The Celtic Dagger

by Jill Paterson

  Once inside, he made his way upstairs. In the torch light, he could see Ashley’s suitcase on a chair in one of the bedrooms and her clothes hanging in the wardrobe. It was then he glimpsed her wallet and mobile phone on the bed cover. Beads of sweat poured from his face in the frigid air. He spun around and ran back down the staircase, stumbling as he went. In the hall, he flung the library doors open, his torch flashing across the familiar room. Its air of cloistered stillness undisturbed by the raging storm beyond its windows.

  As his anxiety grew, he crossed the hall and burst into the sitting room, the white sheets covering the furniture billowing with the gust of cold air that rushed past him. His torch danced across the room, the sound of the shutter moving back and forth across the window lending an eerie feel. His heart pounding, he turned and made his way out to his car and drove back down the driveway and out onto the road toward Tom Gregory's house.

  ****

  No light penetrated the curtains of Tom’s cottage as James approached, and there was no sign of his truck. Even so, James stopped the car and climbed out. He hammered on the front door and waited. When no sound came from within, he turned the knob and watched the door swing open. James stepped inside and shouted. ‘Tom. Anyone here?’ Putting his head around the living room door, he could see Tom's pipe on the table next to his chair. In the kitchen, at the rear of the cottage, a plate of untouched food sat on the table, a mug of coffee beside it. James retraced his steps, slamming the front door behind him. He climbed into the car and drove back onto the highway in the direction of Blackheath, driving more from memory than sight because the road was now concealed in snow.

  CHAPTER 18

  Fitzjohn sat back in his chair and threw his pen down, his eyes taking in the date on his desk calendar. A year since Edith’s death. A day he wished to be consumed by work. Impatiently, he looked at his watch. Where was Betts? He started to get up from his chair when the door opened.

  ‘Ah, Betts. At last.’

  Betts, his face flushed from the cold outside, closed the door behind him. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, sir. My plane was delayed due to the fog.’ He undid his overcoat while Fitzjohn sat back, an expectant look on his face.

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Well, sir. Pamela Marquis confirmed that this is the Simon Rhodes she knew.’ Betts sat down and pulled the photograph of Rhodes from his pocket. He handed it to Fitzjohn. ‘She said they separated four years ago, although she has no idea where he went after that. Apparently, Rhodes took her for everything she had invested and left her with a mountain of debt.’

  ‘It sounds as though he creates havoc for whomever he comes into contact with, Betts. Do you think she’d be willing to stand up in court?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. The woman’s terrified of coming into contact with Rhodes again.’

  'Mmm. One could hardly blame her. Very well. Let's deal with first things first. We'll pay Simon Rhodes a visit.’ Fitzjohn half smiled. ‘See if we can hit a nerve or two.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts made their way through the hubbub of the station and out to their car.

  As Fitzjohn settled himself into a seat, Betts pulled away from the curb. 'Any luck in locating Julian Gould?'

  'No, sir, but I did manage to find out something about the man he claims ran Louise Wearing down. His name was Eric Marsh. A petty criminal and, as far as I can make out, nothing to link him to Simon Rhodes.'

  'That's unfortunate.'

  ****

  When Fitzjohn and Betts arrived on Cross Street in Double Bay, they parked across the street from ‘Rhodes Antiques’. ‘Looks like this is the place, Betts.’

  On entering the premises, they found themselves in a large showroom, the only sound, the ticking of clocks. Fitzjohn took in a group of paintings on the wall next to the front door.

  Betts looked around and in a whispered voice said, ‘I don’t think I could afford to shop here, sir.’

  ‘I doubt I could, Betts.’

  As he spoke, Fitzjohn saw Simon Rhodes emerge from a doorway toward the back of the room, a smile on his face.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn. This is a surprise.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Rhodes. We tried your office in North Sydney, but your receptionist said we might find you here. We have a few questions we’d like to ask, if we may.’

  ‘Of course.’ Simon looked at his watch. ‘Although I have a council meeting in an hour from now.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll endeavour to not keep you too long, Mr Rhodes.’

  Simon Rhodes led the way to a long mahogany dining table in the centre of the room.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were a councillor,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. Woollahra Municipal Council. I have been since I settled back in Sydney and came to live in Double Bay. I find it rewarding to be involved in the community in some small way.’ Simon paused. ‘Although I must say, with two businesses to run, it does tend to leave me with little time to spare.’ His sharp features cracked into a slight smile.

  ‘I can imagine.’ Fitzjohn undid the buttons on his overcoat and sat down. ‘I was surprised to hear you were in the antiques business. It must require a certain amount of expertise.’

  ‘It does but it’s something one acquires over a long period of time. Antiques have always held a fascination for me, Chief Inspector.’ Simon turned and surveyed the room. ‘I believe we have one of the most comprehensive collections of 18th century Georgian and early 19th century Regency furniture in Sydney.’ Fitzjohn nodded. ‘Interested in antiques, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I’m afraid my work keeps me far too involved, Mr Rhodes.’

