‘I thought you were going home,’ said Claire, putting her bag down on one of the benches in the centre of the room before joining Laura in front of the painting.
‘I was but I decided to come here instead because I wanted to hang this particular landscape,’ replied Laura, turning to face Claire. ‘It was one of Florence’s favourites. I hope you don’t mind,’ she continued, her small blue eyes devoid of their usual brightness. ‘I know the gallery is your domain.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ replied Claire as Laura made one final adjustment before she stood back. ‘It was a lovely thought, and yes, I think Florence would be pleased.’
A moment of silence ensued before Laura said, ‘It’s all so final, isn’t it? I mean, this morning Florence was full of life and excited about the auction and now… she’s dead.’ Laura’s eyes filled with tears. ‘It reminds me of my husband’s death. So sudden and final. Like a door slamming shut, never to be opened again.’
‘Would you like me to walk home with you?’ asked Claire, surprised at Laura’s uncharacteristic frankness.
‘No, that’s not necessary. I’ll be fine. I just need a bit of time.’ Laura went to leave but turned back. ‘I just had a thought. What’s to happen now? I mean, are you closing the gallery?’
‘That’s not my call so I’m going to telephone Florence’s brother in Perth to tell him what’s happened and ask what he wishes to do.’
‘It’s not going to be an easy call to make.’
‘No, but it has to be done,’ replied Claire. ‘Why don’t we meet here in the morning and I can tell you what he wants to do about the gallery and art shop.’
‘Okay. I’ll brace myself for the possibility of being out of work just in case it becomes a reality.’ As Laura spoke, Lucy Farrell could be seen walking past peering in through the window as she went. ‘There’s one person who, I think, would enjoy seeing the gallery close since Florence wouldn’t employ her.’
As the gallery door closed behind Laura, Claire collected her bag from the bench and made her way to her office in the rear of the building. She dreaded her next task which was to telephone Florence’s brother, Patrick Fontaine, and tell him what had happened to his sister. She knew very little about Patrick other than he was younger than Florence and the executor of her will. Reluctantly, she picked up the telephone and with trembling hands, dialled one of two numbers that Florence had given to her in case of an emergency. She chose the landline and listened to its continual ring. Eventually, with a mixture of disappointment and relief, she put the receiver down and looked at the other number, Patrick’s mobile. After punching in the number a male voice answered.
‘Patrick Fontaine.’
‘Mr Fontaine. This is Claire Reynolds. I’m…
‘Your name sounds familiar. You work for my sister, Florence, don’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right, I do.’
‘How did the auction go this morning? Well, I hope.’ Patrick paused. ‘Or perhaps not. Otherwise, Florence would have called me herself. Is she terribly disappointed?’
‘Mr Fontaine. I’m not sure how to tell you this.’
‘What is it? Is Florence all right?’
‘No. She isn’t,’ replied Claire. ‘Florence died this morning at the auction.’
A long silence followed Claire’s words before Patrick said in all but a whisper. ‘Was it her heart?’
Claire hesitated. ‘I’m not sure, Mr Fontaine. You see, there are complications.’
‘Complications?’
‘Yes. You see, there’s an element of doubt as to what caused her death. The police are involved.’
‘The police? In that case, I need to talk to whoever’s in charge. Do you have a name, a number I can ring?’
‘All I know is they were from the Springwood Police Station and the officer’s name was Fitzjohn.’ When a further silence followed, Claire said, ‘Will you be coming to Leura?’
‘Yes,’ replied Patrick, at last. ‘I’ll be on the midnight flight out of Perth and will be with you sometime tomorrow morning.’ At that point, the line went dead.
Somewhat taken aback by the abruptness with which the call ended but nevertheless relieved that her task was complete, Claire sat down heavily into the chair behind her desk and sighed. As she did so, the small gold bell that hung on the gallery’s glass door jingled. Realising she had not locked the door after Laura had left, she returned to the gallery to find Florence’s stepsister, Carolyn Winter. Now dressed in a pair of tight fitting blue jeans and a purple and green striped sweater, she and her husband, Frank, stood just inside the doorway looking around.
