Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5)

by Jill Paterson

  ‘Ah, yes. Alison Maybrick did mention that when we spoke to her, and in light of your suspicions, it does provide him with a motive if, in fact, there was foul play involved in her death.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ replied Esme.

  ‘Tell me, Esme. How did she and her step-daughter get along? Did Beatrice ever say?’

  ‘Only the odd comment or two. Just enough to make it obvious that they tolerated each other. I think that if Alison hadn’t been a relation, of sorts, Beatrice wouldn’t have kept her on. I’m sure she felt that she owed it to her late husband, Stan.’ Esme’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t have been quite so kind. Still, we put up with some odd behaviour from relatives, don’t we?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Fitzjohn as his sister, Meg, came to mind. ‘We certainly do.’

  ‘How long had you and Beatrice been friends?’

  ‘Since our first day at teacher’s college.’ Esme smiled in reflection. ‘She was a talented woman and as such gave up teaching after about ten years to pursue her writing and acting careers. At about the same time, she came into some money when her mother passed away and decided to go into business. That’s when she opened the literary agency. After that, she met Stan Maybrick, a widower, and together they founded the Mid-Town Players theatre group. But sadly, not long after that, Stan died.’

  ‘What about Preston Alexander, Esme? I take it you knew him.’

  ‘We met on a few social occasions but I can’t say that I knew him well. All I really know about the man is that he invested in the agency and saved it from ruin. Beatrice was forever grateful. She said so on many occasions.’

  ‘How did she and Preston get on?’

  ‘Well, and that did surprise me because Beatrice wasn’t an easy person to please. Preston, however, managed admirably. I think they became good friends and I don’t think it was solely because he’d bailed her out financially. I think she recognised what a fine man he was.’ Esme looked at Fitzjohn. ‘Why would someone want to kill him do you think?’

  CHAPTER 9

  With his investigation into the death of Preston Alexander in its early stages, Fitzjohn tried to digest what Esme Timmons had presented him with concerning Beatrice Maybrick. If he took her theory on board, it would, no doubt, change the way in which he had planned to proceed. Drumming his fingers on the table, he perused the photographs and information displayed on the Incident Room whiteboard.

  ‘Afternoon, sir.’

  Jarred from his thoughts, Fitzjohn turned to see Betts, his tall shape winding its way through the maze of tables in the room. With him came the aroma of food.

  ‘I missed lunch,’ he said, gesturing to the paper bag and take away coffee he held before pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  ‘Have we heard back from forensics yet?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘No, sir, but I have been doing the rounds all morning, speaking to members of the Mid-Town Players theatre group. That’s why I missed lunch. They all confirm that Portland Moore was at the Adelphi Theatre participating in a rehearsal on the night that Preston Alexander was murdered.’ Betts took the lid off his cup of coffee and took a sip. ‘I guess that lets him off the hook.’

  ‘It may or it may not. What time did the rehearsal finish?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Around nine-thirty as Moore told us.’

  While Betts ate his lunch, Fitzjohn looked back at the whiteboard before he said, ‘Anything more on Max Ziegler?’

  ‘I expect to hear from Williams later today, sir. He’s speaking to those who Ziegler claims he had dinner with last Wednesday evening.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Were you able to speak to Giles Enfield at the funeral?’ asked Betts, eating the last morsel of his hamburger before sitting back to savour his coffee.

  ‘He didn’t show.’ Fitzjohn’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Of course, there could be a number of reasons why, but if it was to avoid our investigation, it won’t work.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘I did have an interesting conversation with one of the mourners, however. Esme Timmons.’

  ‘Esme?’ Betts smiled. ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s very well, and her usual inquisitive self.’ Fitzjohn sat back in his chair. ‘She sends her regards, by the way.’

  ‘I take it she knew Beatrice Maybrick.’

  ‘A life-long friend, apparently.’ Fitzjohn recounted his conversation with Esme.

  ‘So, she believes that her friend was murdered?’ said Betts.