  Fitzjohn sat back. Betts took out his note pad and pen. ‘Well, perhaps we should begin, so as not to make you late for your meeting.’ Fitzjohn clasped his hands together. ‘In our last interview, we spoke of your visit to Alex Wearing on the afternoon before his death. I believe you said he’d asked you to see him regarding financial advice.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Simon Rhodes brushed lint from his trouser leg. ‘I think we’ve been over this before, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘We have, but I don’t believe we established how well you and Alex Wearing knew each other. I understand that you had called on Alex Wearing on a number of other occasions. Was that also regarding financial advice?’

  Simon Rhodes shifted in his chair. ‘No. Alex and I had been acquaintances since university days. We had an interest in common, you see. Antiques. Although, Alex’s main passion was for porcelain. You will no doubt have noticed his fine collection at his home.’ Fitzjohn nodded. ‘Many of the pieces, I was fortunate enough to find for him in different parts of the country.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Oh, all over, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Melbourne, I suppose would be a very good source. I understand you lived there until four years ago when you returned to Sydney.’

  Simon Rhodes frowned. ‘You must be mistaken, Chief Inspector. I’ve never lived in Melbourne. I’ve lived in Brisbane for the past twenty years or so and only returned to Sydney in the last few months.’

  Fitzjohn nodded. ‘I see.’

  After a pause, he asked, ‘Do you know a woman by the name of Pamela Marquis?’

  ‘No.’ He looked into Fitzjohn’s fixed gaze. ‘And I can’t say the name’s familiar.’

  ‘What about a man by the name of Robert Manning?’

  ‘Manning. Yes. We did meet on one occasion. I believe he worked for Alex Wearing’s publisher.’

  ‘That’s the only time you met?’

  ‘Yes. Why, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Just following our normal enquiries into anyone who came into contact with the victim.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Fitzjohn looked at his watch. ‘Well, I think we’ll leave it there for now, Mr Rhodes. We’ll be in touch if we think of anything else.’

  ****

  Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from Rhodes Antiques and crossed the street to th
eir car. Fitzjohn pulled his seat belt across his rotund shape while Betts turned the ignition.

  ‘Well, Betts, what do you think of our friend, Simon Rhodes?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, sir. I doubt we hit any nerves. In fact, he comes across as a genuine, community-minded person. One can’t help but get carried away with his enthusiasm.’

  ‘Ah, but there lies his gift, Betts. To have you see and believe whatever he wishes.’ Fitzjohn looked across at Rhodes Antiques as the car pulled away from the curb. ‘Yes, he’s good. I’ll give him that. The only time I saw a distinct shift in his confidence was when I mentioned Pamela Marquis.’

  CHAPTER 19

  James saw the police sergeant’s car outside the pub as he entered Blackheath and pulled over. Once inside, he looked around the crowded room and made his way to the bar, where Gordon Jenkins, the publican, stood chatting with locals. Gordon looked over as James approached.

  ‘James. Come up for the weekend, have you?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t expect this weather.’ James tried to keep the sound of panic out of his voice.

  ‘I’m told it’s bad out there, but it brings in the crowd. What can I get for you?’

  ‘Nothing right at the moment, thanks, Gordon. I came in to see Sergeant Roberts. I saw his car outside.’

  ‘Roberts isn’t with us any longer. We have a new chap by the name of Turner. He’s over there. Came in a few minutes ago to settle a disturbance.' Gordon nodded toward a tall, lean young man standing at the end of the bar. ‘Been here a week.’ He winked as he wiped the counter. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘There’s been an accident at Cragleigh. I’m sure he’ll be able to help.’ James paused. ‘You haven’t seen any strangers come in today have you?’

  ‘Strangers?’ Gordon pulled a pint for the man next to James. ‘A woman came in late this afternoon. She sat over there.’ He pointed to the wall behind James. ‘We were busy at the time so I didn’t notice her leave.’

  ‘Did she have dark, shoulder length hair?’

  Gordon stood drying a glass and smiled. ‘No. That’s one thing I did notice. She was an attractive blonde. There was someone else too, a man. He came in about six-thirty this evening. He ordered a cup of coffee. Said he’d had a long drive.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Tall, over six feet I’d say, with dark wavy hair. Wore a blue jacket.’

  As they spoke, Sergeant Turner appeared beside James. 'I don't think you'll have any more trouble, Mr Jenkins. If you do, just give me a ring.' Gordon nodded.

  Sergeant Turner started toward the door. 'Before you go, Sergeant. I'm James Wearing. I wonder if I can have a word with you.' The Sergeant stopped. 'There's been an accident at my house just outside the village. A man's dead and there's a woman missing.'

  Ron Turner frowned. ‘Perhaps we’d better step over there, Mr Wearing.’ Turner led the way to the far corner of the room. ‘Now, you say a man is dead? Were you there when it happened?’

  ‘No.’ James recounted his reason for going to Cragleigh.

  ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘Yes. His name’s Tristan Harrow. He’s one of my colleagues at the University in Sydney.’

  ‘Was he staying at the house too?’

  ‘No, in fact, I can’t imagine why he was there.’

  ‘What about the woman who’s missing, a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not exactly. She’s one of my students.’