‘Mrs Winter, I don’t believe we’ve met,’ said Claire, her hand outstretched. ‘My name’s Claire Reynolds, Florence’s business manager.’
‘Ah, yes, I seem to remember seeing you at the auction this morning,’ replied Carolyn, looking around as she walked into the room.
‘So, this is the Fontaine Gallery & Art Shop. The last time we were here Florence was still in the midst of renovations. It’s turned out rather well, don’t you think, Frank?’ Frank nodded, aware of Claire’s intense gaze. ‘After I’ve made a few alterations, I can see I’m going to enjoy running this place.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Claire.
‘We’re here to take over, my dear,’ replied Carolyn. ‘In other words, you can collect your belongings and be on your way. And don’t forget to leave your keys.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Mrs Winter,’ bristled Claire. ‘At least not until your stepbrother, Patrick, arrives in the morning. He is, after all, the executor of Florence’s estate and as such will make all the necessary decision including what is to happen to her employees. If you have a problem with that I suggest you give him a call.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that,’ screamed Carolyn at the top of her voice.
‘I’m afraid you made it necessary,’ replied Claire opening the gallery door. ‘Now, I think it would be best if you both leave.’
As the Winters’ disappeared amongst the passing pedestrians and with her heart racing, Claire turned back into the gallery, aware that in the space of a day, her life had become precarious yet again.
CHAPTER 4
By mid-afternoon, and anxious to be on their way home to Sydney, Fitzjohn and Betts, together with Constable Harris, arrived back at Springwood Police Station to present their findings into Florence Fontaine’s untimely death. Leaving Betts to say farewell to the officers they had worked with in the joint operation, Fitzjohn broke away from the group intending to speak to Chief Superintendent Blake before leaving. As he did so, however, he saw Blake’s squat shape leave his office and walk towards him.
‘I was just about to report to you on the death at Lyrebird Lodge, sir,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘Good, because I need to talk to you too, Fitzjohn. We’ll speak in my office.’ Once inside, Blake closed the door and gestured to a chair. ‘Does Florence Fontaine’s death look like a homicide to you?’ he asked, sitting down at his desk.
‘I wouldn’t like to say one way or the other,’ Fitzjohn replied. ‘The body is being taken to the Parramatta Morgue for a post mortem as we speak. I’ve spoken to the forensic pathologist there, Charles Conroy, and he assures me he’ll have something for me by the end of the day. I’ll make sure you’re notified immediately, sir.’
‘Good,’ replied Blake, nervously tapping his fingers on the desk. ‘All we have to do now is wait. Do you know why the pathologist at the scene questioned the way in which Ms Fontaine died?’
‘He found tell-tale signs of poisoning, sir.’
‘Poisoning? Did he explain what led him to that assumption?’
‘Yes, it was the pallor of the skin on her face and lips as well as a slight smell of almonds in the glass she’d been drinking from. He believes it had been laced with cyanide.’
‘Good god. The poor woman.’ Blake sighed. ‘Well, if it turns out he’s right, the media will have a field day. One of Australia’s
finest artists murdered! I can see the village of Leura being inundated with a barrage of curious spectators as soon as the story breaks.’
‘No doubt, and in regards to my findings, sir, I left my report, along with contact details for everyone who attended the auction, with the Duty Sergeant. I’ll be available by telephone to answer any questions your investigative team might have.’ Fitzjohn got to his feet. ‘And thank you for including DS Betts and myself in your joint operation over the past few days. It went well.’ Fitzjohn extended his hand but when Blake remained seated he said, ‘Is there something else, sir?’
‘There is,’ replied Blake. ‘I know I’m probably about to ask the impossible, but I find I must. If Florence Fontaine’s death is confirmed as a homicide, I’d like you to stay on and continue with the case. I thought things would have improved by today, manpower wise, but they haven’t and I can’t see the situation changing in the short term because, as I said before, I need someone with a high level of experience on this case.’
Somewhat taken aback, Fitzjohn hesitated before he said, ‘I’d have to clear it with Chief Superintendent Grieg, sir.’
‘I realised that, so I took the liberty of mentioning it to him when he telephoned earlier. I hope you don’t mind,’ replied Blake with a quick smile.
