The Fourth String

by Jill Paterson

  ‘That sounds like an excellent idea,’ replied Elvira as she placed a “Back in 5 minutes” sign on the desk and followed Moira through to a small kitchenette in the rear of the bookshop. ‘This is very cosy,’ she said, looking around before she settled into one of the chairs.

  ‘You were going to tell me why you were so late this morning,’ said Moira as she handed Elvira a steaming brew. ‘It’s not like you to be late. You usually arrive far too early.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Was it something to do with the murder in your building?’ asked Moira with eagerness as she perched on a stool at the kitchen counter.

  ‘In a way, but really, it all started yesterday afternoon when I left you at the café,’ replied Elvira, cradling her coffee mug between her hands. ‘I was approached by a man outside my building.’ Elvira recounted what had happened and her subsequent meeting with the police sergeant.

  Moira’s eyes grew larger as she took in every word. ‘Do you realise he could be the killer?’

  ‘I’ve thought of nothing else because he’s obviously desperate. I found this note in my mailbox when I left the building this morning. It’s why I was late.’ Elvira took the note from her pocket and handed it to Moira whose face darkened.

  ‘Elvira, he knows your name,’ she said, a horrified look on her face. ‘And he’s threatening you. This is serious. You should have gone straight to the police.’

  ‘You know I couldn’t do that. I was due here. I’ll call the police sergeant when I get home tonight and let him know.’

  ‘Do you think it’s wise to wait that long? You should call him right away.’

  ‘No. He might tell me I have to end today’s signing and I’m not going to do that,’ replied Elvira as she glanced through the kitchenette doorway to the growing line of readers, snaking their way through the bookshop to her desk, ‘not with all those people who are waiting so patiently to have their books signed.’

  Elvira returned to her desk, smiling as she did to continued her book signing. But even in the safe confines of the shop and with so many well-wishers around her, she could not escape a sense of unease as well as the police sergeant’s insistence that she curb such activities which could leave her vulnerable. While this niggled at the fringes of her mind, by closing time, the line of people had diminished to a trickle. She gathered her things, shrugged into her coat, wrapped her scarf around her neck and prepared to leave.

  ‘The book signing was a great success,’ said Moira as they both stepped outside into the brisk evening air. ‘You are getting a cab home, I hope,’ she added.

  ‘Of course. I booked one a little earlier. It should be here soon,’ replied Elvira, surveying the cars which buzzed past.

  ‘Good. I’d wait with you, Elvira, but I’m due back at the office for a meeting with the powers that be,’ said Moira, looking at her watch. ‘Even so, I don’t like to leave you here alone. Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Moira. I’m sure my taxi will be along soon. It probably just got held up in all this traffic.’

  ‘Okay, but call me as soon as you get home.’

  ****

  Now alone, Elvira remained at the curb and waited. With each passing cab that did not stop, she began to lose hope that it would, in fact, ever arrive. Should I go against the police sergeant’s advice and walk home? she asked herself. After all, aren’t I as vulnerable standing here as I would be if I walked home? After a few unsuccessful attempts to flag down a passing cab, Elvira shivered from the growing chill in the air, turned from the curb and melded into the flow of hurrying pedestrians. In a way, she felt sheltered amongst them and as she walked, her unease lessened. However, when she left the busy hub of the city and those around her with whom she felt secure fell away, she found herself alone in the dimly lit streets; every shadow a menacing threat, the few pedestrians now veritable suspects. At the top of Martin Place, she paused with a sigh of relief before she turned down Macquarie Street towards The Claremont but as she approached the building, she could see a figure standing near the curb. With her heart racing, she slowed her pace. Is it him, waiting for me again? she thought. Unsure, she hung back in the shadows of the buildings and waited until unexpectedly, she noticed Morris Elliott descend the steps. As he did, she took the opportunity to move forward only to have the unknown man stepped towards her.

