‘My work,’ replied Fitzjohn, finding Winifred’s questions intrusive and not wishing to discuss his private activities.
‘Yes, I suppose you tend to become totally absorbed in your line of work because, in a way, it must be like putting a jigsaw puzzle together piece by piece.’
‘I suppose it is in a way. For example, at the moment, I’m endeavouring to build a clear picture of Florence in my mind,’ said Fitzjohn, trying to steer the conversation away from personal matters.
‘And I suppose the only way you can do that is by talking to people such as myself,’ replied Winifred. ‘Well, I for one will miss Florence although I can’t say as much for the local council.’
‘Oh? Why is that,’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Because of her repeated requests for permission to build an annexe at the lodge. Of course, she’d never get approval.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Because she wanted to use the building for commercial purposes, accommodation and a studio for art classes. The residential zoning laws where Lyrebird Lodge is situated prohibits in-home businesses. But that didn’t stop Florence. I heard she planned to go ahead and build anyway. She’d even engaged an architect. As you can imagine, she wasn’t the flavour of the month with many of the council members.’ Winifred caught Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure they’re saddened by her untimely death, but they won’t miss her presence at their meetings.’
‘How do you know all this, Mrs Gifford,’ asked Fitzjohn bemused.
‘My brother-in-law is a council member.’
At that moment, Betts appeared in the living room doorway and after greeting him Winifred scurried away.
‘Well, this is cosy,’ said Betts, sitting down in one of two armchairs. ‘A whisky served in front of an open fire. I think Mrs Gifford has taken a shine to you, sir.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just nosey about our investigation,’ replied Fitzjohn, not wishing to admit to his young sergeant his trepidation at Winifred’s potential advances. ‘And with that in mind, be vigilant about what you say in front of her because I think she sees us as a great source of possible gossip.’
Later that evening, now cloistered in the small study at the rear of the house, Fitzjohn leaned back in the chair behind the desk and took a sip of his mug of steaming coffee. ‘It’s been a full day, Betts. What are your thoughts so far?’
‘Well, we have a couple of people with motive, sir, and therefore of interest,’ replied Betts, sinking into a leather wing back chair in the corner of the room. Firstly, Audrey Green who, by all accounts, was plagued by the fact her husband was besotted with the victim. She also had ample opportunity to lace Florence’s glass with cyanide since she was standing next to the refreshments table. Secondly, we have Aiden Farrell who, according to Claire Reynolds, coveted Lyrebird Lodge.’
‘So, both with clear opportunity. What about Carolyn Winter and her threatening behaviour towards the victim?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘It’s difficult to gauge if she had a strong motive without knowing what she threatened Florence with, sir, unless, of course, she’s a beneficiary in Florence’s will.’
‘It seems to me the only way that would be likely would be if Carolyn was telling the truth about her and Florence being close, and I don’t think that’s the case,’ said Fitzjohn, drinking the last of his coffee. ‘Oh, and I should mention something Mrs G., told me earlier. Apparently, Florence wasn’t popular with the local council because of her persistent efforts to gain approval for a building project on her property. See what you can find out about that, Betts. You never know what you might unearth.’ Fitzjohn got to his feet. ‘Do we know yet who holds the victim’s will because we need to know who’ll gain financially by her death.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s held by Newbury & Bell. They’re local solicitors. The victim consulted Mr Newbury, senior. You have an appointment with him first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Excellent.’
