the great entrance flight of stairs to the lobby, where she was directed to the permanent collection. There she did finally find Fuseli’s 1790 Diploma painting entitled Thor Battering the Midgard Serpent, depicting a muscular male figure on a boat, cloak flying, arm raised to strike a sea monster rising from the waves. Kathy thought it melodramatic and rather absurd.
Brock, meanwhile, had been called away to another senior management meeting. He was able to gauge the deepening crisis by the increasingly peremptory manner of Commander Sharpe’s secretary, who gave the impression of holding him personally responsible for all the troubles her boss was enduring. On this occasion he seemed to be the first to arrive.
Sharpe waved him to a seat at the conference table. Once there would have been the offer of coffee, but such niceties had gone by the wayside.
‘I asked you to come before the others, Brock. Couple of things we need to cover. First, what’s the progress on Northcote Square?’
Brock gave him a brief summary, which only seemed to deepen his gloom.
‘No progress, then. What about the email from the murderer? Can’t you trace it?’
