‘Ah, how did you get on?’ he asked.
‘The search of both Ms Reynolds’ home and her office didn’t turn up anything that relates to our victim’s poisoning, sir,’ replied Betts as he perched on the corner of one of the desks. ‘Shall I have her released?’
‘I don’t see we have any other choice in the matter without more evidence.’
CHAPTER 15
In the fading afternoon light, Claire emerged from the Springwood Police Station and climbed into the waiting taxi. She felt confused and rattled, not only by the police interrogation but because she was a suspect in Florence Fontaine’s murder. As the car sped off in the direction of Leura, she sat back and tried to quell the sense of turmoil rising from within, the puzzle of how her fingerprints came to be on Florence’s champagne glass contributing to her sense of unease. So absorbed was she in her quest to find an answer, it was several moments before she realised the taxi had pulled over in front of the art shop. After paying the driver, she climbed out to find Laura standing in the open doorway.
‘Claire, where were you? I’ve been trying to contact you all day. I even walked around to your cottage a little while ago because I thought you might have had an accident or perhaps you were sick.’
‘I’m sorry to have worried you, Laura,’ replied Claire as they made their way inside. ‘It’s been a terrible day.’ Claire put her handbag on the counter and sat on the tall stool that Laura kept at the counter. ‘This morning, I was taken to Springwood Police Station and questioned over Florence’s murder.’
Laura gaped at Claire in disbelief before she said, ‘Well, that explains a lot,’ said Laura. ‘The police were here earlier today to search the gallery and the art shop as well as your office. They didn’t tell me what they were looking for.’
‘They were searching for cyanide or traces of it because my fingerprints have been found on the glass that Florence drank from.’
‘But that’s ludicrous.’
‘The police don’t think so, and the only reason I’m sitting here now is because they need more evidence before they can arrest me.’ Claire pressed her lips together in an effort to stem the flow of tears that brimmed her eyes.
‘Well, since you had nothing to do with Florence’s death they won’t find any, will they?’ replied Laura, patting Claire’s hand. ‘Now, I want you to stay right here while I make you some camomile tea. It’ll help calm you a little.’
As Laura bustled away in the direction of the kitchen, Claire slid off the stool and walked through the archway and into the gallery where, through the far window, the last glimmer of sunshine could be seen sinking behind the mountains in the distance. She crossed to the other side of the room and with a feeling of exhaustion, sank down into one of the armchairs. She knew she could not rest, however, because even with Laura’s assurance that the police would not find further evidence of her involvement in Florence’s death, there was always Aiden Farrell and his threat to expose her as the killer if she did not persuade Patrick to sell Lyrebird Lodge. Would Patrick’s arrest change that view? Claire doubted it. As this thought passed through her mind, Laura appeared with a steaming mug of herbal tea.
‘Now, I want you to drink this slowly,’ she said, handing Claire the mug, ‘and then I want you to go home and get some rest. In the morning, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep, things won’t look so grim, I promise. I’ll go and order you a taxi.’
‘Thanks all the same, Laura, but I’d sooner walk home. It’ll help clear my head,’ replied Claire, taking a sip of the steaming brew. ‘And thank you for being so kind and understanding.’
After leaving Laura, Claire stepped out into the cool evening air, making her way along the tree-lined street, oblivious to those who sat at the sidewalk cafés and others who lingered as the shopkeepers began to close their doors. It was only when she heard her name called that she hesitated and looked around to see Matthew Avery seated at an outside café table. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ she said with a slight smile as she tried to pull herself together.
‘I probably shouldn’t have distracted you but since I have, would you like to join me for coffee?’ he asked, getting to his feet.
‘Thanks, but I can’t. I have to get home.’
‘One cup won’t take long,’ he replied, looking at her intently. ‘And I’d appreciate the company.’ Claire hesitated as she fought back the tears that welled from within. ‘I’m also a good listener if you’d like to tell me what’s wrong,’ he added, pulling a chair out from the table.
‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Then it must be serious,’ said Matthew.
‘A journalist’s scoop, I’d say.’
‘I told you, I’m not a journalist. I’m an engineer. If you don’t’ believe me, here’s my business card. I work for a structural engineering firm in New York City.’
‘It’s okay. I don’t need to look at your business card. I believe you and I apologise.’
‘Then will you sit down and tell me why you’re upset?’ asked Matthew.
After a moment’s hesitation, Claire relented and settled herself into the chair. ‘It’s because the police have found my fingerprints on the glass that Florence drank out of at the auction.’ Matthew Avery gaped at her. ‘They suspect I laced it with cyanide and I don’t know how I can convince them that I didn’t. All I can think of is that Florence picked up my glass when I left the marquee. It also means that I must have been the intended victim,’ she added after a pause.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Matthew. ‘The cyanide may have been put into your glass after you left.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Claire, slumping back into her seat.
‘You look exhausted,’ said Matthew. ‘Can I give you a ride home?’
‘Thanks, but I’d like to walk, it’s not far.’
‘In that case, will you meet me for coffee tomorrow morning? I’d like to help if I can.’ Claire nodded.
