The Fourth String

by Jill Paterson

  ‘I see. Have you been in touch with Mrs Fairchild?’

  ‘Yes, in fact, her flight from Italy should be arriving shortly.’

  ‘Could I prevail upon you to ask her to contact us while she’s here, Mr Worthington?’ asked Fitzjohn. ‘I’ll leave you my card.’

  ‘By all means,’ replied Worthington.

  ‘There’s just one more question. Is Crispin Fairchild’s brother, Edmund, mentioned in either will?’

  ‘No. Come to think of it, I don’t remember him mentioning that he had a brother.’

  ****

  Later that same day, Fitzjohn stood at the whiteboard in the incident room and studied its surface, now covered with the names of the persons of interest. When his gaze fell upon Edmund Fairchild, he placed a question mark next to his name because unless it could be established that Edmund believed himself to be a beneficiary in the victim’s will, he reasoned, the only thing which connects him to his brother’s death is their mother’s will. Standing back, he sighed before considering Eleanor Reed’s name, whom he suspected, had known she was to be replaced, if the member of the orchestra Betts had spoken to was to be believed. But what of the other residents of The Claremont who also appeared to have motive? Pearl Ambrose and Morris Elliott, who it seemed, had both suffered the same problem, the victim having demanded they find other premises for their work, although he appeared to have gone one step further where Morris Elliott was concerned by taking out a lawsuit against him. Fitzjohn’s gaze then lowered to the last two names on the board. Those of Rhodes Lambert whose wife had been having an affair with the victim and the anonymous individual who repeatedly harassed Elvira Travers. Who was he and what was the connection between him and Crispin Fairchild? As these thoughts passed through his mind, the door opened and Betts walked into the room exuding a certain amount of enthusiasm.

  ‘We have a breakthrough, sir,’ he said, making his way to the front of the room. Fingerprints from the victim’s apartment which have been identified as belonging to Eleanor Reed.’

  ‘Where were they found?’ asked Fitzjohn, a look of surprise across his face.

  ‘One set was found on the mantelpiece in the living room, but more telling is a thumbprint found on the murder weapon.’

  ‘The candelabra?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Do we know, yet, how old these prints are?’

  ‘According to forensics, Eleanor Reed would have touched both surfaces within the last four days, sir.’

  ‘So, it doesn’t necessarily mean she was in the apartment the night of the murder.’

  ‘No, but with the thumbprint on the base of the murder weapon it looks highly likely.’

  ‘Still, we mustn’t jump to conclusions, Betts, although, since she’s lied to us concerning what she knew at the time of Crispin Fairchild’s death, we can’t overlook it. Have her brought in for an official interview.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Fitzjohn’s eyes met Eleanor Reed’s as he and Betts walked into the interview room. ‘Good afternoon, Ms Reed,’ he said as he sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table and placed his papers in front of him. ‘Before we begin, I have to inform you that this is to be an official interview and as such it will be recorded,’ he continued as Betts turned on the recording device. ‘I should also advise that you are not obliged to answer our questions if you do not wish to.’

  After introductions were made, Fitzjohn prepared to begin the interview but not before Eleanor asked, ‘Why have I been brought here, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Because your fingerprints have been found on surfaces in Crispin Fairchild’s apartment and as you told us you’d never been inside, we’d like you to explain how they got there.’ Eleanor did not reply. ‘Well?’

  ‘All right, I did go into his apartment, but only once.’

  ‘And when was that?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  Eleanor swallowed hard. ‘It was the morning I flew to Melbourne.’

  ‘The day Crispin Fairchild was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, but I can explain.’

  ‘Explain away,’ replied Fitzjohn with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Crispin phoned me that morning and said he wanted to talk to me before I left. I thought it was something to do with the performance so I went.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘Only that the Melbourne concert would be my last performance. In other words, he fired me.’ Eleanor looked down at her hand before she lifted her gaze to Fitzjohn again. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to say that to you when we last spoke. I thought you’d think I’d killed him because of it.’

  ‘Do you know what prompted him to end your employment, Ms Reed?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘He didn’t give a reason. I can only think it was because I’d seen him with a woman a few nights earlier while I was out dining with some friends. He was aware I knew who she was because we’d been introduced at a function recently.’

  ‘And who was she?’

  ‘Her name is Rosemary Lambert, the wife of the politician, Rhodes Lambert. And you may as well know that I’m sure she’s the woman in that photograph you showed me. I should have said something at the time, I know, but I thought it would lead to more questions.’ Eleanor met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘I didn’t kill Crispin Fairchild, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘And yet your thumbprint has been found on the murder weapon,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘How do you explain that?’

  ‘I can’t other than the fact that I must have touched the candelabra without realising it. He did keep me waiting for a minute or two that morning. I remember standing near the fireplace and looking up at a painting above the mantelpiece. I must have touched it then.’

  ‘How do you know that the murder weapon was a candelabra?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I… I don’t know.’

