Rose Scented Murder

by Jill Paterson

  ROSE SCENTED MURDER

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  JILL PATERSON

  Also by Jill Paterson

  The Celtic Dagger

  Murder At The Rocks

  Once Upon A Lie

  Lane’s End

  Deadly Investment

  Poisoned Palette

  The Fourth String

  Rose Scented Murder

  Copyright © Jill Paterson 2019

  Cover design Renee Barratt http://www.thecovercounts.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-9925840-9-2

  Publisher: J. Henderson, Australia

  Publication Date: March 29th, 2019

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Cast Of Characters

  About the Author

  The Fitzjohn Mystery Series

  Connect with me on-line

  Rose Scented Murder

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  Featuring Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, Rose Scented Murder is the eighth book in the Fitzjohn Mystery Series.

  The Adelphi Theatre is about to close its doors for the last time when Howard Greenwood’s lifeless form is found on the floor of his dressing room shrouded in long-stemmed red roses. Was this the act of a killer looking to ridicule the celebrated actor or did it reflect a darker connotation for his murder?

  DCI Fitzjohn questions the significance of the roses as layer upon layer of Howard’s life unfolds to reveal a man fixated on revenge for his wife’s death and a predator who will stop at nothing to hide the truth.

  Meanwhile, Constance Parsons, bookshop owner and ghost writer of Howard’s memoir, is unaware of his demise or that her work in chronicling his life story could seal her own fate.

  CHAPTER 1

  I rritated, Dolores slammed the door to the costume department and, in an atmosphere charged with the expectation of the imminent matinee performance, shoved her way against the surge of cast members and headed towards Howard Greenwood’s dressing room. Clutching the only remaining costume that she believed would fit Howard’s expanding girth, she felt herself jostled with each step as her anger towards him intensified. Her heart quickened when she reached his door and found it ajar. Pausing in an effort to regain her composure, she called out above the din, ‘Howard, it’s Dolores. I have that substitute costume for you to try on.’ When no reply came she threw the door open. ‘Look mister high and mighty, I don’t know who you think you are but… good god! Someone, help!’ she screamed at the sight of Howard’s body splayed in the centre of the room, his once blue eyes now clouded and staring.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ rang out a voice from those now crammed in the doorway.

  Dolores turned to the sea of gaping faces. ‘It’s too late. He’s dead.’

  CHAPTER 2

  F itzjohn dusted his hands off against his old faded beige trousers and closed the greenhouse door with a sense of satisfaction after tending his orchids. Breathing in the fresh overcast morning air, he walked leisurely back through the garden towards the house, observing the new seedlings in each flower bed as he went. He hesitated when he reached the jacaranda tree and pushing his wire-framed glasses up along the bridge of his nose, looked up into its branches where a flock of rainbow lorikeets sat chirping their dissatisfaction at his tardiness in filling the birdfeeder. With a chuckle, he did so amongst the flurry of flapping wings before making his way into the house to prepare to leave for the police station.

  ***

  Half an hour later, he descended the stairs dressed in a dark grey suit and maroon tie which he adjusted in the hall mirror before smoothing down the few remaining wisps of hair on top of his head. As he did so, the doorbell sounded and on opening the door, he found his young sergeant, Martin Betts.

  ‘Betts. I wasn’t expecting you to pick me up this morning. I’ve ordered a cab.’

  ‘I was passing on my way to the station, sir, and thought you might like a lift instead.’

  ‘Passing? But I thought you’d already moved into your new apartment on the other side of the harbour,’ replied Fitzjohn somewhat perplexed.

  ‘I have, sir,’ Betts replied, craning his neck past Fitzjohn toward the kitchen doorway at the end of the hall.

  ‘In that case, it’s been rather a circuitous route for you, hasn’t it? Can I get you something? A cup of coffee perhaps?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure? You seem a bit on edge,’ continued Fitzjohn, giving Betts a quizzical look.

  ‘I’m sure, sir. Really.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Fitzjohn still not convinced. ‘I’ll just cancel my cab and then we can be on our way.’ As Fitzjohn did so, Betts peered up the stairwell before his gaze went through the archway into the living room. ‘You’re not fine, are you?’ said Fitzjohn, slipping his phone back into his pocket and grabbing his briefcase from the hall table. ‘Something’s bothering you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, that being so, my next question is, are you on some kind of fact finding mission?’ Betts’ face paled. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’

  ‘Come on, Betts. You must think I came down in the last shower of rain,’ replied Fitzjohn as he studied his young sergeant’s face. ‘What is it, another bet cooked up by our esteemed duty officer?’ Betts’ face reddened. ‘What sort of wager is it this time? No, let me guess. You’ve been sent to find out whether or not you’d find Chief Superintendent Ashby here, haven’t you?’ Betts swallowed hard. ‘I thought as much. Well, as you can see, she isn’t here.’ Fitzjohn turned and opened the front door. ‘How much did you lose? On second thought, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know,’ he added as he stepped outside.

