‘I’m sorry, Ms Reynolds,’ he said. ‘I’ll move out of your way. I was out for a drive and stopped when I found myself passing Lyrebird Lodge. Have you heard anymore about how Ms Fontaine died?’
Puzzled, not only to find Matthew Avery loitering outside the estate without any plausible reason but also his apparent fascination concerning Florence’s death, Claire hesitated, unsure whether she wanted to share what she knew. ‘Did you know Florence personally?’ she asked.
‘No. I’m just an admirer of her work as I think I mentioned to you before. Was it a heart attack?’
‘No. It seems Florence was poisoned,’ said Claire, at last. ‘Her glass of champagne was laced with cyanide.’ A deathly silence followed. Matthew Avery’s smile left his face and his lips pressed together.
CHAPTER 9
A strong autumn wind rustled the last remaining leaves in the trees overhead and sent the fallen leaves, scurrying along the ground to lodge against garden fences in drifts, creating a palette of red and gold shades. Unaccustomed to the cold but, nevertheless, determined to enjoy his early morning walk into the village, Fitzjohn turned his suit coat collar up and with his inevitable move to the mountains in mind, looked with interest at the dwellings he passed. When he reached the main thoroughfare, he spied Florence Fontaine’s solicitor’s office, Newbury & Bell, almost immediately. Housed in a Federation style building, the date of its origin carved in stone above the doorway, he turned the brass doorknob in the centre of the wide black painted door and stepped inside where a warm reception area greeted him.
‘It’s a cold morning out there.’ Fitzjohn looked around for the owner of the voice. As he did so, a diminutive woman in her late seventies with sparkling mischievous blue eyes popped up from behind a high reception desk. She chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. You aren’t the first person to think you’re hearing things. I’ve asked a countless number of times for this counter to be lowered but my requests fall on deaf ears, I’m afraid. You must be Chief Inspector Fitzjohn,’ she continued. ‘I have you down as a nine o’clock for Mr Newbury.’
‘That’s right, Mrs…’
‘Montrose. Margaret Montrose. Are you here about Florence Fontaine? I don’t like to appear nosey but it’s just that she was Mr Newbury’s client and I did hear the police were at Lyrebird Lodge when she died.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t comment, Mrs Montrose,’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘Not to worry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that I liked Florence. You knew where you stood with her.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘I attended a few of her art classes last year after Mr Montrose passed away. I thought it might help with my grief but it didn’t because I soon found out I have no artistic ability whatsoever. I’m convinced Florence knew that all along as well as my motivation for being there, but nevertheless, she encouraged me.’
‘Anyway, Chief Inspector, enough about me. I’ll tell Mr Newbury you’re here.’
With that, Margaret Montrose withdrew along a hallway before disappearing from view only to reappear moments later followed by a tall thin gentleman with a shock of thick silver white hair.
‘Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, I’m Peter Newbury. Please come through.’ Newbury led the way into his office, its high decorative ceiling and bookcases filled with leather bound volumes creating an atmosphere of age. He gestured to a chair as he sat down behind his desk, placed in front of two long casement windows.
‘I understand you’re making inquiries about Florence Fontaine’s will,’ he said, sitting back and making a steeple with his fingers.
‘That’s right.’ replied Fitzjohn, settling himself into a green leather bound chair.
‘Does that mean there’s some question as to how she died? I ask because I heard talk in the village. I’d hoped it was idle gossip but with your arrival…’
‘It’s true, I’m afraid,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Ms Fontaine’s death isn’t as straightforward as first thought and an investigation into the cause of death is being conducted.’
‘That saddens me; it really does,’ said Newberry, his brow furrowing. ‘How could such a thing happen? And I say that because Florence was an exceptional person as well as a great asset to our community.’ Newbury sighed. ‘Whatever I can do to help, Chief Inspector, I shall do and I’ll start with your interest in her will,’ Newberry opened the file on his desk. ‘The executor is her brother, Patrick Fontaine who, I believe, lives in Perth. He contacted me yesterday to say he’d arrived and I’m seeing him later this morning.’
