‘Oh?’
‘Yes. You see, at the time, Claudia had asked me what I thought of a sketch she’d recently purchased. It was by Brandt. You may have heard of Brandt, but if not he was one of the 20th century’s leading figures in art. You only have to observe his creativity that is manifested in the variety of mediums that he used. That’s why, after close examination... Well, it was rather embarrassing, really, because I knew Claudia had spent a lot of money purchasing the sketch, but for that very reason I felt it necessary to tell her that it was a fake.’
‘And did you tell Mr Rossi this when he came to see you last Friday afternoon?’
‘I did, but he said he’d already been told of that fact that very afternoon. What he wanted from me was the name of the art dealer who’d sold the sketch to Claudia.’
‘And were you able to tell him who it was?’
‘Oh, yes. Claudia mentioned the dealer’s name when I told her the sketch was a fake. And, of course, being in the art business, I know of him. His name’s Aiden Maxwell.’ Fitzjohn sat forward in his chair. ‘He has a gallery in Paddington. Claudia used to do restoration work for him from time to time.’
Marian Davies face gaped. ‘You don’t think Michael’s death… I’ll never forgive myself if my telling him the dealer’s name has led to his death.’
‘Tell me, Ms Davies, in your opinion, were the irregularities in the sketch easy to detect?’
‘In this case not necessarily, Chief Inspector. I just happen to be an expert on Brandt’s work, and it was only the finest discrepancies I noticed.’
‘I see.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘When was this dinner party, Ms Davies?’
‘Sometime in June 2010, as I remember. Not long before Claudia died, as a matter of fact.’
‘And do you know whether she contacted Aiden Maxwell about the possibility that the sketch was a fake?’
‘I have no idea, Chief Inspector. Claudia never said.’
‘Did Michael Rossi ask you anything else?’
‘No. But he did tell me something. Something unsettling.’ Marian Davies took a breath. ‘He told me Claudia had been murdered because of the Brandt sketch.’
After Marian Davies departure, Fitzjohn glanced over at Betts, who still sat writing in his notebook. ‘Well, Betts, Ms Davies has managed to turn our investigation on its head.’
‘She has, sir,’ said Betts, closing his notebook. ‘The very fact Michael Rossi believed his sister was murdered, fits in with what we’ve got so far. We know he received a telephone call from Robert Nesbit on Friday afternoon telling him of Richard Edwards failing health, and that Mr Edwards wanted to talk to Rossi about Claudia. This caused the victim to leave the winery earlier than expected. We also know the approximate time that the victim visited Richard Edwards in St Vincent’s Hospital. Around 3:30pm that same afternoon where, we presume, he was told not only that the sketch was a fake, but that Claudia’s death had not been accidental, but murder.’ Betts tapped his pen on his notebook. ‘Maybe that’s why he wanted to speak to his solicitor, David Spencer, about Claudia’s life insurance policy. After all, it’d been paid out, and if she had been murdered...’
‘Mmm. Sounds feasible,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’ll work on that premise and also that Claudia Rossi’s death was suspicious, unless we find out otherwise.’ Fitzjohn put his glasses on, smoothed down his wispy hair, and rose from his chair. ‘I want to have another word with Aiden Maxwell.’ Fitzjohn slipped his suit coat on. ‘But before we do, let’s talk to Charlotte Rossi again. You never know, she might be able to add something to all this.’
Fitzjohn and Betts stepped in to Charlotte Rossi’s Double Bay bookshop later that same day. Housed in a Federation style building, its atmosphere of old-world charm and clutter, blended with the smell of paper, leather and dust, lent a comfortable air.
‘Hello, Chief Inspector,’ came a voice from the back of the shop. Fitzjohn looked between the shelves to see Esme Timmons sitting at a desk in front of a computer screen, an enquiring look on her face. ‘I expect you’re looking for Charlotte.’
‘We are, Miss Timmons,’ answered Fitzjohn, making his way between the shelving to where Esme sat.
‘Well, you’ll be disappointed because she’s out, and I’m not sure when she’ll be back. I’m spending the day here, assisting Irene with some cataloging. It keeps “the grey matter” alive. I don’t suppose you have news about my perfume bottle.’
