Poisoned Palette

by Jill Paterson

  The entrance to Lyrebird Lodge estate with its tall wrought iron gates set into a stone wall that hugged the shoulder of the road could be clearly seen as the three officers approached. Betts slowed the car and pulled over in front of the constable on duty.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, holding up his warrant card. ‘DS Betts and DCI Fitzjohn. We’ve been called in regarding a suspected homicide.’

  The constable studied the card and nodded. ‘Follow this driveway, sir, and it’ll lead you to the lodge where you’ll find Sergeant Pierce.’

  Betts waved and carried on along the sweeping gravel drive that meandered through a forest of trees and native foliage, the sun’s rays defused by the canopy of leaves rustling in the wind high above.

  Eventually, they emerged into an open paved parking area bordered by shrubbery. In the distance the back of a low rambling dwelling could be seen, its river-stone walls a host of grey and blue shades blending naturally into the surrounding landscape.

  ‘That’s Lyrebird Lodge,’ said Harris from the back seat. ‘The front of the house faces the mountains. I was here on duty once when Florence Fontaine hosted an art exhibition.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts followed Constable Harris along a narrow pathway to the front of the building to find a number of people seated on its wide verandah, their hushed voices ceasing at the appearance of the three men. Fitzjohn surveyed the scene. Dominating the area was the white marquee that the constable at the gate had mentioned and before it, rows of empty chairs facing a lectern where, presumably, the auction had taken place.

  ‘Morning, sir. I’m Sergeant Pierce from Leura.’

  Fitzjohn turned to see a uniformed officer. ‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ he replied. ‘We’ve been asked to attend a possible homicide.’

  ‘Yes, we were told to expect you, sir. You’ll find the body in the marquee.’

  ‘And the people on the verandah? Who are they?’

  ‘They were present when Florence Fontaine collapsed, sir.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps you can assist DS Betts in questioning them, Sergeant.’

  With a determined gait, Fitzjohn crossed the grass and entered the marquee where, amongst the Scenes-of-crime officers going about their tasks gathering forensic evidence, a young man could be seen kneeling beside the body of a woman. He looked up and got to his feet when Fitzjohn appeared.

  ‘Chief Inspector Fitzjohn?’ he asked. Fitzjohn nodded. ‘Chief Superintendent Blake said you’d be along. I’m Brian Rose, the pathologist for the area.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Doctor.’ Fitzjohn looked down at the still form at his feet. A woman in her mid-sixties, he thought, her body on its side, somewhat twisted, the lifeless eyes staring towards the champagne glass that lay on the ground in front of her. Her face looked familiar, no doubt he had seen her photograph at some time in one of the catalogues on art he subscribed to.

  ‘I understand you have doubts as to whether her death was due to natural causes,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘I do because I have a strong suspicion she was poisoned,’ replied Rose. ‘You see the blueish colouration of her face and lips? I’d say it was cyanide. Probably ingested when she drank out of that glass.’ Together they knelt down next to the victim, Fitzjohn paying special attention to the index finger on the woman’s right hand that encircled the stem of the glass. ‘If you get close enough, you’ll notice there’s a slight smell of almonds, a tell-tale sign of cyanide,’ continued Rose. ‘Of course, I might be wrong, after all, I’m not a forensic pathologist.’

  ‘But you don’t believe you’re wrong,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Fitzjohn, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll have the body transported to the Parramatta Morgue where a post mortem can be performed. I’ll have their forensic pathologist, Charles Conroy, contacted and told to expect you.’ Fitzjohn looked down again at the body and shook his head. ‘The world has lost a great artist, Doctor.’

  Fitzjohn emerged from the marquee and retraced his steps. He found Betts seated in one of the chairs in front of the lectern talking to a fair-haired young woman, the knuckles of her clasped hands white.

  ‘Sir, this is Claire Reynolds, Florence Fontaine’s business manager. She was with Ms Fontaine when she collapsed.’