‘And who are the beneficiaries?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘There’s only one; Patrick Fontaine. He inherits the estate in its entirety. It includes all assets such as art work, Lyrebird Lodge, the building in the village that houses Florence’s gallery and art shop as well as all monies and investments. As you can imagine, it’s quite a fortune and growing as we speak because as I’m sure you’re aware, an artist’s death can’t help but increase the value of his or her work.’ Newberry sat back. ‘Is there’s anything else, Chief Inspector?’
‘One question that comes to mind is whether Florence ever divulged problems she may have had with anyone,’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘No, she didn’t, and although her very nature might have ruffled a few feathers at times, I doubt it would have led to her death. She was, after all, a generous person. She gave freely of her time in many instances whether it was giving art classes to the children at the local schools in the area or raising money to help the disadvantaged.’ Newbury shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine why someone would have wanted to do this to her if it is a case of murder.’
Fitzjohn stepped back out into the blustery day and headed for the coffee shop where he had arranged to meet Betts. As he did so, however, his pace slowed when he caught sight of a woman inside Florence Fontaine’s art shop, dusting shelves as she teetered on a tall ladder. No doubt Laura Evans to whom he had yet to speak to, he thought and tapped on the glass door.
The woman ceased her dusting and pointed to the closed sign. When Fitzjohn remained where he was, she climbed down from the ladder and bustled across and opened the door a crack. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we’re closed until further notice. There’s been a death in the family.’
‘Mrs Evans, is it?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Yes.’ The woman studied Fitzjohn’s face.
‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn, Mrs Evans. I attended the scene at Lyrebird Lodge after the death of Ms Fontaine. I spoke to Claire Reynolds at the time but not to you. Would now be convenient?’
‘Well, we are closed so there’s no chance we’ll be interrupted,’ she said. Fitzjohn stepped inside where the slight smell of oil paints hung in the air. ‘I thought I recognised your face, but couldn’t quite place you,’ she continued as she stepped behind the counter. ‘I’m taking advantage of the closure to do some cleaning and a stocktake for Mr Fontaine. That’s Florence’s brother.’
‘So he’s been in to see you, has he?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Yes. Early this morning with the awful news about Florence.’ Laura paused. ‘It’s why you’re here, isn’t it, Chief Inspector? Because Florence was murdered.’
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Evans.’
‘It makes her passing harder to bear. I’ve been feeling quite low as it is, but now...’
A silence followed and Fitzjohn looked around the shop, its walls adorned with displays of oil and acrylic paints, brushes of every description, books on all media of art and canvases stacked against the back wall. ‘It looks to be a flourishing business, Mrs Evans,’ he said.
‘It is but even so, it feels empty now. I suppose because Florence was so full of life. She took such a great interest in everything and would arrive each morning full of energy and ideas. The place lit up with her presence.’
‘Had you known her for long?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘No. Not long at all. I started work here about three months ago when I moved from Lane Cove in the city.’
‘Ah. I know Lane Cove quite well,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘A couple of my orchid society friends live there.’ Fitzjohn paused as thoughts of his own impending move came to mind. ‘I should imagine it’s a big change coming from the city to live in a small village. How have you found it?’
‘It was difficult at first because I missed things that I’d never thought of. Everyday things like the route I took when I went for a walk in the morning and saying hello to the local shopkeepers in my neighbourhood. It made me realise I took so many things for granted. Anyway, I tried to keep positive because when I thought about it, I really hadn’t been coping well in town. Not after, my husband passed away. Everything reminded me of him. I knew I had to get away. Start afresh, so to speak. That’s why when I saw the advertisement for this position in the newspaper, I jumped at the chance because most of my working life has been spent working in galleries and art shops.’
