‘Wouldn’t that be better coming from you?’ asked Claire, indignantly.
‘No. It’s much better if it comes from you, my dear. As a trusted employee you can use your persuasive powers to stress the benefits of an immediate and private sale.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Farrell. I can’t do that.’ Claire went to close the door again but as she did so she found Farrell’s shoe in the door-jamb.
‘You can and you will. Otherwise…’
‘Otherwise what?’ Claire’s brow furrowed.
‘Let’s just say it’ll be in your best interest to cooperate.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘I’ll have to tell the police how intensely you disliked Florence. In fact, things had got so bad between the two of you that you could hardly bear to be in the same room with the woman.’
‘But that’s not true. You know it isn’t,’ replied Claire in disbelief.
‘The police don’t know that and who are they going to believe if I provide them with just a whiff of motive.’
‘Do you know something about Florence’s death? You didn’t…’
‘Just do what I say, Claire. It’ll save you a lot of grief, believe me. I want Lyrebird Lodge. If I don’t get it you’ll find yourself the number one suspect in a murder investigation. I’ll make sure of it.’
Claire slammed the door and shot the bolt across before she leaned back against it, a deep sense of panic rising from within. Did Aiden Farrell have something to do with Florence’s death? After all, he has coveted her estate for a long time. Had he become impatient with her constant refusals to sell and decided to kill her? Claire returned to the warmth of the living room and slumped down onto the sofa, chilled by this thought and others. If she did not do as Farrell demanded and became of interest to the police, no doubt they would look into her past. It was a place she did not relish revisiting even though her recollection was only what she had been told and had witnessed in her dark dreams; the flames licking the feet of the man whose dead eyes stared at her, pleading to be brought back to life. Claire covered her face with her hands and wept.
CHAPTER 6
Met by a howling wind and biting cold, Fitzjohn and Betts arrived back at Springwood Police Station by mid-morning and made their way inside. ‘I have an awful feeling this is a taste of the winter to come,’ said Fitzjohn, hurrying through the front entrance and into the warmth. ‘I hate cold weather. It’s one of the reasons Edith and I left the UK, so we could bask in warm weather and sunshine.’
‘I doubt you’ll get much opportunity to bask in the mountains,’ replied Betts as they passed through the electronic door to the inner office. ‘The weather up here tends to be on the cool side in winter and fairly changeable.’
‘Good morning, sir.’ Fitzjohn turned to see the duty sergeant. ‘The weather seems to have taken a turn for the worse, doesn’t it?’ he said, eyeing Fitzjohn’s wind blown hair with some amusement.
‘It’s bracing to say the least,’ replied Fitzjohn, conscious of and smoothing down the few wisps of valued hair that remained on the top of his head. ‘I hate to think what winter will bring.’
‘You’ll get a sample this afternoon because they predict sleet,’ said the duty sergeant with a grin. ‘Chief Superintendent Blake mentioned you’re joining us permanently, sir. Glad to have you on board, and to get things rolling, I have a message here from a Mr Patrick Fontaine. He said he’s the brother of the woman who died yesterday at Lyrebird Lodge. I understand you’re handling the case.’
‘I believe I am,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘When did he call?’
‘About an hour ago, sir. He said he’s staying at the Hydro Majestic.’
Fitzjohn looked at his watch. ‘In that case, call him back immediately, Sergeant, and tell him we’ll meet with him there within the hour.’
Annoyed that Blake had made his transfer to the Blue Mountains LAC public knowledge before he had the opportunity to speak to him about it, Fitzjohn made his way to the Chief Superintendent’s office. Finding the door ajar, he tapped once and stepped inside closing the door behind him. He found Blake with his feet resting on the desk, hidden behind the morning paper. At the sound of the door closing, his chair bolted forward, his feet hitting the floor with a thud while his newspaper crumpled into his lap.
‘Ah, Fitzjohn, you’re back I see,’ said Blake as he discarded the paper into a desk drawer.
