‘It’s a post office box in Hastings, Victoria. It’s on the Mornington Peninsula, I believe. Just outside Melbourne. Would you like a copy of it?
‘Yes, that’d be helpful.’
Deirdre jotted the address down on a piece of paper and handed it to Fitzjohn.
‘Do you have any further questions, Chief Inspector? It’s just that I have my next appointment due shortly.’
‘Only one,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Can you tell us when Beatrice Maybrick’s will was executed?’
‘She made this one quite recently. Approximately two months ago.’
‘Do you recall the changes she made?’
‘Yes. There was one. The addition of Charles Stratton as a beneficiary.’
Fitzjohn and Betts left the Trustee’s office and made their way out of the building to their car.
‘Well, that was worthwhile,’ said Fitzjohn as he settled himself into the passenger seat. ‘Not only have we learnt that Alison Maybrick had a lot to gain by her step-mother’s death, but that Charles Stratton is a beneficiary as well.’
‘And that Alison is contesting the will,’ replied Betts. ‘It must have come as a bit of a shock to realise that she wouldn’t be inheriting the North Sydney property.’
‘Mmm. She has to have been aware of its value for a long time and didn’t know that there was an interloper waiting in the wings. Of course, you know what this means, don’t you, Betts? If Esme Timmons is right and Beatrice Maybrick was murdered, Alison Maybrick had a strong motive to kill her.’
‘Have Williams follow up that post office box address for Charles Stratton. He shouldn’t be too difficult to track down now.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Betts pulled away from the curb and merged into the traffic. ‘Will you need me in the next hour or so, sir?’ he continued. ‘I have a few enquiries to make.’
‘No. You can drop me at the station. I’ve got to make some myself about this Wilson case before I’m asked to appear again before the Board.’
Fitzjohn threw his pen onto the desk and sat back, frustrated that the hours he had spent looking for information about the Patricia Wilson case had not produced a result. Why was that? Was it the norm that the Police Integrity Board seized all but the barest details of a case that they were inquiring into? They must. What other reason could there be? As he pondered these thoughts, a knock sounded on the door and Betts walked into the room.
‘Ah, Betts. Any news?’
‘A couple of things, sir.’ Betts sauntered in and sat down before taking his notebook out of his breast pocket. ‘I spoke to Beatrice Maybrick’s doctor. He confirmed that she was in excellent health prior to her death and had no reason to think that she might die.’
‘In that case, one could assume that her letter to Charles Stratton was prompted by fear that someone wished her harm. It does increase the possibility that she was murdered, doesn’t it?’ Fitzjohn paused in thought. ‘I wish we had some way of knowing when, exactly, she wrote that letter.’
‘If it was the day that she died, she could have felt threatened by Max Ziegler after she exposed the probability that he was cooking the books,’ said Betts.
‘That’s true,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘But there’s also Alison Maybrick, who had a considerable amount to gain by Beatrice’s death. Of course, she’d have known that for years and I can’t see that it would have prompted Beatrice to write the letter. Unless, of course, the two women had argued and Alison had said something that made Beatrice feel intimidated.’
As Fitzjohn spoke, the office door opened and the Duty Officer appeared. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I have two ladies to see you. A Miss Timmons and a Mrs Banks.’
Fitzjohn glanced at Betts who jumped out of his chair and moved over to stand beside the filing cabinet. Fitzjohn got to his feet and slipped on his suit coat. ‘Show them in, Sergeant.’ The Duty Officer stood aside and Esme appeared followed by another lady, a little younger, perhaps, and with a mischievous countenance.
‘Good afternoon, Esme,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘Afternoon, Alistair.’ Esme smiled at Betts. ‘I’d like to introduce you both to my friend, Mildred Banks.’
‘I’m very pleased to meet you both at last,’ said Mildred, her eyes sparkling.
‘We’re here because we have some information,’ continued Esme as Betts pulled out the two chairs in front of the desk. ‘To be quite honest, we’re not sure if it’s relevant but, in light of the fact that you’re looking into Beatrice’s death, we’ve decided you should know. Before we get to that, though, we’re aware of your harrowing experience with the fire. I hope there aren’t any lasting after effects.’