  ‘How did you know, sir,’ asked Betts as Fitzjohn locked the door behind them.

  ‘I’m a detective,’ Fitzjohn replied as he climbed into the car.

  For the first five minutes of their journey into town, the two officers travelled in silence before Betts asked, ‘Would you like to drop in at the Charlotte Café, sir. I’ll buy you breakfast. As a piece offering.’

  ‘Don’t grovel Betts. It doesn’t become you.’ As Fitzjohn spoke his mobile phone rang. ‘Fitzjohn. Yes, ma’am. I see. Very well, we’re on our way.’ Fitzjohn slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned to Betts. ‘We’ve been asked to attend a homicide in the city at the Adelphi Theatre. An actor by the name of Howard Greenwood was found dead in his dressing room this morning.’

  CHAPTER 3

  W hen the theatre came into view, Fitzjohn peered out of the passenger car window with a sense of disappointment. In the br
oad light of day, the building’s dilapidated façade imparted an atmosphere of desertion with its damaged signage board groaning with the force of the wind and its windows opaque and dirty. Not only did the building give testimony to a bygone era but justification for its imminent closure according to the notice pasted on the glass front door.

  ‘I remember bringing Edith here to see a play some years ago,’ Fitzjohn mused as the two officers climbed out of the car. ‘She was very taken with the opulent interior as I remember. I think it gave her as much pleasure as the play itself with walls of silk wallpaper, gilded plasterwork, and chandeliers. I’m sure it would sadden her to see its crumbling state now.’

  ‘Hopefully the inside has withstood the test of time a little better than the outside, sir,’ said Betts as he led the way past a row of police cars in the lane that ran along the side of the building. Met by a constable on duty at the stage door, they showed their warrant cards and stepped inside to be met with a musty odour of stale recycled air and greeted by yet another police officer. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts,’ said Fitzjohn as his eyes travelled the length of the long narrow passageway before them. ‘Where can we find the victim?’

  ‘In his dressing room, sir. Turn right at the end of this passageway. It’s half way down. The forensic pathologist and a team of scene of crime officers have already arrived and are with him now.’

  ‘Anything else we should know?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes, sir. The people who were in the building at the time the body was discovered have been asked to wait in the auditorium.’

  ‘Very good, Sergeant. Perhaps you can assist DS Betts in taking statements.’

  ***

  As Betts and the sergeant left, Fitzjohn continued on along the dimly lit passage, taking in each dressing room as he went until, after turning right, his way became blocked by police tape. Ducking underneath, he stood on the threshold of a small room cluttered with odd bits of furniture, and clothing hung on a metal rack. A dresser, its surface covered with jars and containers, presumably of stage makeup, sat before a large mirror, its edge encircled with lights. Amid this disarray, two scene of crime officers went about their work while the pathologist, Charles Conroy, could be seen kneeling beside the victim’s body. Wearing a single-breasted tail coat and white tie, his facial features and lifeless eyes accentuated with makeup, Howard Greenwood lay on his back, his torso covered with long-stemmed red roses. Cautiously, as he walked into the room, Fitzjohn stepped over an upturned crystal vase resting on the floor nearby along with a top hat and silver handled cane.

  ‘Morning Charles.’

  ‘Ah, Alistair, good morning. How’ve you been keeping?’

  ‘Not too bad and yourself?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I can’t complain.’

  ‘I wonder if the roses have any significance,’ said Fitzjohn looking down at the victim.

  ‘A bit of theatrics, I suspect. Nothing more,’ replied Charles. ‘After all, it suits the environment, don’t you think?’ he added, looking around.

  Fitzjohn followed his gaze to the myriad of champagne flutes and empty bottles that littered the room. ‘It certainly looks like there was some sort of festivity in here last night.’

  ‘It does,’ replied Charles. ‘The question is, who left last?’

  ‘The killer might not have attended the celebration,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Ah, good point. I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Charles. ‘It must be the reason why you’re the detective and I’m the pathologist,’ he added with a chuckle as one of the SOCOs knelt down to remove each rose from the body.

  ‘Have you any idea how he died?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘He suffered a blow to the left temple, here,’ replied Charles, pointing to the bruised area. ‘The question is, was it the cause of death? The reason I say that is because he looks to be in his early sixties so there’s a probability the strike itself might have precipitated a heart attack. Nevertheless, we’ll find that out when we do the post mortem.’

  ‘Is the vase the murder weapon?’