‘Yes, sir, and by all accounts, permanently.’
‘So it seems. I was only told of your transfer myself late yesterday after you’d left for Sydney. I am, of course, more than pleased, but it must have come as a bit of a shock for you, learning of it without any forewarning, that is.’
‘Or consultation,’ added Fitzjohn, settling himself into the chair in front of Blake’s desk.
‘I’m truly sorry about that, Fitzjohn, but the powers that be aren’t always considerate of our feelings, I’m afraid. At least they haven’t been in this case.’
‘Do you know who those powers might be, sir?’
‘All I know is the decision came from high up,’ replied Blake, a tinge of red rising up his neck and into his chubby face. ‘Apparently, they’ve been aware for some time that we’re in dire need of an experienced detective such as yourself and with your involvement in the joint investigation over the past week, they came to realise the value of having you transferred. You’ll be given every assistance concerning your move, of course, and help finding accommodation if you wish. You have only to ask.’ Blake swallowed hard and fidgeted with the pens in his desk set, rearranging their order.
‘Thank you,’ replied Fitzjohn, sensing Blake’s unease. ‘I hope I can live up to expectations, speaking of which, I take it Chief Superintendent Grieg has informed you about the outcome of the post-mortem conducted on Florence Fontaine’s body?’
‘Yes, he rang late yesterday after he’d spoken to you. He said she’d been poisoned with cyanide.’ Blake winced. ‘It begs belief. When I heard, I arranged for a team of officers to stand-by. They’re at your disposal, Fitzjohn. Anything else you need, please ask.’
Fitzjohn left Blake’s office to the sound of the Chief Superintendent retrieving his newspaper from his desk drawer that added to his unsettled feeling about the man. What that feeling was, at this point, remained ambiguous. Shaking it off, he went in search of Betts and found his young sergeant standing at one of the many desks in the main part of the station amid the clamour.
‘I see you’re making yourself at home,’ he said, as Bett adjusted his chair to accommodate his vast height before settling himself into it. ‘Do you know where I’m to sit?’
‘Next to me, sir.’ Betts gave a wry smile and pointed to an empty desk and chair with Fitzjohn’s briefcase perched on top.
‘How convenient.’ With a sinking feeling, Fitzjohn looked down at the small desk before lifting his gaze to survey the rest of the room, crammed to capacity, its occupants tasks creating a hectic atmosphere.
‘The duty sergeant’s arranging for our computers, sir,’ continued Betts. ‘He said he’d have us both set up within the hour along with instruction by a member of the IT staff if we need it.’
‘I don’t need a computer or instruction,’ said Fitzjohn, indignantly. ‘What I do need is to have the team that the Chief Superintendent has arranged, to meet in the Incident Room, wherever that is. Get onto it, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Fitzjohn walked into the Incident Room to find Betts at the whiteboard, arranging photographs from the crime scene taken the previous day. Behind him sat a mixture of uniformed and plain clothes officers talking amongst themselves. Fitzjohn strode down the centre aisle to the front of the room, the congenial chatter fading to an expectant silence as he did so.
‘We’re ready to go, sir,’ said Betts.
Fitzjohn adjusted his wire-framed glasses and turned to face those gathered. ‘Good morning, all. Thank you for being here. Some of you I’ve met, but for those I haven’t, I’m DCI Fitzjohn
and this is DS Betts. We’re from Day Street Station in Sydney and will be conducting this investigation.’
‘By now, as you’re no doubt aware, our victim is a sixty-two year old female identified as Florence Fontaine and a resident of Leura here in the Blue Mountains. Some of you may recognise the name as she was a well-known landscape artist. She died yesterday at her estate, Lyrebird Lodge, while hosting an auction of her work. The cause of death has been attributed to poisoning when she ingested a lethal dose of cyanide from a glass of champagne whilst giving a toast. At the time of the victim’s death, the majority of bidders had departed the scene while a few, mostly locals, still remained. The latter were questioned by myself and DS Betts at the crime scene. Your task is to conduct interviews with those who had departed before the victim’s death, to gather what they remember of that morning, however insignificant.’ A rumble went through those seated. ‘I know,’ said Fitzjohn, raising his hand. ‘It might seem pedantic and a useless exercise but, I assure you, there’s no such thing when investigating a murder.’