Now alone in his room, Fitzjohn closed the curtains against the inky blackness beyond the window and sat down on the edge of his bed, the permanence of his transfer to the Blue Mountains constabulary weighing heavily on his mind. Of course it was true that he would, no doubt, find a new home that suited him, and it was not beyond the realms of possibility that he could grow to enjoy living here, providing he remained positive. At the moment, however, the upheaval seemed insurmountable not only physically but mentally. With a sigh, he climbed in beneath the covers and reflected on the sense of comfort he had always felt when he arrived home in the evening to the place he and Edith had shared. In fact, while in Birchgrove the previous day, a host of memories had been triggered. And not only memories but routines that he had followed for years such as dropping into the Charlotte Café for coffee, or the quiet atmosphere of Day Street Police Station as dawn broke. Even Rhonda Butler’s continued harassment came to mind. Could he miss that? Perhaps not. One thing he knew he would miss, however, was Sophie calling out when she arrived unannounced with her incessant chatter and enthusiasm. A smile came to his face at the thought and he closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER 8
Claire arrived at the gallery early the following morning, Aiden Farrell’s words still fresh in her mind as she opened the door and stepped into the quiet space. As she did so, she heard a door creak and looked around to see Patrick Fontaine and Laura Evans emerge from the cellar in conversation.
‘I see you two have met at last,’ she said, trying to still her anxiety.
‘We have,’ replied Patrick. ‘Laura’s been kind enough to show me some of Florence’s work you have stored downstairs.’
‘I thought it would pass the time until you got here,’ put in Laura.
‘I’m glad you did,’ said Claire, shrugging out of her coat.
‘Did the police contact you, Patrick?’
‘Yes. They came to my hotel yesterday afternoon and I’m afraid the news isn’t good. It seems Florence was poisoned. Traces of cyanide were found in her champagne glass.’ The three fell into silence.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ Claire said at last.
‘It beggars belief,’ said Laura.
‘All I can hope for is that they find the person who did this to my sister and the reason why.’
As he said the words, Claire wondered if Patrick had told the police about Carolyn’s threatening behaviour towards Florence before she said, ‘If there’s anything Laura and I can do?’
‘Thank you, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. I’ll just have to be patient and wait for answers even though patience isn’t one of my strong points.’ Patrick thought for a moment. ‘Although, having said that, perhaps there is something you could both help me with. As the executor of Florence’s will, I need to get a grasp of her business so it can continue on as usual.’
‘But won’t it have to cease operation and go to probate along with the rest of her assets?’ asked Laura.
‘Not in this case,’ replied Patrick. ‘You see, Florence took measures to make sure that didn’t have to happen. Last year she transferred her business and all her real estate into a living trust. As her sole beneficiary, I can have the whole transfer process handled within a few weeks. It means the business can continue without interruption. It also means your positions are secure.’ Patrick paused. ‘I do hope you can both stay on, although I will understand if you decide otherwise since I can’t guarantee everything will be quite the same without Florence here.’ Patrick looked from Claire to Laura.
‘I think I can speak for Laura and say we’d like to stay on,’ replied Claire.
‘Good, I’m pleased,’ said Patrick with a sigh. ‘It’s a load off my mind because to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t know where to start. Unlike my sister, I’m totally ignorant of the art world.’
‘In that case, perhaps if we start by providing you with an inventory of Florence’s works,’ offered Claire. ‘We could i
nclude what we have here in the gallery, those that are out on exhibition and a comprehensive list of everything she kept at the lodge. Besides the art work there, I’m sure it hasn’t passed your notice that your sister was a collector of many beautiful as well as exotic objects that she treasured.’
‘It hasn’t and with that in mind I think it would be a good idea to step up security out there, don’t you?’
‘It’s been done,’ replied Claire. ‘I called the security company yesterday and asked them to increase their rounds.’
‘Ah, very good. Well, I think we’ve covered everything we can for now, haven’t we?’ said Patrick. ‘The rest will be carrying out Florence’s plans for an artist’s retreat. It’s the least I can do for her now she’s gone.’ He paused, the strain showing on his face.
‘So, you intend to keep the lodge,’ said Claire.
‘Yes. I thought perhaps it could be opened to the public periodically throughout the year and/or perhaps be a venue for art exhibitions. With your help, of course.’
‘I think it’s a marvellous idea, but there are issues we’d have to address,’ said Claire.