  ‘My sympathy, Ms Reynolds,’ said Fitzjohn, sensing Claire’s anguish.

  ‘Was it a heart attack?’ she asked, tears glistening in her eyes.

  ‘Unfortunately, we won’t know exactly how Ms Fontaine died until after a post mortem has been performed.’

  ‘I wish that wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘It’s unfortunate, but under the circumstances, unavoidable, I’m afraid,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘You see, the pathologist has reservations as to the cause of death that has necessitated our presence. It also means there are questions we need to ask.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘I know you’ve spoken to DS Betts about what you saw here this morning but are you able to go through it again with me?’

  ‘Yes, but as I mentioned to your sergeant, it’s all a bit of a blur.’

  ‘That’s to be expected. Why don’t you take a seat over there?’ Fitzjohn indicated to a bench at the far end of the garden that faced the mountains. ‘I’ll be with you in just a moment.’

  ‘She’s fairly shaken,’ said Fitzjohn as they watched Claire Reynolds cross the grass.

  ‘I might be wrong but I think it’s more than that, sir. When we spoke she seemed distracted, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.’

  ‘It’s not surprising after witnessing someone die,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Mmm. You’re probably right. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll do a lot better than me, sir, with that fatherly approach of yours.’ Betts gave a wry smile.

  ‘You must be referring to my innate ability to impart a sense of security in those I question. Works every time. But seriously, Betts, who else have you spoken to?’

  ‘Just a couple of the people over there on the verandah, sir. Sergeant Pierce said they’re all locals except for the two gentlemen at the far end.’ Fitzjohn followed Betts’s gaze. ‘One is an architect from Sydney who was engaged by the victim to design an annexe she wanted to be built. The other is an American tourist.’

  Leaving Betts to carry on questioning witnesses, Fitzjohn walked over to where Claire Reynolds sat staring out across the wide expanse of mountains, her hand unconsciously twisting the silver bracelet on her wrist. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Ms Reynolds,’ he said as he settled himself next to her on the bench. ‘I’m a great admirer of Florence Fontaine’s work. What’s happened here today is a tragedy.’ Fitzjohn waited a moment before he continued. ‘I understand you were with her when she collapsed.’

  ‘Yes. I’d left the marquee momentarily but when I heard a scream; probably from someone who could see Florence was in trouble, I ran back inside to find her gasping for breath. She collapsed into my arms.’ Claire let out a sigh. ‘It was all so quick.’

  A moment of silence ensued before Fitzjohn asked, ‘How long had you worked for Ms Fontaine?’

  ‘Seven months, so not long.’

  ‘But long enough to have an idea if there was anyone who might wish her harm.’

  Claire looked at Fitzjohn. ‘You don’t think it was a heart attack, do you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘As I said earlier, the cause of death has still to be determined, but as there’s some doubt, we need to know as much as possible about Ms Fontaine and the people she interacted with.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’ Claire shook her head slightly. ‘It’s hard to imagine anyone would want to hurt Florence even though...’

  ‘Even though what?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Well, to be quite honest, Florence wasn’t blessed with a lot of patience. She could be brusque with people at times, but I wouldn’t have thought her manner would have led to this.’

  ‘Was she a difficult person to work for?’

  ‘Not if you worked hard and caught on to what she wanted imme
diately.’

  ‘And if you didn’t?’

  ‘Then you’d see another side of Florence.’ Claire paused. ‘Let’s just say she didn’t suffer fools gladly.’

  ‘And the auction. Was it Florence’s idea?’

  ‘No, it was mine,’ replied Claire after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Florence wanted to raise money to establish a gallery in Sydney for aspiring artists to enable them to exhibit their work. I thought an auction would be the best way to do that. As it turned out, it was a great success. Everything sold. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Florence quite so excited and happy but now… I should never have suggested it.’ Claire pressed her lips together before she looked back over her shoulder towards the auctioneer’s lectern. A long silence prevailed.

  Fitzjohn waited before he continued. ‘I understand most of the bidders had left at the time of her collapse.’