‘Not yet, Miss Timmons.’
‘Oh, well, I’m glad you’ve dropped by anyway because there’s something I think you should see. It concerns Claudia... and perhaps Michael.’ Esme opened her handbag and brought out the three letters that she and Charlotte had found in the bureau at the winery. She handed them to Fitzjohn. ‘As you can see, they’re letters all addressed to Claudia.’ Esme recounted the finding of the letters. ‘They’re content is disturbing to say the least, Chief Inspector. I think you’d describe them as poison pen letters. I wondered if they might be what Michael was looking for when he came to see me on Friday evening, but I suppose we’ll never know for sure.’
Fitzjohn removed one of the letters from its envelope and ran his eyes over the text, each individual letter cut from what looked like magazine print. ‘You’re right, Miss Timmons, they are disturbing.’ While he studied the letter, Esme disclosed details of Claudia’s life that might prompt such prose. At the same time, Phillipa Braithwaite’s words about Claudia’s, seemingly tumultuous relationship with Richard Edwards, came in to Fitzjohn’s thoughts. ‘So, Claudia’s relationship with her partner, Richard Edwards, was strained at one point, Miss Timmons,’ Fitzjohn said at last.
‘Very much so, Chief Inspector. Richard had a fancy woman during the time they were together. I don’t know who she was. Nobody did. It caused he and Claudia to separate for a time, but then they patched things up. Or so I thought until these letters turned up.’ Esme sighed. ‘Poor Claudia. I only wish she’d told me. What sort of a mind, do you suppose stoops so low as to concoct such rubbish.’
‘A disturbed one, Miss Timmons.’ Fitzjohn put the letter back in to its envelope before looking at each of the three envelopes. ‘Not handwritten, but, it would seem, hand delivered. There aren’t any post marks. I’ll take these with me if you don’t mind, Miss Timmons. They may help us with our investigation.’
‘I hope they do,’ said Esme.
‘Talking about Claudia, Miss Timmons, can you tell me anything about a sketch that she owned?’
‘The only sketch I know of is one by Arthur Brandt. It was left to Charlotte in her mother’s will. Charlotte plans to sell it.’ Esme paused. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because it’s come to our attention that there’s a problem with it, Miss Timmons.’
‘I know. When Charlotte and I were tidying up after the break-in, we found a report that Claudia had written concerning its provenance. I don’t pretend to know anything about such matters, Chief Inspector, but I do know that it’s important, if one plans to sell a piece of art, that the provenance is intact, or there’s a legitimate reason why it isn’t. And according to Claudia’s report, it’s obvious she had her doubts.’ Esme paused. ‘I suppose even an expert can be fooled. I wouldn’t be surprised if it does turn out to be a fake. I mean, why else would Claudia be looking in to its provenance?’
‘You’re very perceptive, Miss Timmons, because we’ve reason to believe that that’s the case. Do you know where the sketch is now?’
‘It’s at my house in Waverton. Charlotte brought it with her when she came to stay. It had been at Michael’s before that. She’d lent it to him because she doesn’t care for it. Too modern for her taste, I suspect. I told her she could leave it in her mother’s study while she arranges for its sale. Can I ask your particular interest in the sketch, Chief Inspector? Is it because it’s a fake or does it have some connection to Michael’s death?’
Unaccustomed to discussing his investigations openly with anyone other than his team of investigators, Fitzjohn, nev
ertheless, felt drawn to answering Esme Timmons’s question. Why was that? Her enquiring mind, and pragmatism? Yes, but there was something else, he thought as he looked into those bright blue eyes. It was Esme’s unmistakable zest for life. Even when she had just suffered the loss of yet another member of her family. One more blow in her long life. ‘We’re led to believe that your nephew went to see someone at the New South Wales Art Gallery last Friday afternoon, Miss Timmons, to ask about the sketch,’ he answered at last.
‘Oh, I see. So, it’s quite possible Michael was looking for Claudia’s report as well as letters when he came to see me last Friday evening. Mmm.’
