‘Mmm. So one might assume that there's some underlying problem. We need to find out what it is, Betts. Ask around. See what you can find out.’
‘Do you think James Wearing could have killed his brother?’
Fitzjohn frowned. ‘I don’t know. Although, everything so far would lead us to believe so. He has no alibi and he left Sydney not long after the murder took place.’
‘Plus the murder weapon was found in his office.’
‘True, but if he is our man, I think he would have disposed of that dagger, not set it out on his desk.’ Fitzjohn paused and looked out through the rain-splattered windscreen. ‘But then again, after thirty years in this job, I’ve seen people do the strangest things.’
****
Despite the late hour, the station buzzed with activity as Fitzjohn made his way to his office. He put his briefcase on his desk, pulled his overcoat off and hung it behind the door. For a moment, he stood at the window and looked down onto the deserted street, its wet pavement glistening under the streetlight, his conversations with James Wearing replaying in his mind.
****
The next morning, as was his habit, Fitzjohn rose early and, dressed in an old pair of trousers and a jumper Edith had knitted him years earlier, he went downstairs. At the back door, he slipped his feet into a pair of rubber boots, and stepped outside. A breeze caught the few wisps of hair remaining on the top of his head. He smoothed them back down as he surveyed the garden where, although its summer colours were now faded, the manicured borders gave him satisfaction. Stepping down onto the stone path, he walked to the greenhouse, closed the door and switched on the small CD player he kept on the shelf. Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A major filled the air while Fitzjohn hummed quietly to himself and made slow progress along each row, tending his orchids.
When Sergeant Betts arrived two hours later, he found Fitzjohn in the kitchen. His boss was dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit with a white handkerchief just visible in the top left hand pocket, any hint of his earlier garb gone. The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air. ‘Ah, good morning, Betts. Or is it? You look a little worse for wear.’
‘We had a farewell last night for one of the blokes, sir.’
‘Self inflicted pain, then. I have no sympathy for you.’ Fitzjohn turned back to the kitchen counter and poured coffee into a mug. He handed it to Betts. ‘Perhaps this will help.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
While Betts sipped the steaming brew, Fitzjohn gathered up his papers on the kitchen table and placed them in his briefcase. ‘I want to speak to Ms Manning first thing. Do you have any idea where we can reach her?’
‘Yes. I dropped into the archaeology department on my way here and spoke to Vera Trenbath. She gave me Ashley Manning’s address.’ Betts held up a small card. ‘She lives in a flat in Paddington.’
‘Good. Then we’ll make our way there now.’ Fitzjohn pulled on his overcoat as Betts gulped down the remains of his coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled over in front of a three-story block of flats. In the foyer, Fitzjohn pushed the button next to Ashley Manning’s name. Moments passed.
‘Hello.’
‘Ms Manning?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, New South Wales Police. ‘I’d like to speak to you in connection with the death of Alex Wearing.’
Fitzjohn waited until he heard the door into the building click. As it opened, he followed Betts inside and up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, a tall, slim young woman, her brunette hair pulled back loosely in a chignon, stood in a doorway to the left.
‘Miss Manning, I'm Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, and this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’
Ashley Manning, her face pensive, stepped back from the door. ‘Come in.’
Fitzjohn and Betts followed her into a living room that overlooked the tree-lined street below. She picked up the magazines scattered across the sofa and placed them on the coffee table. 'Please, have a seat.'
Fitzjohn settled himself in an armchair. Betts sat at one end of the sofa and fumbled with his notebook and pen as he watched Ashley Manning pull out a chair from the desk in front of the window and perched herself on its edge.
‘We understand you’re a postgraduate student at the University of Sydney, Ms Manning.’
‘Yes. I’ve been doing my PhD there for the past two years. Professor Wearing is... was my supervisor.’
Fitzjohn nodded as he glanced at a photograph on a small round table next to his chair. ‘An archaeological dig?’
‘Yes, this past summer. As you can see, Professor Wearing was there as was his brother, James Wearing.’
‘You knew Alex Wearing well?’
‘I suppose you could say that, yes.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘The afternoon before he died.’
‘Whereabouts?’
Ashley turned the bracelet on her wrist. ‘In his office, but I was only there for a minute or two because his phone rang.’
‘What time would this have been, Ms Manning?’
‘Just after lunch.’
‘You didn’t go back to see him later in the day?’
‘No. I had to work. I have a part-time job at the Australian Museum.’
‘I see.’ Fitzjohn looked again at the photograph. ‘In your opinion, did Alex Wearing get on well with people? At this excavation, for instance.’
Ashley Manning hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Forgive me for saying so, Ms Manning, but you don’t sound too sure.’
Ashley smoothed a few wisps of hair back from her face. ‘Well, it’s just that he did have words with his brother, James Wearing, a couple of times, as I remember.’
Fitzjohn frowned. ‘Do you know why they argued?’
‘No.’
‘How well do you know James Wearing?’
‘Hardly at all. The only contact we’ve had was at that excavation.’ Ashley pointed to the photograph.
‘Very well, Ms Manning, I just have one last question. Can you tell us where you were between midnight and 6am on the seventh of July?’