  ‘So it seems, and I have a feeling that we shouldn’t ignore what she says, Betts, because as we both know, Esme’s no fool. The very fact that Beatrice wanted Esme to post the letter to Charles Stratton if anything should happen to her can’t help but make one wonder. Unless, of course, it was to do with her own ill health. See what you can find out about that side of things from Mrs Maybrick’s doctor. In the meantime, we’ll keep Beatrice’s death in mind as we go along.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fitzjohn turned back to the whiteboard again and sighed. ‘Of course, it’ll alter how we look at our present investigation. Not one murder but possibly two, and the question has to be asked. If Beatrice’s death did involve foul play, was there a connection between her death and Preston Alexander’s? In other words, were they murdered by the same person?’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘We’re going to have to start from the beginning and go through everything we have so far with Beatrice Maybrick in mind.’ Fitzjohn caught Betts’s looked of disappointment and threw his hands in the air. ‘It’s the only way.’

  ‘Well, Portland Moore is the only person of interest that I can see,’ said Betts. ‘After all, he’s the nephew of a wealthy man. What I can’t see is a motive to harm Beatrice. When we interviewed him, he described her as a dear friend.’

  ‘That’s true, but there can be problems between friends so we won’t discount him. What else?’ continued Fitzjohn, getting to his feet and moving over to the whiteboard.

  Betts took out his notebook. ‘Okay. This is what we have on the victim so far. Affluent, mid-seventies, never married, lived alone. According to those who knew him, a quiet, retiring man.’ Betts turned the page. ‘Other than his significant investment portfolio, his main interest in life appears to have been golf. He’d been a member of the Northbridge Golf Club since his teenage years where he played several times a week.’ Betts paused. ‘Not a bad handicap either, sir. He played off three. At my level of golf, that’s impressive. Anyway, moving along, I spoke to those he played with on a regular basis. The last game he played was a tournament on the Saturday before his altercation with Ziegler. They said he appeared fine and was planning to go to Melbourne on business the following week.’

  ‘This week. The week that he died,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Of course, the events on Monday after Beatrice’s own argument with Ziegler and her subsequent death stopped those plans.’ Fitzjohn scratched his head. ‘So, what happened in the following two days that ended up in his own demise?’

  Silence fell between the two men until Betts said, ‘We know that on the Wednesday he called Douglas Cameron because he wanted to arrange to withdraw his investment from the agency.’

  ‘So, what prompted that do you think? Beatrice Maybrick’s death?’

  ‘I’d say so. After all, it wasn’t his usual type of investment. He didn’t have much to gain monetarily. I think he did it as a favour for his nephew.’

  ‘But why the urgency to withdraw? We must be missing something, Betts.’ Fitzjohn thought for a moment. ‘We’ll concentrate our efforts on the agency for the time being.’

  ‘In that case, we’ve spoken to three members of the staff so far. Alison Maybrick, Fiona Worth and Max Ziegler. The two remaining are Giles Enfield and Olive Glossop.’

  Fitzjohn looked at his watch. ‘It’s not too late in the day and there’s no time like the present. We’ll pay the agency another call. Hopefully, Enfield will have returned from the Central Coast by now. We’ll also take the opportunity to look at Beatrice Maybrick’s apartment w
hile we’re there and have a closer look at the flight of stairs that she fell down.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts arrived back at the Maybrick Literary Agency to be met by a short, plump, middle-aged, woman her round silver earrings dangling below a shock of brown tangled hair.

  ‘Are you here to find representation by one of our agents?’ she asked, her face turned upward to look over her long pointed nose at the two officers.

  ‘No, madam,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’re from the New South Wales Police. We’re here to speak to Giles Enfield.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You must be the policemen who’re investigating Preston Alexander’s death. I’m Olive Glossop, by the way. One of the company’s agents. I was out when you were here last but Fiona told me all about you. I’m afraid that Giles is still not back from Port Stephens. He shouldn’t be too much longer though. I just spoke to him on the telephone. He said he’d been caught up in traffic on the M1 all morning. Of course, he should never have gone in the first place because he’s missed Beatrice’s funeral. Quite unforgivable, I’d say.’ Olive looked closer at Fitzjohn’s face. ‘Didn’t I see you at the funeral this morning?’