‘Only an appreciation for life, which is a good thing,’ replied Fitzjohn, sitting down again. ‘What information do you have, Esme?’
‘Yes, well, yesterday Mildred and I went to see Alison Maybrick at her behest.’ Esme recounted what Alison had told her and Mildred about the ruby ring. ‘It wasn’t until we left the premises that Mildred told me that she’d seen someone wearing the ring when we attended Beatrice’s memorial service.’
Fitzjohn sat forward in his chair and directed his gaze at Mildred whose face lit up with delight at being the centre of attention. ‘Do you know who that person was, Mildred?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I do,’ she replied conspiratorially. ‘It was Olive Glossop, one of Beatrice’s employees.’
‘And where were you when you saw Ms Glossop wearing the ring?’
‘I was in her car. She was driving me to Alison’s house for the reception after the memorial service. Oh my heavens!’
‘What is it?’ asked Esme, alarmed as the colour drained from Mildred’s face.
‘I just had a thought. Do you think this means that Olive could have had something to do with Beatrice’s death? To think that I was alone in the car with her.’
Ignoring this, Fitzjohn continued. ‘Are you sure that it was Beatrice Maybrick’s ring, Mrs Banks?’
‘I’m positive. It’s quite unique. A small ruby encircled with diamonds.’
‘So, quite valuable,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘No. The stones weren’t real. At least not according to Beatrice. She said it was just a keepsake from her past that she treasured.’ Esme paused. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve wasted your time, Alistair. It might mean nothing but we’re glad that we’ve been able to tell you. Aren’t we Mildred?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mildred with a look of satisfaction on her face before she sighed. ‘It’s so exciting to be at the hub of a murder investigation and be able to supply a possible clue.’
‘And we’re most grateful, Mrs Banks,’ replied Fitzjohn with a wide smile.
‘Oh, please. Call me Mildred.’
‘I think you’ve won an admirer,’ said Betts as Fitzjohn came back into the office after seeing Esme and Mildred into their taxi.
‘I don’t think that Mrs Banks has been inside a police station before. She’s overawed by the experience,’ replied Fitzjohn, shrugging out of his suit coat and hanging it on the back of his chair before sitting down. ‘And if she’s right and Olive Glossop was wearing the missing ring, it means that she’s been into that apartment since Beatrice’s fall. It wouldn’t have been difficult with the door permanently unlocked. Perhaps a spur of the moment temptation that Olive couldn’t resist.’
‘Do you think we should include her as a person of interest in Beatrice’s death, along with Max Ziegler and Alison Maybrick, sir?’
‘It wouldn’t hurt,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘After all, Olive could have argued with Beatrice if, in fact, it wasn’t her idea to promote Olive to the position as agent.’
‘What should we do in regards to the missing ring?’ asked Betts.
‘I don’t see there’s anything we can do,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Not for now, at least. After all, it hasn’t been reported as stolen and according to Esme and Mildred Banks, it isn’t valuable. But I am glad that they’ve told us about it because you never know, it could turn out to be a significant piece of i
nformation.’
‘Still, I can’t see Olive pushing Beatrice down those stairs, sir. Can you? I think it would more likely be either Alison or Ziegler. Ziegler might have decided to plead his case to Beatrice that evening. He’d have a key to the building so he could have let himself in and gone upstairs while the other members of staff were working in their offices. And it wouldn’t have been difficult for Alison to slip upstairs either. She had a lot to gain monetarily from her step-mother’s death.’
‘That’s true,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Although, with Charles Stratton now in the picture, she will have a bit less.’ Fitzjohn sat back in his chair. ‘I wonder who he was to Beatrice. Do we have any news on him yet?’
‘I’m still waiting to hear back from Williams, sir, so in the meantime, I made a few enquiries about the victim’s nephew, Portland Moore.’