‘And they are?’
‘It’s to do with the zoning laws. You see, Lyrebird Lodge is in a residential area. In other words, running a business isn’t permitted. Having said that, I think we could open up the lodge for public viewing and also as a venue for exhibitions as long as we don’t charge an entrance fee, but building an annex will cause problems, I’m afraid.’
‘But Florence told me she’d already engaged an architect,’ said Patrick with a frown.
‘She had and she planned to go ahead without council approval. I tried to tell her it was a futile exercise because the architect would pull out of the project as soon as he found out, but she wouldn’t listen. She was determined.’
‘Sounds like Florence,’ chuckled Patrick. ‘Very well, there’s nothing else for it. You’ll have to inform the architect that we’re not going ahead. I think we’ll just concentrate on the inventories for now and at some point, I’ll talk to the council and see if something can be worked out. If not, perhaps there’s another avenue we can explore.’
Claire watched Patrick’s receding back as he left the gallery and climbed into his car. There had seemed no point in bringing up the subject of selling the lodge because it was obvious his intentions were to carry on with Florence’s legacy. Claire pictured Farrell’s face in her mind’s eye. Would he carry out his threat and name her as Florence’s killer? A shiver went through her.
‘He surprised me. He really did.’ Dragged from her thoughts, Claire turned to see Laura at her side gazing out of the window after Patrick. ‘I never imagined he’d choose to turn the lodge into a museum of sorts. I thought he’d put it on the market, didn’t you? After all, it must be worth a lot of money.’
‘I’m not sure what I thought he’d do, but the fact he’s intent on carrying on Florence’s legacy is gratifying as well as wanting us to stay on.’ Claire gave a quick smile. ‘Let’s get started on those inventories, shall we?’
As she had done on the morning of the auction, Claire turned off the highway and drove through the open wrought iron gates that led to Lyrebird Lodge. This time, however, her knuckles turned white as her hands gripped the steering wheel, her thoughts revisiting the circumstances of Florence’s death. Oblivious to the beauty of the forest around her, highlighted by the shafts of sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves high above, her eyes remained focused on the winding driveway ahead. Finally, she emerged from the tree line and into the parking area. It was then she glimpsed another car parked in the far corner. Puzzled, she gathered her things, climbed out, and gingerly followed the stone path along the side of the lodge. When the verandah came into view, she gaped at the sight of Carolyn Winter standing beside her husband, Frank, his arm through the jagged edge of the broken stained glass window in the door, seemingly struggling with the lock.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked wide-eyed.
Carolyn and Frank swung around. ‘What does it look like?’ barked Carolyn, losing her balance and collapsing into the wicker chair next to the door. ‘We’re trying to get in.’
‘You mean break in,’ replied Claire.
‘Don’t be impertinent. Just get up here and open the damn door,’ screamed Carolyn as she scrambled to her feet.
Claire mounted the steps onto the verandah, her shoes crunching on broken glass as she unlocked the door.
‘It’s obvious I didn’t make myself clear the last time we spoke,’ said Carolyn as the door swung open. ‘I seem to remember telling you your services are no longer required.’
‘I’m here to do an inventory of Florence’s paintings and collectables at your stepbrother’s request,’ replied Claire, stepping inside.
‘My stepbrother?’
‘Yes. He arrived from Perth yesterday morning. If you wish, you can give him a call to get his thoughts on the matter. You can use the phone in the study. It’s through there.’ Claire gestured to a room off the hall where an ornately carved desk was just visible through the doorway.
‘I know where it is,’ replied Carolyn. ‘I don’t need you to tell me and I don’t need to talk to Patrick because if there’s an inventory to be done, Frank and I will do it. As I’ve said, your services are no longer needed so I suggest you hand over your keys and leave, immediately.’