  ‘That’s right. Just a handful of people stayed on, mostly locals. I think it might have prompted Florence to suggest a toast to the auction’s success.’

  ‘Did you meet any of the people who aren’t local?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I met one of them briefly before the auction started. He’s a tourist from the US. The others I knew of. Florence’s stepsister, Carolyn Winter and her husband Frank. She’s the woman you can see sitting on the verandah in the red dress. The man next to her is her husband. The other is an architect that Florence engaged to design an annexe where she could hold her artist’s retreats. Actually, he arrived a day too early. His appointment with Florence and me was really for tomorrow. Anyway, he said he planned to stay on for the auction because there was a painting he wanted to bid for.’

  ‘Were you Ms Fontaine’s only employee, Ms Reynolds?’

  ‘No. There’s also Laura Evans. She is the sales assistant in Florence’s art shop in Leura.’ Claire paused and cast a searching look over those people who remained. ‘That’s odd. I don’t see Aiden Farrell or his daughter. I know they were here at the time.’ Claire looked back at Fitzjohn. ‘They must have left during the commotion.’

  ‘Are they locals?’

  ‘Yes. Aiden runs a café in the village called The Dandelion. He also owns the properties on either side of Lyrebird Lodge.’

  ‘I see. So, he’s a neighbour,’ said Fitzjohn, looking towards the woodland that ran along the estate’s boundary. ‘Was he also a friend of Ms Fontaine’s?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that,’ replied Claire as Florence’s last remark of “utter pest” came to mind.

  ‘Can you give me your account of what happened leading up to Ms Fontaine’s collapse?’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘For instance, were there any upsets?’

  Fitzjohn noted Claire Reynolds’ hesitation before she replied, ‘Only one involving Audrey Green. Apparently, she and Florence had words when Mrs Green first arrived.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t witness this exchange,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘No. Laura Evans mentioned it just after I arrived.’

  ‘I see. Anything else?’

  ‘Only that Florence was annoyed that Aiden and her stepsister were here.’

  ‘Do you know why that was?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘She said the only reason Aiden was here was because he wanted to convince her to sell Lyrebird Lodge. Apparently, he’s been pestering her for some time about it. He cornered me at one point to ask me to persuade her to speak to him.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. I told him to make an appointment with Florence for next week.’

  ‘What about her stepsister? Did she tell you why she didn’t want her here?’

  Claire glanced again at the woman in the red dress. ‘Florence’s words were, “She only turns up when she wants something; and that’ll be money”’.

  ‘It doesn’t sound like they were on speaking terms.’

  ‘It appeared that way,’ replied Claire.

  ‘What happened when the auction finished?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘We all moved into the marquee for the toast.’

  ‘I see.’ Fitzjohn paused for a moment. ‘You said earlier that you left momentarily. Why was that?’

  Claire started to twist the bracelet on her wrist again. ‘It was because someone had bumped into me and I spilt champagne on my dress. I stepped outside to wipe it off.’ She winced and pushed a few wisps of hair that had escaped their clip away from her face.

  Sensing her growing anxiety, Fitzjohn said, ‘I think we’ll leave it there, for now, Ms Reynolds. I appreciate it hasn’t been an easy task.’

  ‘What will happen now? To Florence, I mean,’ asked Claire.

  ‘Her body will be taken to the Parramatta Morgue. It’s regrettable, and I am sorry.’

  Claire nodded and with a sigh, looked away.

  Fitzjohn got to his feet and returned to the lodge where he found Betts. ‘How did you get on?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve spoken to everyone, sir, including the auctioneer, the catering staff and Ms Fontaine’s other employee, Laura Evans.’

  ‘What about the stepsister?’

  ‘I tried but it seems she’s unwell.’

  ‘In shock, do you think?’

  ‘I’d say that mixed with too much champagne, sir. I told her husband he could take her back to their hotel and they’ll be contacted later.’

  ‘I understand from Ms Reynolds that they’re not locals.’