  ‘You did, Mrs Glossop,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘I thought so. Never forget a face. And it’s Ms, by the way. I never married. Not that I wasn’t asked.’ Olive gave a chuckle. ‘Will you wait for Giles or shall I tell him to give you a ring when he gets back?’

  ‘We’ll wait, thank you,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Perhaps while we do, we can ask you a few questions about Preston Alexander.’

  ‘Yes, of course you can,’ replied Olive with a burst of enthusiasm. ‘We can sit in my office. This way.’ With that, Olive bustled off along the hallway toward the back of the house with Fitzjohn and Betts following close behind. ‘It’s such a disturbing time,’ she continued as they reached her office. Olive flicked the light switch on and headed for her desk. ‘I fear that things will never return to normal but then, how can they with Beatrice gone? Make yourselves comfortable,’ she said looking around the windowless room, its walls covered with the same dark red velvet as the vestibule. ‘It’s small but cosy. I think at one time it must have been the butler’s pantry,’ she continued, pointing to a small sink and cupboards along one wall.’

  ‘Can you tell us when you last saw Mr Alexander, Ms Glossop?’ asked Fitzjohn as he sat down.

  ‘It was last Monday. The day that Beatrice died. A day that will live in my memory forever.’

  ‘Do you know what time he arrived here that day?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘It would have been around noon because I was just about to go out to get some lunch. I’m a creature of habit. I always go at noon.’

  ‘Did you speak to him, Ms Glossop?’

  ‘I didn’t have a chance. Beatrice whisked him into her office and shut the door. They were still in there when I got back.’

  ‘What happened when their meeting finished?’

  ‘Preston went straight to Max Ziegler’s office. I know because I just happened to be in the hallway at the time. He looked angry and that surprised me because he wasn’t the sort of person who got ruffled by anything. Or so it seemed. That’s when I realised that the argument that Beatrice and Max had had that morning must have been about money.’ Olive caught Fitzjohn’s look. ‘But of course, you probably don’t know about that do you?’

  ‘We do know that Mr Ziegler has been suspended for suspected embezzlement,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘What was the outcome of his meeting with Preston?’

  ‘All I know is that the two of them argued before Preston left and slammed the door behind him.

  ‘I see. Did he generally get on well with all the staff?’

  ‘Yes, always. Except for Giles, of course.’

  ‘Oh? Do you know why that was?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure it wasn’t Preston’s fault. It was obvious from the day they met that Giles didn’t like Preston and from then on, Giles gave Preston a wide berth. In other words, he made himself scarce whenever Preston came to the office, to the point that when we had social occasions he made sure that he and Preston were seated well apart.’

  ‘How long has Giles worked for the agency?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘About a year. Fiona would be able to give you the exact date that he started.’

  ‘And what about yourself and the rest of the staff?’

  ‘Well, Fiona is new. She started a couple of months ago, whereas Max and I have worked here since the agency opened. As has Alison, of course. Twenty years next month as a matter of fact. Hard to believe it’s been that long.’

  ‘You must all get on fairly well to have worked together for such a long time.’

  ‘We have our ups and downs, but we muddle through. Surprising really.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Ms Glossop?’

  ‘Well, you know how it is in any organisation, Chief Inspector. You’re bound to get a few odd personalities that you have to deal with no matter how aggravating they might be. In our case we have Max who tends to be pedantic and somewhat obsessive compulsive. He loathes Giles and vice versa. Alison, on the other hand, is rather cold and distant. Not a team player. It makes me wonder how she’ll manage now she’s running the business. And Beatrice? Well, one doesn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but she did have her moments. All in all, I think Fiona and me are the only normal people here.’ Olive looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry that Giles is taking so long, Chief Inspector. Can I make you both a refreshment while you wait?’