Fitzjohn’s thoughts went to Grieg, not only his boss but a man he could only describe as his nemesis.
‘And did he agree?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Yes, he did, but most importantly, would you be in agreement, Fitzjohn? After all, you’ve already spent almost a week up here. No doubt you have commitments at home.’
Fitzjohn’s thoughts went to his cottage in Sydney’s leafy suburb of Birchgrove, where he and his late wife, Edith, had settled after emigrating from the UK. As he did so, his concern for the greenhouse full of orchids came to mind, their care and attention something he had missed while being away. His niece, Sophie, had willingly stepped in and taken over the task as well as the care of his extensive garden but with her studies, he knew she could ill afford the time if his absence stretched into weeks.
‘I’d have to give it some thought, sir, because, you’re right, I do have commitments and finding alternative arrangements could be difficult if I’m to be away long term. Of course, it might not come to that because Florence Fontaine’s death might have been from natural causes. Either way, I’ll be in touch later today.’
Fitzjohn left Blake’s office with a sense of disappointment at the possibility of further disruption to his life. He missed his usual daily routine at home tending his garden and watching the parakeets squabble at the bird feeder first thing each morning. He also missed the camaraderie of Day Street Police Station where he had spent the past twenty-five years, arriving at dawn, most mornings, to start his day in quiet solitude, something he particularly enjoyed.
Outside, he found Betts waiting for him in the car. ‘Sorry to keep you,’ he said, climbing in. Betts went to turn the ignition. ‘Before we get underway, there’s something I have to tell you.’ Betts gave a questioning look. ‘Chief Superintendent Blake has asked us to continue with the Fontaine case if it’s found to be a homicide.’
‘You mean we’ll be seconded, sir?’
‘For want of a better word, yes.’ Fitzjohn felt his young sergeant’s disappointment. ‘Let’s look on the bright side for now though, shall we,’ he continued. ‘After all, it might not be a homicide.’
‘You really think so?’ asked Betts, finally turning the ignition.
‘If you want my honest opinion, no, but we can always hope. I hate to think that such a talented person as Florence Fontaine died a needless death.’ Fitzjohn pulled his seatbelt on. ‘Let’s get back to the city. The sooner we do, the sooner we’ll have an answer.’
Leaving the cool mountain air behind they drove in silence, each with his own thoughts on what the immediate future might hold. Descending into the city with its humid atmosphere, Betts manoeuvred his way through the traffic before pulling into the parking area behind the Parramatta Morgue. Entering the building by the back entrance and into the antiseptic atmosphere with its underlying odour of death, they went in search of the forensic pathologist, Charles Conroy. They found him in his office, cradling a steaming brew of coffee in his hands, its welcomed aroma filling the air.
‘Ah, Alistair, Betts. Good to see you both,’ he said, gesturing to the chairs in the room before his desk. ‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Would you like to join me?’ he said raising his cup.
‘We’re fine, thanks, Charles,’ replied Fitzjohn, knowing Bett’s propensity to spend as little time as possible within the confines of the morgue. ‘Have you come to any conclusions about the way in which Florence Fontaine died?’
‘I have, together with one of my colleagues, Dr Paul Benson, also a forensic pathologist,’ replied Charles as he placed his cup down on the desk. ‘We both agree that Florence Fontaine died when she ingested a lethal dose of cyanide. It was in the champagne she drank.’
‘So, someone planned her death,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘Undoubtedly. She’d have died within minutes. Excellent work on the part of the pathologist at the scene I have to say. The signs aren’t always easy to spot, especially when you think you’re attending a possible heart attack. He’s to be commended. Are you sure you won’t stay for coffee?’
‘We’d love to, Charles, but with this news, we need to make arrangements for the investigation,’ said Fitzjohn with a smile.
The two officers emerged from the morgue into the sultry afternoon and made their way back to their car. ‘Well, it looks like we have a homicide on our hands,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘It also means we won’t be able to return home as soon as we’d like because I can’t see us conducting our investigation from here in the city.’ Sensing Betts’s disappointment Fitzjohn said, ‘If you really want to stay, I can arrange for someone to take your place.’
‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ replied Betts, sliding in behind the wheel. ‘There’s nothing keeping me here at the moment.’
Not sure what Betts meant by this statement, Fitzjohn decided to ignore it. Instead, he said, ‘Why don’t you drop me at Day Street and take some time off. You must have things you need to organise before we leave.’
Fitzjohn walked into the station and sensed a feeling of familiarity he had missed since he had been away, but while appreciating the convivial atmosphere that greeted him, there was disappointment that his stay would be brief. Closing his office door behind him, he switched on the light and shut the blind against the long shadows of the late afternoon before he crossed the floor to his desk. Everything was as he had left it. The photo frame with Edith’s smiling image, a newspaper, now days old, folded to an unfinished crossword puzzle, and his computer, admittedly, a source of much frustration as he endeavoured to come to terms with the ever advancing world of technology, a world firmly entrenched in today’s policing. His eyes went back to the crossword and a smile crossed his face before he took his pen from the inside breast pocket of his suit coat and sat down. ‘Omen, that’s the word. Why didn’t I see that before?’ he said with a sense of satisfaction and proceeded to write it in. As he did so, however, the office door opened and Chief Superintendent Grieg appeared, his large heavy-set shape filling the doorway.
‘So, you’re back,’ he said as he strode into the room.
‘Yes, sir.’ Fitzjohn got to his feet. ‘I was just about to come and see you.’ He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk and sat down again. True to form, Grieg remained standing.
‘Well, what’s the verdict on this artist’s death?’
‘You mean Florence Fontaine?’ replied Fitzjohn, not surprised that Grieg had no knowledge of the woman. ‘Unfortunately, it’s been found that she died after ingesting a lethal dose of cyanide.’
‘Ah, well, in that case, you have a homicide to solve.’
‘So it seems, which means I’ll be absent while the case is under investigation because I can’t se
e Betts and me community back and forth from the city each day.’
‘Your absence won’t be a problem, Fitzjohn, not for me anyway because as of now, you’ve been transferred to the Blue Mountains Local Area Command, permanently.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Need I repeat myself? You’ve been permanently deployed to the Blue Mountains. Not DS Betts, of course. I need him here.’
Fitzjohn stared at Grieg in stunned silence as he tried to take in what he had just heard. ‘This is all rather sudden,’ he said at last. ‘Is there to be no consultation?’
‘No.’ replied Grieg with a sneer. ‘The decision’s been made. You’re officially finished at Day Street and will report to Chief Superintendent Blake first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘I take it he’s in agreement with my transfer.’
‘I can assure you he’s in complete agreement.’ Grieg leered at Fitzjohn. ‘You may as well clear your office out here and now. You won’t be needing it again. You’re being replaced by a younger man. A much better fit for this station. And don’t bother coming back into the station either. Any paperwork we need for your signature will be sent to Springwood. Now, I’ve got a meeting to attend.’ With that Grieg left the office.
Fitzjohn remained seated as he tried to digest what had just happened. Through all their battles over the years, Grieg had finally won by making use of an unexpected opportunity; Florence Fontaine’s death. He sighed and looked around the small office space where the high points and lows of his career had taken place. Somewhat numbed by this sudden turn of events, his mind gradually went to the more practical matters the news impacted on; his cottage in Birchgrove, the home he and Edith had lived in and enjoyed for so many years before her death. How could he leave? It would be like leaving a part of himself behind, the part that belonged with Edith. And what about her legacy; the orchids? No doubt the greenhouse could be dismantled and moved along with everything else, but not the orchids. They would never survive. Then again, he could remain in Birchgrove and commute to Springwood each day, but he suspected the practicalities would be difficult, perhaps unrealistic. Did the trains run after midnight? He doubted it. And then there was Betts. He prided himself in being his mentor, watching him grow and become an outstanding detective. Of course, he knew Betts would eventually be promoted and move on but he had not expected the reason for their parting to be caused by his transfer. With a heavy heart, Fitzjohn got to his feet, shrugged into his suit coat and left his office as he had found it two hours earlier before booking a taxi to take him home to Birchgrove.
Poisoned Palette Page 3