‘Where’s the report now, Miss Timmons?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Charlotte has it. As I mentioned before, she plans to speak to the previous owner of the sketch.’ Esme frowned. ‘But that might not be a good idea if it’s a fake as you say. Oh dear.’
Fitzjohn eased himself in to the passenger seat of the car and watched Betts climb in beside him, his arms loaded with books. ‘It looks like you made use of your time in there, Betts.’
‘Used bookshops, sir. I love them.’ Betts placed the books on the back seat of the car. At the same time, Fitzjohn’s mobile phone rang.
‘Fitzjohn here. I beg your pardon?’ Fitzjohn stared out over the hood of the car as Betts pulled away from the curb.
‘Is it bad news about the tree, sir?’ he asked, maneuvering his way in to the traffic.
‘I wish it was. That was the Duty Officer at Day Street Police Station. Sophie’s in the nick.’
‘She’s what?’ said Betts, grinding in to third gear.
‘Just what I said.’ Fitzjohn looked across at Betts. ‘She was arrested this morning at the university sit in.’ Fitzjohn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do I denote amusement in your face, Betts?’
‘Not in the least, sir. Sophie must be very upset.’
‘To hell with Sophie,’ barked Fitzjohn. ‘I’m upset. Can you imagine what my life will be like if her mother finds out?’ Fitzjohn sighed. ‘There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to bail Sophie out.’
CHAPTER 17
Fitzjohn arrived at Kings Cross Police Station later that afternoon in an uncharacteristically tense mood. He found Betts and Reynolds in the Incident Room standing at the whiteboard, discussing the case.
‘Is Sophie all right?’ asked Betts as Fitzjohn sat down in his chair.
‘I daresay her pride is hurt, but otherwise, I believe, she’s faring better than me right now, Betts. I’ve left her to watch the tree branch that’s now scraping the top of my greenhouse.’ Fitzjohn opened his briefcase and took his papers out. ‘She has strict instructions to call me if it snaps.’ Fitzjohn sighed. ‘It’s distressing bailing one’s niece out of gaol.’
Reynolds, sensing Fitzjohn chagrin, glanced at Betts before he said, ‘I was just about to get a cup of coffee, sir, would you like one?’
‘I don’t know about coffee. I think I need a stiff drink,’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘but coffee will be fine. Thanks, Reynolds.’
‘Perhaps it’s just as well Edith and I weren’t blessed with children,’ said Fitzjohn as Reynolds left he room. ‘I doubt I’d have coped.’ He removed his pen from his breast pocket and tossed it on to his desk. ‘How are things here, anyway? Have you been able to contact Charlotte Rossi about that sketch?’
‘I tried, sir, but she still hasn’t returned to the bookshop. I’ll try again later.’
‘Do that, because I have a feeling that sketch is about to become central to our investigation. Not only because of Michael Rossi’s death, but the death of his sister as well. Anything more on those death cap mushrooms?’
‘Yes, sir. The New South Wales Art Gallery has confirmed that Claudia Rossi was in Canberra in July, 2010. She went there to do some work at The National Art Gallery. I’m just waiting for the exact dates she was there.’
‘Ah. So, if it’s found that Claudia was in Canberra just prior to when she fell ill, there’s every possibility she came by the mushroom herself. Perhaps brought them home with her for dinner.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘It’s a chilling thought.’
‘But it doesn’t fit with what Michael Rossi told Ms Davies, sir. That his sister had been murdered because of the Brandt sketch.’
‘That’s true. Which is why we have to look for other ways she could have come by them. We’ll start with Aiden Maxwell. Have him brought in for questioning, Betts.’ As Fitzjohn spoke, Williams put his head around the Incident Room door.
‘Ah, Williams, come in,’ said Fitzjohn sitting forward expectantly. ‘News on Douglas Porteous, I hope.’
‘Yes, sir. Apparently, Mr Porteous died in July, 2010. At around about the same time as Claudia Rossi, but from natural causes. A massive stroke, apparently.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Fitzjohn, slumping back in his chair.
‘He’s survived by his wife, Eunice Porteous, who still lives in the family home in North Balgowlah.’
‘Right, well, it’s not ideal but we’ll speak to Mrs Porteous.’