  ‘Thank you for offering, Ms Glossop, but that won’t be necessary.’ Fitzjohn got to his feet. ‘What we would like, however, is to have a look through Beatrice’s apartment. I understand it’s upstairs.’

  ‘Yes, it is, but I don’t think that it’ll help with your investigation. As far as I know, Preston never went up there.’

  ‘Even if that is the case, Ms Glossop, in an investigation such as this, I would be remiss if I didn’t make myself fully aware of the complete situation that Preston Alexander found himself in,’ replied Fitzjohn. As Olive, with eyes wide, tried to comprehend Fitzjohn’s last sentence, he continued. ‘Can you fetch the key, please?’

  ‘Key? There isn’t one as far as I know. This is an old house, Chief Inspector. The key was more than likely lost years ago before Beatrice bought the place. She never locked her door. Olive jumped to her feet and followed Fitzjohn and Betts out of her office and along the hallway. ‘Would you like me to come up with you?’

  ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, Ms Glossop,’ replied Fitzjohn as he followed Betts up the old, distinctly carved, staircase, each step creaking under their weight. When they reached the landing Fitzjohn looked back down to see Olive with face upturned, hovering below. Betts turned the brass knob and watched the door to the apartment swing open. As he did so, a rush of hot stale air burst forth. Both men stood on the threshold of a living room the only sound the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece above an ornate fireplace. A haze of dust hovered in the air, each particle illuminated by a shaft of sunlight emanating through diamond shaped window panes. Fitzjohn stepped inside and looked thoughtfully at an open book that rested on a crumpled quilt as if its reader had stepped away for just a moment. ‘A story unfinished,’ he said softly before turning away to look at the array of photographs displayed on a narrow table underneath the window. One pictured a man in his fifties and a woman some years younger, presumably Beatrice and her late husband. The second featured Beatrice with two other women, one being Esme Timmons, obviously taken some years earlier. The third, a photograph of a young, fair haired, man and a woman, possibly in her sixties. Relatives perhaps. Fitzjohn placed the frame back onto the table and started to circle the room before he stopped to peer at a painting on the wall over a bookcase in the corner. ‘Mrs Maybrick had good taste,’ he said as if to himself. ‘The light in this painting is exquisite.’ Noticing that Betts had disappeared through the doorway into the next room, he followed, finding his young sergeant in a small kitchen, its window ov
erlooking the side of the property. A round table covered with a lace tablecloth sat in the centre of the room, on it a vase devoid of flowers. On the dish drainer next to the sink were two cups and two saucers along with a crystal cream jug. It matched the delicate sugar bowl resting on the counter.

  ‘It looks like one of the last things Beatrice did was entertain,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I wonder who her visitor was.’

  As Betts carried on through the apartment, Fitzjohn remained in the kitchen, taking in the scene.

  ‘There’s just the one bedroom and a bathroom further along, sir’ said Betts when he returned. ‘The bed hasn’t been disturbed so the lady fell before she retired for the evening.’

  ‘Unless someone has been up here and made it up,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘After all, everything’s been cleared away and the dishes washed. There’s nothing out of place. We’ll have a word with Alison Maybrick about it, Betts. Also arrange for forensics to come in. Even though it’s been a week since the lady died here, if there was foul play, no doubt there’ll be traces left even with the scene being tampered with.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts descended the staircase to see a tall heavy-set man coming through the front doorway. With sandy-coloured hair flecked with grey at the temples, he did not notice the two officers as he brushed the rain from his dark blue suit, its cut evidence of its worth. It was not until Fitzjohn’s shoes o

  n the staircase steps came into his line of vision that he spied the two men and stopped.

  ‘The upstairs of this building is a private residence,’ he said in a commanding voice, as he proceeded to dab spots of rain from his briefcase with a handkerchief. ‘In other words, not for the general public. Is there anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’re DCI Fitzjohn and DS Betts.’ Fitzjohn held up his warrant card. ‘We’re here to see Giles Enfield.’

  ‘I’m Giles Enfield,’ the man replied with a degree of hesitancy. ‘What is it you want to see me about?’