‘Oh? What prompted that?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Well, it seemed to me that we’ve been concentrating all our efforts on Max Ziegler and Giles Enfield without knowing very much at all about Mr Moore’s background.’
‘So, what did you find?’
‘That he lives way above his means for someone on a bank teller’s salary,’ replied Betts.
‘In what way?’
‘Well, for starters, we know he lives in Clontarf, right enough, but it turns out that the house he lives in is in the upper price bracket. And that’s not the only thing. He drives the latest BMW sports car, holidays in Europe each year and his two sons attend Shore Grammar.’
‘It might be that he had a windfall somewhere along the way. Or perhaps his wife is independently wealthy,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘I checked and that’s not the case, sir, but I think I know how he’s managed it. Apparently, the five per cent dividend that the victim has earned from the investment in the agency since 2009, was deposited into the boys’ bank accounts and yet there’s no accumulation of funds in either account.’
‘Really? Interesting,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘It might be the reason why Preston Alexander decided to have a trust created for the boys? The solicitor did say that he’d asked it to be done just prior to his death.’
‘It would also explain why he omitted including his nephew in his new will,’ put in Fitzjohn. ‘Maybe he realised that he was being taken advantage of.’
‘It gives Portland Moore a strong motive to kill our victim.’
‘It does, Betts.’ Fitzjohn thought for a moment. ‘It seems strange that Moore hasn’t contested the will.’
‘He has, sir. Did so late yesterday afternoon, according to Geoffrey Cousins. After I heard about that, I decided to go back to the theatre to speak to the cast. Unfortunately, none of them were there, but the security guard was. He said he had a clear recollection of the night in question because it’s seldom he works on a Wednesday. He also said that during that evening Portland left the building around eight o’clock and got in his car that was parked in the lane way. He returned about an hour later around nine.’
‘And Charles Conroy said that the time of death was anywhere between eight-thirty and ten-thirty, didn’t he, so, Portland would have had enough time to drive to Cremorne and go for an evening walk with his uncle,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘He had a clear motive if his uncle had told him that he planned to withdraw his investment from the agency and set up a trust fund for the boys instead. Portland would know that he couldn’t touch the trust.’
‘Good work, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn, sitting back. ‘I think we’ll pay Mr Moore a call.’
CHAPTER 16
In the late afternoon, Fitzjohn and Betts left the station and as they made their way across the bridge to the north shore, Fitzjohn’s mind traversed the various details of their case so far with the occasional detour to his own situation with Grieg and the Police Integrity Board’s inquiry.
‘This is it, sir,’ he heard Betts say as they pulled up in front of a high stone retaining wall.
‘I take it Portland Moore’s home is hidden behind this wall,’ said Fitzjohn, looking out of the passenger window.
‘Yes, sir. On top of a hill. Quite a climb but with great views over Sydney Harbour.’
‘I don’t need views, Betts. I just need people who live on flat ground.’
Fitzjohn climbed out of the car and the two officers made their way along the footpath till they reached the property’s entrance. Once there, Fitzjohn stopped and his jaw dropped as he stared upward at a three storey structure wrapped in walls of glass. ‘Good heavens! You’re right,’ he said. ‘It looks like Mr Moore does live above a bank teller’s salary. His house looks more like a hotel.’ Fitzjohn glanced at Betts. ‘I doubt the climb is going to do much for your leg. We’ll take it slow.’ Continuing on, they reached the front door of the residence after walking along a wide cement path that crossed over an ornamental pool, its surface covered with water lilies. Betts rang the doorbell while Fitzjohn straightened his suit coat and adjusted his tie. As he did so, the front door opened to reveal a diminutive woman in her mid-forties of Asian appearance.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked in a soft voice.
‘We’d like to speak to Mr Moore, please,’ said Fitzjohn after he and Betts had introduced themselves.