‘Here, asleep in bed.’
‘Alone?’
Ashley Manning glared at Fitzjohn. ‘Yes.’
****
Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from Ashley Manning’s flat and made their way back down the stairs and out to their car.
‘Am I right in saying Ms Manning doesn’t fit your image of an archaeologist, Betts?’
Betts's eyebrows rose. ‘I suppose I had visions of someone less...’
‘Attractive?’
‘Yes.’
Fitzjohn laughed. ‘I thought you were a little taken.’
Betts turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb. ‘You didn’t mention the missing artefacts to her, sir.’
‘No, I thought it prudent not to advertise their theft too widely for the moment.’
‘Do you think she knows more than what she’s saying then, sir?’
‘Most assuredly, Betts. Most assuredly.’
CHAPTER 7
After a sleepless night, James rose early and made his way downstairs. He grabbed his coat from the end of the banister and pulled it on. As he did so, he noticed the painting on the hall table, all but forgotten after Fitzjohn’s visit. He picked it up and left the house.
Half an hour later, he arrived at The Gallery to find Edwina Parker on the sidewalk fumbling with the door lock amidst the clamour of morning traffic. She looked up as he approached, her round face breaking into a wide smile when she saw him.
‘James, it’s good to see you. My thoughts have been with you since I heard the news.’ Edwina frowned. ‘I’m so sorry about Alex.’
‘Thanks, Edwina.’ James glanced at the door. ‘Here, let me try that.’ James turned the key and shoved the door. It swung open.
‘Thanks. I go through this every morning but it’s my own fault. I should call a locksmith. Come i
n.’ Edwina switched the lights on and, with laboured breathing, made her way across the room to the desk in the corner, her large shape barely fitting into the chair. She placed her handbag inside a desk drawer and waited for James to sit down.
‘I’m so glad you dropped by,' she said. 'I know this must be a difficult time.’
‘I’m not sure I’ve grasped what’s happened yet. I suppose it’ll take a few days.’
Edwina nodded. ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee?’
‘Thanks, but I can’t stay. I just came by to ask whether you can recommend someone who could clean this painting for me.’ James handed the painting to Edwina. ‘I found it last night in Louise’s studio.’
A smile crossed Edwina’s face. ‘Oh, she must have decided to keep it.'
'You've seen it before?'
'Yes, here at the gallery. When I didn't see it again, I assumed it'd been sold.' Edwina paused. 'It's so beautiful I suppose she couldn't bear to part with it.'
'When was this, Edwina?'
'When you were in Cyprus. Just before her death. The day before, actually. I remember because the next morning, she asked me if I'd come in and open the gallery while she went to the police station.'
'The police station? Did she say why?'
Edwina shook her head. 'No, and I didn't want to appear nosey by asking. Of course, it was while she was on her way there that she died.' Edwina hesitated. 'I'm sorry, James. The memory of that day still haunts me.'
'Don't be. I'm only glad you were here for her, Edwina.' James glanced around the room. ‘Perhaps if I’d taken more interest and not gone to Cyprus she might still be alive.’
‘That’s something you’ll never know.’ Edwina paused. ‘Put it to rest, James. Make a new start. Louise loved you and she wouldn’t want you to go through life feeling this guilt.’
James smiled. ‘You’re the second person to say that to me this week.’
‘Then it must be the right advice.’
Edwina took a deep breath and picked up the painting again. ‘Well, let’s take a closer look at this now, shall we?’ She put her glasses on and moved the desk lamp over the painting. ‘It looks to be quite old. Eighteenth century, I’d say, but even so, it looks in fine condition and once cleaned, the colours will be more vibrant and, hopefully, will reveal the artist’s name.’ Edwina took her glasses off and looked up at James, smiling. ‘There’s a fellow here in Sydney I use. Albert Gilmore. Would you be happy for me to ask him to do it?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then leave it with me and I’ll be in touch when it’s finished.’
****
James left the gallery and made his way to the university where the media presence, although smaller, still persisted. He dodged passed them and into the building, where a constable stood on duty. When he turned the corner in the hallway, he could see Vera Trenbath at the far end entering her office. He found her at her desk. ‘Vera, do you have a minute? I'd like to speak to you.’
‘Yes, of course, James’. An awkward silence followed, Vera’s usual loquaciousness absent. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s all been so dreadful. I can’t think of what to say.’
Vera pushed her keyboard back from the edge of the desk and James sensed the insecurity Alex’s death had created in a woman whose life revolved around the department. A lonely life, he suspected.
‘You don’t have to say anything, Vera.’
Vera nodded and gestured for James to sit down.
‘What will happen now, do you think, James?’
‘Well, Tristan Harrow will take over as chair of the department for the time being.’ Vera bristled. ‘But other than that, I have no idea.'
Vera shuffled the papers in front of her and James could see the problems her contrary disposition and Tristan’s need to make his mark as chair may cause. He paused, anxious to change the subject.
‘Have the police spoken to you yet?’