  ‘Ms Travers? I’m from The Guardian newspaper. I’m doing a story on Crispin Fairchild’s murder and I understand you found the body. Would you care to comment?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ replied Elvira, indignantly, at the same time a sense of relief flooding through her.

  ‘Come now, Ms Travers. A writer of murder mysteries, surely you have thoughts on what led to his death if not who the killer might be.’

  ‘If I do, young man, I wouldn’t tell you.’ With that, Elvira gripped the railing and ran up the steps into the building giving a cursive glance behind her to make sure the reporter was not following. Once inside the foyer, she took the elevator to the first floor. When the door rumbled open, however, she gasped. ‘Pearl!’

  ‘Oh, Elvira. I’m sorry, I startled you.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m being ridiculous. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting to see anyone.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t. I think we’re all on edge. I just came down to let you know I’ll be attending the meeting you’ve arranged about security for the front entrance. After what’s happened I don’t think we can afford not to install something to help keep us all safe.’

  At this point, Elvira wondered whether she should tell Pearl she had received a threatening note from the man who had approached her the previous afternoon, but decided against it. After all, it seemed pointless to cause Pearl any more worry than she already felt.

  ‘Are you okay, Elvira? You look rather pale. You haven’t seen that man caught on the surveillance camera again have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him. I’m just chilled after my walk home, that’s all. I’ll be fine once I get inside and have a warm drink.’

  ‘Then I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll see you at the meeting in the morning. I take it it’s to be held in your apartment?’

  Elvira nodded and as Pearl disappeared up the stairway, she fumbled for her key before she unlocked the door and stepped inside. For a moment, she stood motionless in the eerie glow thrown by the lights of the city through the apartment windows. Ordinarily, she found the shadows they cast across the walls had a somewhat calming affect, but now her eyes darted every which way as she walked into the living room. With haste, she closed the shutters on the tall arched windows and turned on the desk lamp, and, ignoring the flashing red light on the answering machine, walked into the kitchen. After a few minutes she emerged with a steaming cup of tea and settled herself into her chair to listen to the messages. It was then, as she lifted the cup to her lips, she spluttered as Edwards's clear, calm voice pierced the silence.

  ‘It’s a long walk home from the bookshop on such a cold night, isn’t it, Ms Travers? ‘Have you changed your mind about helping me?’

  Elvira gasped as she realised she was being stalked.

  CHAPTER 12

  As was his practice, Fitzjohn rose early the following morning and walked out onto the back porch where he took a moment to survey the flower beds before he stepped down to turn on the sprinkler system. In an instant, a fine mist erupted into the air, the blooms and their leaves soaking up every droplet of water. He then moved on to the bird bath, filling it to the brim before sprinkling ample seed in the bird feeder which hung on the tree branch above. As he did so, he smiled as he listened to the parakeets squabbling amongst themselves high above as they jostled for their position in the pecking order in the expectation of breakfast.

  But his feeling of peace and satisfaction that usually accompanied him during these early morning tasks was lacking on this occasion, replaced instead by a sense of unease at Rhonda’s latest threat. Would she, at last, be trium
phant in her struggle to rid him of his greenhouse? he wondered with a cursory glance over the murraya hedge. Was she in her kitchen now, crossing off the thirty days the council had given him to dismantle it? With a sigh he started down the garden path to the greenhouse, it’s Victorian styled shape, edged with luscious ferns and flowers, the orchids within all but invisible behind the misted glass. As he did so, he thought of the many orchids his late wife, Edith, had propagated herself, some of which continued to win prizes even today at the orchid society meetings. With this thought came a mixture of determination and resolve to find out if Rhonda’s claim about the boundary was true.

  ****

  An hour later Fitzjohn took the council’s letter from the coffee table in the conservatory where he had left it the previous evening, slipped it into his pocket and grabbed his briefcase before making his way to the front door. ‘See you this evening, Meg,’ he called up the stairway.