  Turner shrugged. ‘Then there’s your answer. Your houseguest invited her boyfriend up for the weekend, they argued and...'

  James shook his head. ‘No, Sergeant. You don’t understand.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d better show me.’

  James followed Ron Turner outside where the roar of the wind all but drowned out the Sergeant’s voice. ‘I’ll follow you.’ James nodded and climbed into the Range Rover.

  ****

  Twenty minutes later, when they pulled up in front of Cragleigh, James jumped out, slammed the car door and signalled to Turner. Guided by the side of the house, he made his way to the yard at the rear where, buffeted by the wind, he stopped short.

  Turner came up next to him, sheltering inside his coat collar. ‘Where is he?’ he shouted.

  James shook his head as he shone the torch across the snow that whipped around them. ‘I don’t understand. He was right here at the corner of the house. That’s his car over there.’

  ‘Well, he’s not here now.’ Turner glared at James. ‘This isn’t a night to play games, Mr Wearing.’

  ‘I assure you I’m not, Sergeant. I swear to you I left Tristan Harrow lying here just over an hour ago.’ James flashed his torch again across the courtyard where drifts concealed any sign of activity. In desperation, he lunged toward the back door of the house. Ron Turner followed and stood beside James in the kitchen doorway, the torch illuminating the floor.

  ‘What about this?' said James, 'There’s blood all over.’

  Sergeant Turner knelt down. ‘Very well. I can see that something happened here this evening but for now, I want you to get back in your car and return to Blackheath.’ He got to his feet. ‘If a man did die here, I don’t want you disturbing the scene.’

  ‘But what about Ashley Manning? She must be out there somewhere. She’ll die in this weather.’

  ‘We can’t do a thing until morning. At first light, I’ll arrange a search party.’ Turner paused. ‘For both of them.’

  James glared at the Sergeant, who shook his head and retraced his steps back across the courtyard. James returned to his car and sat with the motor running as Turner’s car disappeared around the bend in the drive. The Sergeant was right, there was little hope of finding anyone in this weather, but he could not return to the inn and wait until morning with Ashley somewhere out there. He recalled their last conversation the night before when he had told her a little about Cragleigh and the surrounding area. She had seemed particularly keen to walk through the property on its tracks so that she could take in the scenery. A niggling feeling took hold of James. He put the car in gear and headed in the direction of the walking tracks, driving more from memory than being able to see his way.

  ****

  Fifteen minutes later, he came to the stone lookout, built by his father two decades earlier, overlooking the valley below. James stopped the car metres from the edge of the cliff. He climbed out, pulled the collar of his jacket up and, with his head down against the wind, walked the remaining distance. The howl of the wind grew as he clambered onto the lookout, training his torch along the edge of the cliff. As its light grew weaker, he started to turn back but as he did so, he saw movement over the cliff edge. As he moved closer, the torch light revealed what looked like a hand grasping at rocks protruding from the ground. He pulled off his gloves and edged forward before lying down on his stomach to grab the hand. It was then he saw a face staring up at him.

  ‘Ashley!’ Her hand started to slip from his grasp. Desperate, James moved forward, letting his body lean further over the side of the cliff, the wind drowning out his voice. ‘Take my other hand.’ James felt Ashley’s fingernails scrape his skin as her feet slipped from the rock face and she swung free. Throwing the torch aside, he grabbed her wrist and inched backward with his hips. As her waist reached the cliff top, James felt something hit the back of his head. Still hanging onto Ashley’s arm as she clambered the rest of the way up herself, he turned over on his back to see a shadow standing over him. Scrambling to his feet, he pushed Ashley away from the edge. At the same time, the shadow in front of him lunged forward. James moved sideways and watched as the figure disappeared over the cliff into the darkness below.

  Crouched down on his knees, he stared into the murky blackness for a second before picking up the torch that lay at his feet and turning back. Ashley lay face down on the grass, blood oozing from a gash on her forehead. He sat down and cradled her head in his hands while he felt for a pulse. It was faint but there. He took his jacket off, put
it around her and, with his remaining strength, picked her up and stumbled back to the car, the wetness of the snow penetrating his shoes.

  A mixture of emotions swirled through his mind as he turned the car around and headed back toward Blackheath. Relief that he had found Ashley but horror and confusion about Tristan and the scene at the cliff. When he reached the inn, he lifted Ashley into his arms and made his way to the front door, kicking it with his foot by way of knocking. Amazement showed on Nick's face as the door opened.

  ‘James!’

  At the same time, Eileen Thompson came down the stairs in her dressing gown. ‘Oh, my Lord! Bring her in where it’s warm.’ She opened the living room door and turned on one of the lamps. The embers in the fireplace glowed in the soft light. James put Ashley on the sofa and Eileen Thompson covered her with a quilt. ‘Build up the fire, James,' she said.

  ‘I’ll telephone the doctor,’ said Nicholas.

  Moments later, Nicholas came back into the room. ‘The doctor's on his way.’ He looked down at Ashley, unconscious on the sofa. A knock sounded on the door some time later and the doctor appeared. He moved across the room towards Ashley.

  ‘She’s been outside for most of the night, Doctor,' James said. 'She hit her head.'