‘Yes. Twice. That’s why I wasn’t here yesterday afternoon. They wanted to speak to me again. At the station this time. I didn’t come back to the office afterwards. I felt too drained.’
‘I’m sure they appreciate your help, Vera.’
‘Well, I’ve tried, James, but it hasn’t been easy. I found him, you see.’ Vera looked past James as if reliving the event. ‘I knocked on the door and went into his office as I have many times in the last ten years and there he lay on the floor.’ Vera took her handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her nose. James sensed her anxiety but, at the same time, the excitement that Alex’s death had created in her otherwise humdrum life.
‘I’m sorry. Here am I going on and he’s your brother after all. If there’s anything I can do...’
‘There is actually. I need to contact Ashley Manning. Do you have a phone number for her?’
‘Yes, in fact, I got it out earlier this morning to give to that young police officer.’ Vera glanced at James. ‘I imagine they want to ask her when she last spoke to Professor Wearing. Of course, they could have asked me. It was the afternoon before he died. At about two o’clock. Not her scheduled time slot, I might add. Professor Wearing set aside specific hours in the day to see students. But then that young woman never did keep to the rules.’ Vera flicked through her address index.
‘Her husband came, too, late that same afternoon,' she added.
‘Oh? I was under the impression Ashley and her husband separated some time ago.’
Vera’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, I can’t say I know anything about her marital arrangements, but I do know Robert Manning works for Professor Wearing’s publisher.’
James nodded, surprised at the details Vera knew about people. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I imagine he came about that second edition Professor Wearing was working on.’ Vera handed James a small card. 'Here it is, her address and telephone number. Of course, you could try the museum. She’ll be there until early this afternoon.’
‘Right, I might do that.’ James put the card in his coat pocket. ‘Do you remember anyone else who came to see Alex before he died?’
Vera thought for a moment. ‘He spoke to Dr. Harrow after lunch that day. I saw them together in the corridor. Oh, and Mr Rhodes came at about three. He passed my door on his way.’
‘Simon Rhodes?’
‘Yes. Very nice man. Do you know him?’
‘Yes. He was a student here many years ago.’
‘Oh. I had no idea. That must be why he and Professor Wearing were such good friends.’
James frowned. ‘Did he come to see Alex often?’
‘He has of late.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘Of course.’ Vera frowned. ‘Is there a problem, James?’
‘No, Vera. I’m just surprised to see Simon back in Sydney after so many years.’
CHAPTER 8
James left Vera’s office, puzzled at her assertion that Simon Rhodes and Alex had been friends. His recollection of their relationship in their student days was one of aversion. Still, with time, perhaps they had patched up their differences.
James walked the ten minutes to Redfern Station and caught the train to Museum Station. It was as he made his way along College Street that he saw Ashley Manning, a tall, elegant figure, her dark brown shoulder-length hair flying back from her face in the breeze. As she crossed the street, James started to follow, then hesitated, still puzzled over her cool manner toward him the last time they had met. Undecided, he waited for a moment before he continued.
Unsmiling, her face pale and anxious, she gave him a sideways glance as he fell into step beside her.
'Dr Wearing.'
'Hello, Ashley. I wanted to catch you before you started work. I need to ask you something.'
Ashley adjusted the scarf around her neck and started to hurry along the street. ‘I’m sorry about your brother, Dr Wearing. I shall miss him.’ James could hear the quiver in her voice.
‘Thanks. I think we all will.’ They walked on in silence
for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s Alex I want to talk to you about.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. You might not be aware but, recently, the department borrowed artefacts through the Australian Museum for the open day.’
‘Yes, I know. I liaised with Miles Bennett on behalf of the Museum. Is there a problem?’
‘They went missing on the day Alex died.'
Ashley stopped short. 'What!'
‘The dagger and ring have since been found, however.’
‘And the torque?’
James shook his head.
Ashley pushed her hair back as it blew across her face with the wind. ‘What’s this got to do with Professor Wearing?’
‘I believe Alex removed the artefacts from Miles Bennett’s office and hadn’t returned them before events took over.’
‘You can’t think he stole them.’
‘No, I don’t, and that’s why I wanted to speak to you. I wondered whether he’d said anything to you. Given a reason perhaps.’ James could feel Ashley Manning’s unease. She started to walk again and increased her stride.
‘Ashley, if you know something...’
Ashley Manning flew around. ‘What makes you think Professor Wearing would say anything to me? He was only my supervisor after all.’
Stunned by her sudden outburst, James hesitated. ‘I just thought...’
‘Well you thought wrong.’ Ashley turned and ran up the museum steps.
‘It doesn’t do to argue with a beautiful woman, James.’ James turned to see Edward Sommersby at his side.
‘Hello, Ed.’ They both watched Ashley disappear through the main doors into the museum. ‘I just wondered whether Alex had said anything to her about the artefacts.’
‘Didn’t sound like she appreciated the question.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘Anymore word on the investigation?’
‘Yes. The police have identified the weapon that killed Alex. It’s the Celtic dagger.’
Edward took a step back, his face grave. ‘Found on your desk.’
‘Yes.
****
The Celtic Dagger Page 4