As the last of the officers left the room, Fitzjohn took his handkerchief from his breast pocket, removed his glasses and commenced to wipe them as he studied the photographs on the whiteboard.
‘Where would you like to start, sir?’ asked Betts.
‘With the victim’s brother, Patrick Fontaine, after which we’ll speak to her stepsister, Carolyn Winter, whom we weren’t able to talk to at the crime scene.’
Fitzjohn and Betts walked into the lobby of the Hydro Majestic Hotel, its high domed ceiling and mixture of Edwardian and art deco décor, lending an atmosphere of the glamour of yesteryear. At the reception desk they were met by an austere looking, wiry young man with close-set brown eyes.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, unsmiling.
‘Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’re here see Patrick Fontaine.’
‘Inspector Fitzjohn, is it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mr Fontaine did mention that you’d be arriving, sir. You’ll find him in the Winter Garden Restaurant. Along the hallway to the left.’
Fitzjohn and Betts continued on making their way through the plush surroundings until they reached the doorway to the restaurant. Filled to capacity with diners and where a panoramic view across the Megalong Valley could be seen through its vast expanse of window, the two officer paused as the maitre’d approached.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Do you have a reservation?’
‘We’re here to see Mr Fontaine. We believe he’s dining here at the moment,’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘Is he expecting you, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well, please follow me.’
Amid the laughter and chatter of diners, Fitzjohn and Betts followed the maitre’d through a maze of yellow, wingback chairs to where a man in his mid-fifties sat alone, staring out across the valley. He noticed them as they neared and got to his feet, his tall form towering over Fitzjohn.
‘Mr Fontaine, I’m DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts. Please accept our condolences for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ Fontaine gestured to the other chairs at the table and they settled themselves.’
‘I’m sorry we haven’t been able to speak sooner,’ said Fitzjohn as he settled himself, ‘but we understood you were flying here from Perth last night and as it is, DS Betts and I have only just returned from Sydney.’
‘Is that where my sister was taken?’
‘Yes. Because there was doubt as to the cause of death, it was necessary for a post mortem to be conducted by a forensic pathologist.’
‘And?’
‘I’m afraid the pathologist’s suspicions at the scene were confirmed, Mr Fontaine,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Your sister’s death wasn’t from natural causes. She died after ingesting a lethal dose of cyanide which had been placed in her glass of champagne.’
Patrick Fontaine stared open-mouthed at Fitzjohn before he said, ‘I was afraid there might be foul play involved in her death because as far as I know, she didn’t have any health issues but to hear it said…’
‘When did you last speak to your sister?’ asked Fitzjohn at last.
‘It was one day last week. I think Thursday. She asked me if I’d be flying over for the auction but I declined. It’s a long flight and I…’ Patrick shook his head. ‘I’ll always regret that decision. If I’d been here perhaps she’d still be alive.’
‘Did she give you any indication that she was having problems with anyone?’
Patrick hesitated for a long moment before he said, ‘I hate to say it but, yes, there was someone who’d been causing Florence a great deal of stress over the past year.’ Patrick took a deep breath. ‘It was our stepsister, Carolyn.’
Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘In what way did she cause difficulties, Mr Fontaine?’
Patrick recounted Carolyn’s intimidating behaviour toward Florence. ‘Florence refused to kowtow to Carolyn’s demand that she make her a partner in the business and since then there have been numerous threatening phone calls, emails and unannounced visits like yesterday. The situation was becoming intolerable and I did talk to Florence about it but she couldn’t bring herself to go to the court for a restraining order.’ Patrick’s eyes glistened. ‘And now she’s dead.’