‘I won’t be doing that, Mrs Winter, unless, of course, Mr Fontaine decides he no longer wishes to employ me.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have to find a glazier who’s willing to come out today to replace the glass that you and your husband have broken before I can start what I came here to do.’ With that, Claire turned, passing beneath the decorative Victorian archway and along the wide hall to the kitchen where she placed her briefcase and handbag on the table in the centre of the room. If Patrick had told the police about Carolyn’s threats towards Florence, she thought, it might be the reason why he had not contacted his stepsister. After securing a local glazier who promised to arrive within the hour, Claire, anxious to get the inventory started, flipped the latches of her briefcase, took out a clipboard and camera and walked back along the hallway. She decided to start in the living room, a large space where many of Florence’s paintings as well as collectables were gathered on antique tables and in the various cabinets. When she reached the open doorway, however, she found a stack of paintings on the floor, leaning up against the wall. Claire edged her way past and into the room to find Frank removing more paintings from the walls while Carolyn could be seen busily filling a bag with some of Florence’s treasured pieces.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Claire.
Carolyn looked up from her task. ‘It’s none of your business what we’re doing.’
‘It is, Mrs Winter, because I’m responsible for these items. They’re all part of Florence’s estate and must remain where they are until after the reading of her will.’
‘Rubbish,’ replied Carolyn as she continued to take figurines from the china cabinet in the corner of the room.
‘Very well, you’ve left me no alternative; I’ll have to call Mr Fontaine. You can talk to him yourself if you wish.’ Claire took her mobile phone from her pocket, punched in the number and waited before she said, ‘Patrick. It’s Claire. Yes, I’m at the lodge and I have a problem. Your stepsister…’ As Claire spoke, Carolyn and Frank pushed passed her and left the room. Moments later, the front door banged. Claire smiled to herself as a computer generated operator asked what number she wanted. That worked well, she thought.
By late afternoon and with the stained glass in the front door temporarily replaced with a clear pane, there remained only one room to be inventoried. Florence’s study. A room she had never been inside. The floorboards creaked as she made her way, a reminder of the lodge’s age. Built in the 1920s, it had been a crumbling edifice of its former grandeur when Florence stumbled upon it while searching for an “Open House” of a property she
was interested in buying. She looked no further because, in her mind, she had found a forgotten gem. “All it needs is a bit of work,” she told Patrick at the time who proceeded to advise the pitfalls of such an undertaking. Undaunted by the challenge, Florence moved into the dilapidated building immediately, determined to bring it back to life.
Claire hesitated in the study doorway before crossing the threshold into what could only be described as Florence’s inner sanctum. Inside, she found it’s walls adorned with paintings collected over a lifetime of travel, the shelves full of mementoes and awards of past successes. An antique desk sat adjacent to the window that looked out over the mountains, an awe-inspiring view for Florence in her work. Claire placed her clipboard on the desk and tentatively sat down in the leather chair. She felt like an intruder.
The clouds lay low over the mountains, the air damp with a thick shroud of mist hovering above the ground when Claire emerged from the lodge late that afternoon. Somewhere in the far distance, a lyrebird’s lilting call broke the eerie silence. She hesitated on the bottom step of the verandah and pulled her coat closer around her before staring across at the marquee, its flap hanging limp in the damp atmosphere. Riveted to the spot, the horror of the day of the auction replayed itself in her mind, the blood-curdling scream she had heard, her faltering steps as she pushed her way through the crowd to Florence only to see her agonised stare. A chill ran down Claire’s spine and she lunged forward, stumbling into the murky fog that now engulphed the parking area. With a sense of panic, she unlocked her car and slid in behind the wheel. It was then she noticed movement amongst the trees. Or had she? Gingerly, she started the engine and drove slowly along the winding drive but as the highway came in sight, her foot slammed down on the brake. Parked across the entrance to the estate sat a black sedan and leaning against it, the tall figure of Matthew Avery. Watching him walk towards her car and with a gathering sense of caution, she lowered the window an inch.
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