Feeling overwhelmed and swallowed up in a mire of events that she could not control or defend herself against, Claire did not notice the fiery red night sky as she reached her cottage. Weary, she unlocked the front door and stepped inside to find a chill in the air. Through the living room doorway, the pile of newspapers and the basket of logs still sat in front of the fireplace, taking her thoughts back to that morning when the police had arrived. Her body quivered and she made her way to her bedroom where she slumped down onto the bed and let her head meld into the down filled pillow, her last thought, “They think I killed Florence”.
With the early morning sunlight glinting through the half drawn curtains, Claire stirred as her eyes fluttered and opened before the events of the previous day surfaced in her mind and she sighed. After a moment or two, she levered herself out of bed, shrugged into her bathrobe and with the cold floor beneath her feet, walked along the hallway to the kitchen. It was as she reached the hallway that she saw an envelope wedged beneath the front door. Curious, she kneeled down and gently pried it loose. Opening it, she took out a single sheet of paper before she looked in horror at the words, spelled out in large letters cut from a magazine that read, “Revenge is best served cold”.
CHAPTER 16
Buffeted by a strong wind and with the only light coming from a street lamp, Fitzjohn opened the gate and edged his way through the garden to the front door of the B & B. Once inside he felt the warmth and through the living room doorway could see the fire flickering in the grate. With a sense of comfort, he removed his overcoat and hung it on the rack behind the door. As he did so, Winifred Gifford emerged from the kitchen at the end of the hall.
‘Chief Inspector, you’re very late this evening but I suppose you’ve been involved in that prowler incident that happened yesterday at Claire Reynolds’ cottage. Have you caught whoever it was?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ replied Fitzjohn, somewhat mystified.
‘Well, I hope you catch whoever it is soon. The last thing we need
in the village is a raging lunatic on the loose. Do you know if it’s the reason she was hospitalized?’ At that moment, a shrill whistle sounded. ‘Oh, there’s the kettle. I’m making tea. Would you care for a cup?’
‘Tea would be most welcome, Mrs G,’ replied Fitzjohn, pleased that Winifred had been distracted from an answer to her first question. Claire Reynolds hospitalised? Could that be or was it simply village gossip?’ As this thought crossed his mind, the front door burst open and Betts strode in, rubbing his hands together. ‘You look chilled to the bone’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘I got caught up in a kidnapping case, sir.’
‘Kidnapping? Why haven’t I heard about that?’
‘Probably because it occurred late this afternoon, sir.’
‘Even so, it’s a wonder our landlady didn’t tell me about it. She seems to be abreast of all other crimes committed in the area over the last twenty-four hours. Let’s go sit in the living room in front of the fire and you can tell me all about it.’
Betts settled himself into an armchair and sighed, his long legs stretched out before him. ‘Oh, this is so good,’ he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. ‘I could stay here all night.’
‘Not before you’ve told me about this kidnapping,’ said Fitzjohn, sitting on the sofa, perturbed that he had not been made aware of such a crime. ‘Was the victim male or female?’
‘A male, sir.’
‘And…? Has he been found?’ he continued, frustrated at Betts’s lack of enthusiasm to expand on the details.
‘Yes, he has, sir.’
‘And? Is he okay?’
‘He’s as okay as he can be, I suppose.’
‘You mean he was harmed?’
‘No, sir, he looked intact when I saw him but I doubt he’d have noticed if he hadn’t been because he was a cadaver when snatched.’
‘You mean dead? Someone kidnapped a corpse?’
‘Cadavers usually are dead, sir.’
‘Don’t be smart, Betts.’
‘I couldn’t resist,’ replied Betts with a chuckle. ‘You see, the kidnapper is a resident of the local nursing home and he decided to go for a joy ride this afternoon in a car that had been left unattended at the front entrance. It turned out to be a hearse containing the body of one of the other residents who died earlier in the day.’
Fitzjohn’s rotund shape began to shake and his eyes glistened. ‘You’re having me on, aren’t you?’
‘No, it’s all true, sir,’
The smile left Fitzjohn’s face. ‘In that case, where’s the kidnapper now?’
‘He’s back at the nursing home, tucked up in bed. No charges were laid.’
Betts stretched out further, soaking up the warmth of the fire until Fitzjohn asked, ‘Did you hear anything about a prowler at Claire Reynold’s cottage yesterday and her admission into hospital today?’
‘No,’ replied Betts, straightening up on the sofa. ‘Where did you hear about that?’
‘From Mrs Gifford. Of course, it could be nothing more than idle gossip that’s got out of hand but even so, with Ms Reynolds being a person of interest, I think we should look into it. Give the station a call, will you?’
As Betts left the room to make the call, Winifred bustled in with the tea tray. By the time he returned, she had ensconced herself on the sofa next to Fitzjohn whose face told of his plight.
‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we’ve been called out.’
With a look of sheer relief, Fitzjohn got to his feet. ‘My apologies, Mrs Gifford, but duty calls, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to step out into such a cold, bleak night as I am this evening, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn as they made their way out to the car.
‘Mrs Gifford is smitten with you, sir,’ said Betts with an amused smile.