  ‘No. They were just passing through to visit the victim after holidaying in Queensland. They’re staying at the Hydro Majestic in Medlow Bath. And since Laura Evans mention that she saw Florence Fontaine arguing with her stepsister when she first arrived this morning, it could be why they’re staying in a hotel.’

  ‘I see. Okay, we’ll keep that in mind when we make out our report,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘What about the architect? Did he mention he’d arrived a day early for his appointment with Claire Reynolds and the victim?’

  ‘No, he didn’t, sir.’

  ‘Okay. Anything else?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Just one thing, sir. I have a copy of the auctioneer’s list of sales, but those who left without making a purchase might pose a challenge if we need to speak to any of them.’

  ‘Fortunately, we can leave that to the Springwood Police to deal with, Betts, along with another matter concerning a café owner and neighbour of Ms Fontaine’s who, it seems, didn’t wait around after she collapsed. His name’s Aiden Farrell.’ Betts made a note. ‘Let’s get back to the station and hand everything over so we can get back to Sydney.’

  Under a threatening slate grey sky and with the first drops of rain falling, the three officers climbed into their car and drove back along the winding drive to the sound of crunching gravel.

  ‘I wonder if Claire Reynolds had a connection with anyone who purchased art work here today,’ said Fitzjohn, settling himself into his seat.

  ‘Why, sir?’ asked Betts as he waved to the constable still on duty at the entrance to the estate.

  ‘Because the auction was her idea.’ Betts gave Fitzjohn a questioning look. ‘Think about it,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘You organise an auction of a well-known artist’s work. Arrange to have someone bid for a few of those paintings after which you murder the artist. If I’m not mistaken, Florence Fontaine’s work is sky rocketing in value as we speak.’ Fitzjohn looked at his young sergeant. ‘I know, Claire Reynolds doesn’t fit the image of someone who could or would do such a thing but nevertheless, it is something that must be followed up.’

  CHAPTER 3

  By mid-afternoon and with a hollow feeling deep within, Claire left Lyrebird Lodge with its continued police presence and walked along the rain soaked pathway to the parking area. A solitary figure, she reached her car as the ambulance, carrying Florence’s body, passed by making its way slowly along the driveway. Even when it had disappeared through the trees she remained riveted where she stood, unable to move as she tried to grapple with what had happened. With rising anxiety and oblivious to the rain that ran down her face blu
rring her vision, the look of horror on Florence’s face as she gasped for breath remained in her mind’s eye, taunting her. It was then she sensed movement and swung around.

  ‘Mr Avery!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  Claire’s shoulders slumped as she watched Matthew Avery’s tall frame emerge from the mist shrouded tree line. ‘I didn’t realise you were still here,’ she said.

  ‘I waited because I thought with the police being called in there must be some doubt as to the cause of Ms Fontaine’s death.’

  Claire wiped the rain from her face. ‘All I know is there’s to be a post mortem,’ she replied, puzzled as to why this virtual stranger should be so concerned about Florence’s fate. ‘I’m sorry but I really have to go.’ Giving a quick smile, she opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel and as she drove away, watched Avery’s motionless figure fade into the mist. His interest in Florence continued to niggle her, however, but as she entered the village her thoughts returned to Florence when she pulled over in front of the Fontaine Gallery & Art Shop. Housed in one of Leura’s original buildings, Florence had overseen it’s restoration of the outside to its former glory and, with no expense spared, had refurbished the interior to create an impressive gallery where she could display her works as well as an art shop through a connecting archway.

  Clare glanced through the car window at its façade. Everything was as it always was when she arrived to open up; the glass door with its “Closed” sign in the centre and the tall easel in the window displaying one of Florence’s paintings. But this afternoon there was one difference because the interior lights were on. Curious, she climbed out of the car and approached the front door to find it ajar. Inside, she could see Laura making adjustments to a painting on the far wall, her small diminutive figure dwarfed by the room’s high ceiling and the large painting she stood in front of.