‘So, it’s worked out well,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘Yes. Made easier, of course, by the people here in Leura. They’ve all gone out of their way to make me feel at home.’ Laura paused. ‘Until now, that is, with Florence’s passing. I still can’t believe it.’
‘How was Florence on that morning, Mrs Evans?’
‘I have to say she was somewhat brittle,’ replied Laura after a moment’s thought. ‘Apparently, it was because her stepsister had arrived unannounced. I don’t know why it upset her so much. Maybe because she’d already had an argument with Audrey Green that morning and it’d put her out of sorts.’
‘I see. Do you know why she argued with Mrs Green?’
‘No but I suspect it was about Audrey’s husband, Jack, since I heard his name mentioned.’ Laura caught Fitzjohn’s quizzical look. ‘Your next question is probably, why would they be arguing about him and the answer to that is because Jack Green spent so much time in the gallery.’ Laura gestured to the archway that connected the shop to the gallery. ‘Not because he was interested in art, mind, but because he was besotted with Florence. She should really have discouraged the man, but she didn’t. I suspect she enjoyed the attention. Anyway, it made her unpopular with Audrey.’
‘Can you remember where Mrs Green was when you were all gathered in the marquee?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Yes. She was standing alongside the refreshments table with me.’
Fitzjohn left Laura Evans and continued along the main street to the coffee shop where he found Betts seated at one of the outside tables reading the morning newspaper.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Betts,’ he said as he sat down. ‘I got somewhat side-tracked on my way here. I called in to see Laura Evans. She confirmed Winifred Gifford’s thoughts about Audrey Green and added that our victim and Mrs Green had argued that morning. She believes it was because of Jack Green’s attention toward Florence Fontaine. Anyway, how did you get on,’ Fitzjohn queried.
‘I did background checks on Claire Reynolds and Laura Evans, sir. In the case of Mrs Evans, she lived in Lane Cove for approximately twenty-three years until her husband’s death after which, she decided to sell up and move. Her working life falls into place with what she’s currently doing now at the Fontaine Gallery & Art Shop. It was spent as a manager in various art shops and commercial galleries in Sydney.’
‘Mmm. She mentioned that when we spoke. How about Ms Reynolds?’
‘That check wasn’t as straight forward, in fact, somewhat puzzling in that I couldn’t find out anything about her beyond the last seven months.’
‘That’s interesting because it’s the amount of time she worked for the victim. Anything on social media – LinkedIn, Facebook?’
‘No,sir. I’ve exhausted everything except for the Taxation Office. I’m speaking to them later today.’ Betts took a sip of his coffee. ‘How did you get on with the solicitor. Anything interesting?’
‘Only that Patrick Fontaine is the sole beneficiary of the victim’s estate and that’s, as you can imagine, quite substantial. Of course, it does give him a strong motive but as he was in Perth at the time of her death, it doesn’t have any bearing on our case. Unless, of course, he had an accomplice.’
‘When did Mr Fontaine say he flew to Sydney, sir? Early yesterday morning, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. On the red-eye special.’
‘In that case, he’s lying because I checked that particular flight and he wasn’t listed as a passenger. He was, however, on a flight three days earlier.’
‘That is interesting,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I wonder why he felt the need to hide that fact.’
‘I’m still working on that,’ replied Betts. ‘Hopefully, I’ll have something fairly soon.
‘Where to now, sir?’
‘We’ll put in an appearance at Springwood Station, Betts. If it’s to be my new home, so to speak, I need to get myself settled.’
CHAPTER 10
Amid the buzz in the room, Fitzjohn set his briefcase on his desk, shrugged out of his suit coat and sat down heavily into his chair.
‘This is cozy,’ said Betts with a grin.
Fitzjohn’s eyes narrowed at his young sergeant who sat inches away. ‘Be careful, Betts, or I’ll have myself moved to the other side of the room,’ he said releasing the catches on his case with a bang.