With a slight smile and a nod, the woman ushered the two officers into a foyer before closing the door behind them. Moments later, they emerged on the threshold of a lush tropical garden to find the air filled with the sound of rippling water as it wended its way in a winding stream through the overhanging foliage before them. ‘I knew I should have joined the bank,’ said Betts under his breath as they continued to follow the housekeeper into the depths of the garden sanctuary. Presently, the canopy of tropical greenery fell away and they found themselves at the edge of a swimming pool where Portland Moore could be seen stretched out on a lounge chair. His eyes shot open when he sensed their presence and he jumped to his feet, wrapping a towel around himself. As he did so, his reading material fell to the ground and his drink upturned on the small table next to the lounge.
‘Chief Inspector. I didn’t expect you,’ he said, glaring at his housekeeper who scurried away. ‘Have you news?’
‘No, unfortunately. Not at this stage, Mr Moore. Consequently, we’d like to go over a few things with you if we may.’
‘Yes, all right,’ replied Portland, looking somewhat perplexed. ‘We can sit over there.’ Portland pointed to a cabana sheltering a large barbecue and a nest of garden furniture.
‘It’s a lovely place you have here,’ commented Fitzjohn, sitting down in one of the thickly padded chairs.
‘We like it,’ replied Portland, looking across the garden with pride. ‘My wife and I have tried to create a sanctuary away from the busyness of city life. I think we’ve been successful.’ He slipped on a T-shirt and settled himself into a chair. ‘Is there anything specific you want to ask me?’
‘Yes. We’d like to go over your whereabouts on the night that your uncle died.’
‘Okay. Well, as I told you the last time we spoke, I was at the Adelphi Theatre all evening participating in the first rehearsal for Beatrice’s play. I arrived just after six in the evening and left between nine-thirty and ten. Sorry I can’t be more precise with the time but you know how it is.’
‘Were you at the theatre the whole evening, Mr Moore?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you quite sure? It’s just that we’ve been told that you left for a period of approximately one hour?’
Portland met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Is that true?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Our information is from a reliable source,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘Are you sure you’re telling us the truth?’ Portland did not reply. ‘Did you drive to Cremorne to take an evening walk with your uncle perhaps?’
‘You’re not suggesting that I killed Preston are you?’ Portland winced.
‘That depends on whether you can account for the time that y
ou were away from the theatre that night. After all, you did have a strong motive to kill your uncle. By that I mean after he had set up the trust fund for your boys rather than the money from the agency investment going into their bank accounts, your funds would have eventually dried up. So would your apparent lifestyle.’ Fitzjohn looked around.
‘How do you know about my sons’ bank accounts?’ said Portland, indignantly. ‘How dare you delve into my private affairs?’
‘We dare because we’re conducting a murder investigation, Mr Moore. Now, are you going to tell us the truth or would you sooner come down to the station to do so?’
Portland swallowed hard, his fingers fidgeting with the ring on his right ring finger. ‘All right. I did leave the theatre that evening, but only for a short period of time, and it wasn’t to go to Cremorne.’
‘Where did you go?’ asked Fitzjohn.
Portland hesitated. ‘To the Star Casino. I play blackjack.’
‘Why did you go when you’re in the middle of a rehearsal?’ asked Fitzjohn. When Portland did not answer, Fitzjohn said, ‘Do they know you at the casino?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. We’ll speak to them.’
Fitzjohn and Betts left Portland in the midst of his tranquil Balinese garden and made their way back to their car.
‘The element of surprise, Betts. It does wonders catching people off guard, but I hope Mr Moore isn’t too unkind to his housekeeper. He doesn’t seem to me to be the most lenient of employers.’
Betts looked back at the house. ‘I can’t believe that place, sir. Impossible on a bank teller’s salary. He must do very well at the black jack table.’
‘In that regard, I want you to speak to the people at the casino, Betts, and find out if Mr Moore is a regular. If he is and if he was there on Wednesday night as he says, no doubt they’ll remember him.’
Fitzjohn unlocked the front door of his sandstone cottage, put his briefcase down with a sigh and smiled. You might not be three stories high and made of glass, but you’re home, he thought to himself.
Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) Page 12