  ‘You’d think it would be, wouldn’t you?’ said Charles, ‘but I doubt it because, as you can see, the skin where he received the blow doesn’t appear to be broken. In fact, to be honest, Alistair, I’m mystified as to what the weapon could be, but whatever it is it’s not a hard object.’

  ‘Are there any signs of a struggled?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Not on the face of it,’ replied Charles as he lifted one of the victim’s hands and peered under his finger nails. ‘But that also will become clear at the PM.’

  ‘What about the time of death?’

  ‘Ah, finally, a question I can answer with some amount of surety. Firstly, the colour of the bruising on his temple indicates he received the blow in the early hours of this morning. And to back that theory up, his watch is shattered.’ Charles lifted up the victim’s sleeve to expose his wristwatch, its face smashed. ‘It stopped at one a.m. precisely. Having said that, however, we have to take into consideration his body may have functioned for several minutes without oxygen.’

  ‘Even so, one a.m. or a minute or two either way could make all the difference to our investigation into finding the killer,’ replied Fitzjohn as the two men got to their feet. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to it for now and see you at the morgue later in the day.’

  ‘And plan to stay for afternoon tea,’ said Charles with a smile.

  ***

  Fitzjohn left the crime scene and carried on through the warren of dimly lit passageways in search of the auditorium, the only sound that of the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. Before long he found himself in a large open space. Taken aback, he stopped, his eyes squinting as he gazed over a row of footlights into pitch darkness.

  ‘Sir?’ Fitzjohn swung around at the sound of Betts’ voice. ‘You’re on the stage, sir.’

  ‘I know that,’ replied Fitzjohn with a hiss. ‘The problem is, how do I get down?’

  ‘If you walk toward the sound of my voice, you’ll find a set of steps.’

  Fitzjohn edged forward and moments later, descended into the seating area where a soft hum could be heard coming from the rows filled with people waiting to give their statements. ‘I didn’t realise there’d be such a crowd,’ he said as his eyes adjusted to the light. ‘We could be here all day and half the night.’

  ‘There are forty-eight in all, sir. I’ve called the station and asked for support. In the meantime, I’ve organised everyone into groups. The director of the play and members of the cast are over to the left, crew members to the far right. The rest of the staff; management, attendants for the snack bar and ticket booth etc., are sitting in the middle.’

  ‘Good man,’ replied Fitzjohn as he surveyed the mass of faces. ‘What about the lady over there sitting by herself in front of the stage?’

  ‘That’s Dolores Madden, sir. She’s the person who found Howard Greenwood’s body. Apparently, he was the leading man in the play.’

  ‘Is she a member of the cast?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘No, sir. She looks after the costume department.’

  Fitzjohn took a moment to observe the woman, striking in her brightly coloured dress and shawl, despite her heavy-set appearance. ‘Very well, I’ll have a word with her.’

  ***

  ‘Ms Madden?’ Dolores looked around, her face visibly pale in the dim light. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn. I’ll be conducting the investigation into Howard Greenwood’s death. I understand you’re the person who found his body this morning.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ replied Dolores, pushing wisps of her dark wavy hair away from her face.

  ‘I appreciate it wasn’t an easy encounter for you,’ said Fitzjohn aware of the woman’s unease. ‘Even so, are you able to answer for few questions?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ replied Dolores her hand trembling as she dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘Although, I feel a bit muddled. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Perhaps if you just give me a brie
f outline of what happened we can talk further when you’ve had more time to recover,’ Fitzjohn replied as he sat down.

  ‘Okay. I think I can manage that.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘To begin with, can you tell me how you came to find the body?’

  ‘Well you see, I’m the costume supervisor. I take care of everything concerning our collection including distribution to the cast. Before last night’s performance, I went to see Howard to tell him that one of his costumes for today’s matinee wouldn’t be available for him to wear. It’s being repaired. He was far from pleased, but I assured him I’d find a replacement. That’s why I went to his dressing room this morning. To give him the substitute to try on.’ Dolores fell silent and closed her eyes. ‘I can’t get the sight of him out of my mind,’ she continued, opening her eyes and staring out over the stage at nothing in particular.

  ‘When you spoke to him last night, how did he seem?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Actually, when I come to think about it, I think I caught him at a bad time, Chief Inspector. You see, his brother, Leo, was with him. I had the feeling I’d interrupted something because they stopped talking as soon as I knocked on the door. It made me feel awkward, so I told Howard about the costume and left.’

  ‘Is his brother also an actor in the play?’

  ‘Far from it. He owns a restaurant in Double Bay. You might have heard of it. It’s called The Salty Oyster?’

  ‘I have indeed,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Being that his brother was here early in evening, do you know whether he stayed for the performance?’

  ‘I’m sure he would have because I saw him back stage after the show. Probably to join his brother and the cast in a farewell drink. You see, the theatre is due to close.’