Fitzjohn and Williams made their way to North Balgowlah a short time later, pulling up in front of a neat, red brick semi-detached house where a middle-aged woman stood pruning white standard roses that bordered the garden path. She stopped when Fitzjohn and Williams approached, her gloved hands falling to her sides, her expression wary.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Mrs Porteous?’ asked Fitzjohn, sensing the woman’s nervous disposition.
‘Yes.’
Fitzjohn held up his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn. This is Detective Senior Sergeant Williams. We’re from the New South Wales Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if we may, about your late husband, Douglas Porteous.’
‘Douglas?’ Eunice Porteous looked around furtively displaying her nervousness. ‘We’d better speak inside then.’ Removing her gardening gloves and placing them, along with her secateurs, on the lower step of the front porch, she led the way in to the house. ‘We can sit in here,’ she said ushering Fitzjohn and Williams in to a small living room overlooking the front garden. ‘I take it that young woman, Charlotte Rossi, reported me to the police,’ she said as they sat down.
Fitzjohn gave Eunice Porteous a quizzical look. ‘No. We haven’t heard from Ms Rossi. But I daresay we’re here about the same matter. A sketch that we understand your late husband once owned?’ Eunice Porteous shifted in her chair. ‘Is that the case, Mrs Porteous?’
‘No, it isn’t, Chief Inspector.’
‘I see. Then can you tell us your husband’s connection to the sketch? I take it there is one.’
‘There is, but it’s a long and complicated story,’ replied Eunice Porteous.
‘We have the time to listen, Mrs Porteous.’ Fitzjohn sat back on the sofa. ‘Perhaps you can start by telling us what happened when Charlotte Rossi came to see you.’
‘Well, like you, she was under the impression that Douglas was the previous owner. I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about. I’ve since had second thoughts. It’s been bothering me all day.’
‘Why is that, Mrs Porteous?’
‘Because I wished I’d told her not to pursue the matter, Chief Inspector. The reason being that I think it’s one of the reasons my husband is dead.’
‘But we’ve been led to believe your husband died of a stroke.’
‘He did, but there’s no doubt in my mind it was brought on by what happened in the week prior to his death, and culminated the night his workshop burned to the ground. I think that was the end for him. Everything Doug had worked for all his life, gone. The fire was found to be caused by an electrical fault, but at the time, as far as the insurance company was concerned, there was every possibility my husband had started the fire. And that meant a long and protracted investigation.’
‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. I should digress to what happened before the fire.’ Eunice Porteous pressed her lips together before she continued. ‘I told Ms Ros
si that she had the wrong Porteous. That my husband was a furniture maker, not an artist. That wasn’t true, of course. He was an artist who, unwittingly, became involved with an unscrupulous art dealer who offered to market and sell his work. Initially, Doug was pleased. How could he not be? To have someone in the art world the slightest bit interested in his work pleased him no end. But all too soon that pleasure came to an end.’
‘Why? What happened?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Well, you see, Chief Inspector. Much of Doug’s work was copying old masters as well as other well known artists. He didn’t realise anything was wrong until the day Claudia Rossi came to see him. She also believed he was the previous owner of a Brandt sketch she had recently purchased. She didn’t know that it was one of Doug’s reproductions. Brandt’s name had been surreptitiously added to the work and Doug’s name included in a long provenance. Mrs Rossi said she was looking in to the sketch’s provenance because she’d been told by an expert that it was a fake. She asked my husband if he’d be prepared to support her if this turned out to be true. I’ll never forget Doug’s face. He was mortified. The thought he was involved in art fraud, albeit, without his knowledge, was more than he could bear. Not to mention his embarrassment at having to tell this woman that she was right. It was a copy, and he was the artist. It all but destroyed him, Chief Inspector.’ Eunice Porteous blinked back her tears. ‘His reputation, as far as he was concerned, was sullied, and that afternoon he went to see the art dealer who’d sold the sketch to Claudia Rossi.’
‘What was this art dealer’s name?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Aiden Maxwell,’ said Eunice slowly. Williams looked up from his notebook and caught Fitzjohn’s eye. ‘He has a gallery in Paddington.’
ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) Page 12