Fitzjohn waited for a moment before he said, ‘I know this is difficult, Mr Fontaine but what exactly did your stepsister threaten Florence with?’
Patrick gathered himself. ‘That’s just it. I don’t know. Florence wouldn’t tell me.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have said anything except I know that Carolyn was at the auction.’
‘Have you spoken to her since you arrived?’ asked Fitzjohn.’
‘No. I’ve had nothing to do with the woman for years and I can’t see the point in starting now, especially under the circumstances.’
‘How long will you be staying before you return to Perth?’ asked Fitzjohn as he got to his feet.
Patrick met Fitzjohn’s steady gaze. ‘As long as it takes for you to find out who killed my sister, Chief Inspector. I shan’t rest until you do.’
Fitzjohn and Betts left Patrick Fontaine to his thoughts and made their way out of the restaurant.
‘What do you think, sir?’
‘At this point, Betts, I think I wouldn’t want to be in Mr Fontaine’s position. Grieving for one sister while seeing another as her possible murderer. I think the sooner we speak to Carolyn Winter, the better.’
‘I checked with reception earlier, sir. She and her husband are staying in one of the Belgravia Suites on the second floor.’
‘In that case, lead the way,’ said Fitzjohn.
The two officers emerged from the elevator to see a sign on the opposite wall displaying room numbers with directional arrows. ‘It’s to the left, sir.’ Fitzjohn followed Betts along the hall until he stopped at a door at the far end where the sound of muffled voices could be heard coming from within. When he knocked, the door flew open.
‘And about time too.’ Frank Winter, in bare feet and wearing a hotel dressing gown, gaped at the two men as he grabbed the cigarette from the corner of his mouth. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought you were Room Service.’
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ said Betts with a quick smile. ‘You’ll remember we spoke yesterday at the auction, Mr Winter.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ Winter looked from Betts to Fitzjohn.
‘This is DCI Fitzjohn,’ continued Betts. ‘We’d like to have a word with both you and your wife about Florence Fontaine’s death. May we come in?’
‘Of course.’ Frank stood back from the doorway to allow the two officers inside. ‘Have a seat while I get Carolyn,’ he said, gesturing to the sofa and chairs in the room. As he spoke, Carolyn Winter appeared from the next room, her chubby shape enveloped in a pair of tight blue jeans and a pink sweater, her hair gathered at the top of her head and held there by a bright gold clip. She gaped when she saw Fitzjohn and Betts.
‘Oh. I thought o
ur brunch had arrived,’ she said.
‘These gentlemen are from the police, darling. They’re here about Florence.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Winter,’ said Fitzjohn with a smile. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn. I believe you met DS Betts yesterday.’
‘I did?’ Carolyn’s eyes squinted at Betts’s face. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember. It was a traumatic day for me.’ She bustled across the room and sat in one of the armchairs.
‘And I hope you will accept our condolences,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘I hope you’re not here with more bad news because I doubt I could stand it.’ Carolyn paused. ‘Why exactly are you here?’
‘We’re here to inform you that we’re conducting an investigation into your stepsister’s death.’
‘Why? It was a heart attack, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Winter.’
‘Then what happened to her?’
‘Your stepsister died by ingesting poison that had been added to her glass of champagne.’ Carolyn gasped.
‘But why would someone want to do that to Florence? She was famous and much loved.’ Carolyn grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabbed her eyes.
‘That’s what we need to find out, Mrs Winter,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘We understand you were in the marquee with her at the time. I know this is difficult, but do you feel able to tell us what you remember about the moments leading up to her death?’
‘All I remember is Florence gave a short speech thanking everyone for participating in the auction. After that, she made a toast and…’ Carolyn’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I knew something was wrong when she grabbed her neck. I tried to reach her but her business manager got to her first.’
Fitzjohn hesitated before he asked, ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Florence?’
‘No, not really. Because Frank and I live in Sydney, we don’t get up this way very often and don’t know anyone in Florence’s circle of friends or acquaintances.’
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