  ‘Wait a minute, Alistair. I’m on my way down,’ said Meg appearing at the top of the stairs. ‘If you’re going to the planning office about the boundary issue, I want to come too.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Meg,’ replied Fitzjohn, opening the front door.

  ‘Yes it is, because, unlike you, I have all day to search through the maps and you can’t deny I have experience in such matters having worked in the planning office in Melbourne’s City Council for so many years.’

  Fitzjohn had to concede because it was true. In fact, Meg was more qualified than anyone he knew, including himself, to take on such a task. And he would have suggested it himself but for her overbearing temperament that became wearing after an hour or two in her presence.

  ‘Very well,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘Let’s go.’

  ****

  As he suspected, it was not long before he yielded and left Meg at the planning office where she had appropriated a couple of unsuspecting employees to assist in the task at hand; that of combing the suburb of Birchgrove’s historical as well as recent maps in an effort to find any discrepancy in the boundary between the two properties. Not surprisingly, she had also convinced the planning office officials that a team of surveyors should be dispatched forthwith so that, working in unison, the matter could be resolved swiftly. Fitzjohn had no doubt that his sister had missed her true calling; that of a military commander. Even so, he could not deny he felt not only pleased she had taken over but confident she would get results expeditiously. This led him to sit back with confidence as the taxi wended its way into the city while he let his thoughts return to not only the investigation at hand but also Chief Superintendent Grieg’s gardening leave. What would come of this internal investigation, he thought? Would justice finally catch up with Grieg? And if it didn’t, would his own days at Day Street be numbered? As he pondered these questions, he entered the station and met Betts in the corridor.

  ****

  ‘Any further developments?’ he asked as they fell into step.

  ‘I’ve just returned from The Claremont, sir, where I spoke to Elvira Travers. Apparently, Raymond Edwards, if that is his name, has been in contact again, this time, by way of a note in her mailbox alluding to a threat if she doesn’t help him get the documents he wants. He also left a message on her answering service last night where he made it apparent he’d been watching her.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘It’s not good, sir, but I do have two officers there today and possibly tomorrow, if needs be, going through all the paperwork in the victim’s apartment. Hopefully a police presence in the building might help quell her fears at least for now.’

  ‘What about the note?’ asked Fitzjohn as they reached his office door.

  ‘It’s with forensics, sir.’

  ‘Good. Hopefully the DNA will match up with the cigarette butts and give us some clue as to who he is, although to be honest, it seems unlikely.’

  ‘I tend to agree, sir, but that notepaper he used does remind me of the type you see in hotel rooms.’

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ replied Fitzjohn as he opened the door to his office and flicked on the light switch. ‘Anything else?’ he added as he placed his briefcase on the desk and shrugged out of his suit coat.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Betts as they both sat down. ‘I’ve been looking into Edmund Fairchild’s financial affairs and it’s become clear he’s on the verge of bankruptcy.’

  ‘Oh? I must admit, that does surprise me,’ replied Fitzjohn, sitting back. ‘For some reason, it wasn’t something I was expecting. His business out there at Newport looked to be thriving. From the outside at least. So, what are you suggesting? That the prospect of bankruptcy led him to kill his brother?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘How do you come to that conclusion when we know for a fact that he isn’t mentioned in his brother’s will?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I spoke to the solicitor who is the executor of his mother’s will, sir. Probate hasn’t yet been granted although when it is, Edmund will be the sole benefactor by reason of his brother’s death. If he had lived, Edmund would get nothing.’

  ‘You mean he isn’t mentioned in his mother’s will?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Only if his brother predeceased him and if he himself has no spouse or descendants, which he doesn’t. Apparently, Edmund and his mother had been estranged for a number of years before she died. Consequently, she favoured Crispin.’

  ‘I see. Well, I agree with you, Betts. With his brother being alive and well and the possibility of bankruptcy hanging over his head it gave him a strong motive.’