‘Nonsense, she’s just lonely that’s all, although my cynical side tells me she sees both of us as a source of information for her gossip. I hate to say this but I’m beginning to think we should have stayed at the Fairmont as you suggested.’ Fitzjohn opened the car door and climbed in. ‘But that aside, when exactly was Claire Reynolds admitted to hospital?’
‘It was earlier today,’ replied Betts. ‘She was taken by ambulance after collapsing at one of the cafés in the village. She’s now in the Intensive Care Unit but that’s all the information I could get.’
Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘It sounds serious. And too soon to jump to conclusions but it makes me wonder whether an attempt was made on her life.’
‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Betts.
The two officers arrived at the Blue Mountains Hospital and made their way to the Intensive Care Unit where they emerged from the elevator to see the formidable form of the night sister standing behind the nurse’s station.
‘Can I help you?’ she called out with an authoritative manner.
‘This doesn’t look too promising,’ said Betts.
‘Leave it to me. I’ll handle it,’ replied Fitzjohn under his breath before approaching the desk.
‘Good evening, Sister Butterworth,’ he said, glancing at her name tag. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn from the Blue Mountains Local Area Command.’ Fitzjohn held up his warrant card. ‘My partner and I are here to enquire after a patient by the name of Claire Reynolds whom, we understand, was admitted this morning.’
‘What exactly do you want to know?’ she asked, her steely eyes still examining Fitzjohn’s card.
‘We’d like to know the reason for her admittance. Is it possible to speak to the doctor in charge of her case?’
‘It’s possible but not probable,’ replied Sister Butterworth. ‘Nevertheless, I’ll see what I can do. Wait here.’ With that, Harriott Butterworth disappeared into an inner office.
‘You handled that well, sir,’ said Betts with a chuckle as Fitzjohn turned away from the desk.
Fitzjohn narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t press your luck, Betts, or you’ll find yourself directing traffic.’
The two officers sat down in the seats provided adjacent to the nurse’s station and as the hours passed, Betts nodded off to sleep whilst Fitzjohn’s thoughts went to his transfer and the changes it would make to his life. Sister Butterworth came and went with no surety that a meeting with the doctor concerned was imminent. It was not until the early hours of the morning that a man, dressed in operating room scrubs, his short dark hair peppered with grey, approached from a nearby hallway. Fitzjohn nudged Betts before he got to his feet.
‘I’m Dr McCleland. I understand you’re from the police,’ he said.
‘Yes, doctor. I’m DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts. We’re here concerning Claire Reynolds.’
‘Can I ask exactly what the nature of your inquiry is, Chief Inspector? I ask because as you can appreciate, I have to protect my patient’s confidentiality.’
‘Of course. We’re conducting an investigation into the suspicious death of a woman by the name of Florence Fontaine who was Ms Reynolds’ employer and as such, both Ms Reynolds and her welfare is of interest to us. We’d like to know why she was admitted.’
‘I see.’ Dr McCleland paused for a moment. ‘Florence Fontaine died from a lethal dose of cyanide, didn’t she?’
‘That’s correct,’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘Well, in that case, I’m sure you’ll find my thoughts about Claire Reynolds’ condition interesting to say the least because her symptoms point to some sort of poisoning.’ Fitzjohn grimaced. ‘I’m just waiting for the toxicology report to come back which I’m sure will confirm my suspicions. I can have you notified about the results when they arrive. It’ll save you waiting any longer.’ As Dr McCleland disappeared back along the hallway, Fitzjohn and Betts started towards the elevator but as they did so, a tall dark-haired young man approached. Fitzjohn recognised him at once as the American who had attended the auction at Lyrebird Lodge the day of Florence Fontaine’s death.
‘Mr Avery.’
‘We are indeed,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Are you a friend of Ms Reynolds.’
‘More of an acquaintance. We met the day of the auction. I’m here with her work colleague, Laura Evans. She’s in the ICU waiting room. I came out to stretch my legs. We’ve been here ever since Claire was admitted.’
‘Do you know what happened to her?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Yes. I was with her when she collapsed. The previous afternoon, we’d made arrangements to meet and were sitting at one of the café’s in Leura. At the time, I thought she’d fainted because she was quite distressed but it now seems to be a lot more serious than that. I’ve asked the medical staff here but I haven’t been able to find out anything. Do you know, Chief Inspector?’
‘All I know is they’re waiting for a toxicology report so they can adopt an appropriate treatment.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘You said she was distressed, Mr Avery. Do you know why?’
‘It was because of a note, or perhaps a better description would be a poison pen letter, she found wedged underneath the front door of her cottage. I have it here.’ Matthew felt inside his jacket pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Fitzjohn who read the words aloud.
‘“Revenge is best served cold.”’
‘Rather ominous considering what’s happened to her. Don’t you think, Chief Inspector?’
‘I do,’ replied Fitzjohn, his brow furrowed. ‘May I keep this?’
‘Yes, of course. I hope it helps to dispel your belief that she had anything to do with Florence’s death.’ Avery looked at Fitzjohn. ‘Claire told me her fingerprints have been found on the glass that Florence made the toast with on the day of the auction and that she’d been questioned at Springwood Police Station.’
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