For the next few moments, silence prevailed between the two men whilst Fitzjohn removed the contents of his briefcase, the first, and most important being the morning newspaper. It conjured up thoughts of his usual routine at Day Street with his arrival at daybreak and his cup of hot coffee in the quiet of his office while he tackled the crossword puzzle before pondering the case at hand. With a sigh, he pushed these thoughts away, stared down at his computer keyboard and logged on. Moments later, his face darkened.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ asked Betts, sensing Fitzjohn’s tension. ‘Sir?’
‘Sorry, Betts. I just realised something.’
‘About the case?’
‘No. About my transfer.’ Fitzjohn sat back in his chair and sighed. ‘I’ve been doing everything I can to ignore the fact that I’ve been permanently transferred, hoping it’ll go away, but it won’t, of course. I just got an email from Chief Superintendent Grieg,’ he continued pointing to the computer screen. ‘He’s given me twenty-four hours to vacate my office.’ Fitzjohn commenced to replace everything he had just removed back into his briefcase and snapped it shut. ‘It’s probably the shove I needed to get me moving. I’ll take the train into Sydney this morning and clean out my office. I’ll also engage a real estate agent and list my cottage.’
‘You’re not thinking of selling right away are you?’ asked Betts. ‘Why don’t you rent the place out for a while?’
‘I’ve thought about it, but I think it would be just delaying the inevitable,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Best to make a clean break.’ Fitzjohn slapped his hands down on his knees and got to his feet. ‘Do you want to take the opportunity to come into the city yourself? We can drive down together,’ he continued as they left the station and made their way to the car.
‘No, sir. I’d just as soon stay here and continue with the background checks.’
‘Are you sure? It’s just that you probably won’t get the chance over the next couple of weeks,’ said Fitzjohn, hoping to draw Betts out regarding his breakup with Sophie.
‘I’m sure, sir.’ Betts slid in behind the wheel and a long silence prevailed as they drove towards the train station. ‘Sophie and I broke up, sir,’ he said haltingly. ‘I would have said something before but I thought things might settle down.’
Fitzjohn pondered whether to tell Betts he already knew of their estrangement but in the end, he decided against the idea. ‘I’m sorry, Betts. I really am. I know how fond you are of Sophie. Is there anything I can do?’ he continued, feeling helpless.
‘No, sir. You see, Sophie has moved on. She’s seeing a fellow student, someone she knew when she lived in Melbourne. They’re old friends by all accounts. I can’t compete with that.’
‘Old friends they may be a
nd I daresay they have loads to talk about concerning the past and their mutual friends but there’s only so much of the past to talk about, then what? I’m sorry, Betts, I really am.’ Fitzjohn paused, seeking to keep his comments to a minimum. ‘All I can say is, be patient and stay friends.’ Fitzjohn gave a quick smile. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
A role of thunder sounded in the distance as Fitzjohn stepped out of Central Station and into the hot humid atmosphere amid the hustle and bustle of the city where he climbed into a cab. At the same time, the first drops of rain splattered across the windows blurring the images of pedestrians and on-coming car headlights as the car sped off toward Day Street Police Station. Fitzjohn sat back and tried to quell his rising sense of anxiety and gloom over the fact that, unlike other occasions, his arrival was not with the expectation of solving a crime but to collect his things and leave for the last time. After paying the driver, he climbed out into the rain and with a heavy heart, made his way inside. To his surprise, a warm welcome greeted him from officers he had worked alongside for so long. One of them was Detective Senior Constable Williams.
‘It’s good to see you, sir.’
‘Thanks, Williams,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I trust all is well for you,’ he added, his thoughts traversing the problems Williams had had in the past with Chief Superintendent Grieg when he had misused the young officer as an informant.
‘Everything’s fine, sir.’ Williams paused. ‘Is it true you’re leaving us?’
‘Yes, I’ve been transferred to the Blue Mountains Local Area Command. I’m here now to collect my belongings.’ Fitzjohn gave a quick smile in an effort to mask the lump in his throat.
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