  ‘I think it did, sir, even though his windfall won’t clear all his debts. For that to happen, he’ll have to sell his boat building business.’

  ‘But in essence, he will benefit from his brother’s death, won't he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the victim’s estate? Do we know whether he left a will?’

  ‘He did, sir. It’s held by Worthington & Bentley, Solicitors & Barristers. They have offices on Bridge Street here in the city. The senior partner, Geoffrey Worthington, is administering the will.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll pay him a visit to find out whether Edmund Fairchild is a beneficiary.’

  ****

  The two officers emerged from the elevator onto the eleventh floor and walked into the reception area of Worthington & Bentley to be greeted at the front desk by a woman in her mid-forties, her bobbed hairdo framing rectangular black-rimmed glasses.

  ‘You must be Mr Worthington’s next appointment,’ she said, turning to her computer screen. ‘Mr..?’

  ‘DCI Fitzjohn and DS Betts,’ replied Fitzjohn, moving a vase of flowers slightly aside as he held up his warrant card before looking at the woman’s nameplate. ‘We don’t have an appointment, Ms Brill, but we would like to have a word with Mr Worthington.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that presents somewhat of a problem and may not be possible,’ replied Ms Brill, moving the vase back in place. ‘I’ll have to have a word with Mr Worthington to see if he can fit you in.’ Brill stood up, her tall thin shape towering over Fitzjohn. ‘Wait here, I won’t be a moment,’ she added looking down her nose at him.

  As she scurried away, Fitzjohn and Betts remained at the reception desk and waited. ‘I think we’ve upset her appointment schedule,’ said Betts with a grin.

  ‘It can’t be helped.’

  ‘I don’t think she liked you moving her flowers either, sir. It might work against us.’

  ‘Well, let’s just hope Mr Worthington isn’t quite so pedantic as his receptionist,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  As Fitzjohn spoke, Ms Brill reappeared, followed by a short wiry man in his mid-fifties. ‘Good morning, gentlemen, I’m Geoffrey Worthington. I understand you need to see me. Come this way, won’t you?’

  Under Ms Brill’s glare, the two officers followed Worthington into a large office at the end of the hallway, its window overlooking the street below.

  ‘Please, have a
seat,’ he said as he settled himself behind his desk before making a steeple with his fingers. ‘Now, how can I help?’

  ‘We’re investigating the death of Crispin Fairchild whom we believe was your client,’ replied Fitzjohn as he sat down in a soft leather chair.

  ‘Yes, he was, albeit for a short period of time, I might add. Even so, I was saddened to hear of his death; and in such tragic circumstances,’ replied Worthington, sitting forward. ‘But I don’t see how I can be of assistance.’

  ‘Any information you have concerning his situation, in general, would help,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘For instance, we understand he’d only recently returned to Australia.’

  ‘That’s correct, so as I said before, our association was short. We only met on one occasion which was the initial appointment when he gave me instructions to draw up his will. Having said that, however, we did have quite a lengthy discussion about his reason for making a new will. He told me that he’d recently returned to Australia to take up his post as the conductor of the Sydney Symphony after spending most of the last twenty odd years in Italy — Milan, I believe — where he’d married and made his home.’

  ‘But we’re led to believe he returned to Australia alone,’ said Fitzjohn

  ‘That’s right, he did. He and his wife had been estranged for almost a year and it was, he said, the deciding factor in accepting the conductorship with the symphony. With that in mind, he instructed me to draw up a new will and represent him in his divorce settlement. But, of course, with his untimely death, the new will was not executed, I’m afraid, so as his executor, I have no other option other than to administer his estate with the original which he left in my possession.’

  ‘In that case, would you be able to tell us who the beneficiaries are?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Of course. As I recall, other than the establishment of a scholarship to advance the musical education of young Australian violinists, the bulk of his estate will go to his estranged wife, Francesca Fairchild.’