  ****

  ‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Betts as the two officers left the interview room and made their way to Fitzjohn’s office.

  ‘With her print on the murder weapon and a strong motive to kill the victim, she, more than anyone else, looks to be the killer,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Shall I charge her, sir?’

  At that moment, the door to Fitzjohn’s office opened and the duty sergeant appeared.

  ‘There’s someone here to see you, sir. A woman by the name of Francesca Fairchild.’

  Fitzjohn looked at Betts. ‘Hold off for now, Betts, while I speak to Mrs Fairchild. In the meantime, why don’t you see how the team are getting on at the victim’s apartment.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  As Betts left the room, a tall young woman with long dark hair wearing a slim-fitting woollen dress and a colourful scarf draped across her shoulders appeared in the doorway. Fitzjohn, notably impressed with the elegance and charm exuded by the lady, got to his feet. ‘Mrs Fairchild, please come in,’ he said, gesturing to a chair.

  ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector,’ she replied, her brown almond-shaped eyes taking in the room before she sat down. ‘I’ve come from Geoffrey Worthington’s office,’ she continued in a heavy Italian accent. ‘He told me you wished to see me and that you’re in charge of the investigation into my husband’s death.’

  ‘That’s right. The investigation has been necessitated by the manner in which he died, I’m afraid. Please accept my condolences, Mrs Fairchild.’

  Francesca placed her handbag on the chair next to her. ‘It saddens me, it really does, that he died so violently even though, as Mr Worthington probably told you, our marriage had, for all intents and purposes, ended. Why, exactly, do you want to see me?’

  ‘I’d like to know whether you’re aware of anyone who might have wished your husband harm.’

  ‘Why? Do you think his death could be connected to someone he knew before he left Italy?’

  ‘I have to address every possibility,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Of course. Well, I never knew of anyone with whom he had a problem with before we separated
and since then I really can’t say because I didn’t see him again. I’m sorry, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Fairchild. It’s something that had to be asked. Thank you, though, for taking the time to come in to see me.’

  ‘Well, I have to confess that I do have had an ulterior motive, Chief Inspector,’ replied Francesca with a slight smile. ‘You see, I wish to retrieve something from Crispin’s apartment which belongs to my family.’

  ‘Oh? What is it?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘It’s a violin. It was entrusted to Crispin by my father on our wedding day with the express purpose that it would be passed on to one of our offspring. However, since we didn’t have children, when we separated, my father wanted it returned to him. Crispin refused.’ Francesca paused before continuing. ‘My father is an old man, Chief Inspector, and much distressed by this. The violin has been in my family for generations. I can’t go home without it. Can I have your permission to enter the apartment?’

  ‘The violin isn’t in the apartment, Mrs Fairchild. It’s been seized as part of our evidence.’

  ‘You mean you have it here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ replied Francesca, lifting her hands into the air. ‘When will I be able to have it back?’

  ‘Only after our investigation is complete and then only if you can prove that your family is the rightful owner.’

  ‘That is not a problem. Crispin may have had the violin in his possession, but my father was wise enough to keep all documentation relating to its authenticity and provenance. Can I see it, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I’m sure I can arrange that if you care to wait,’ replied Fitzjohn with a smile.

  ****

  Fitzjohn opened the door and ushered Francesca into the room where the violin had been placed on a table for viewing. ‘This is it?’ she asked as she peered through the plastic bag into which it was sealed. ‘Can you take it out of the bag?’ she asked with a sudden air of perplexity.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Fairchild.’

  ‘That is unfortunate because I need to make sure my eyes are not deceiving me.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Because this is not the violin my father entrusted to Crispin.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Does it look like a Stradivarius to you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘If it had been, I’m sure I would have noticed the makers name at once. It was, however, the only violin in the apartment, I assure you,’ replied Fitzjohn, aware that his investigation had taken an unexpected turn as he now realised that not only was he investigating a murder, but also the possible theft of a priceless instrument. ‘Is there any possibility your husband could have sold the Stradivarius, Mrs Fairchild?’

  ‘Not without proof of its provenance which I have with me. The only other way would be on the black market and I can’t believe Crispin would have done such a thing.’

  ‘In that case, it looks like the violin has been stolen and is possibly the motive for the murder,’ replied Fitzjohn, sensing an air of disappointment in Francesca’s mood. ‘I can assure you we’ll do everything we can to recover it but it might take time.’

  ‘I can’t return home without it so I’ll wait.’

  CHAPTER 14

  With the meeting concerning the installation of a security system for the front entrance to the building a success and all those present agreeing wholeheartedly that it should be installed immediately, Elvira closed the door behind the last of her neighbours and retreated back into the living room. Of course, during the meeting, she had realised that the killer might well be amongst them but even when the conversation turned, ultimately, to Crispin and the way in which he died, there had been no hint of guilt on anyone’s face. This token of innocence only reinforced her suspicion that Raymond Edwards was the murderer. Still unnerved by her experience with him the previous evening, she had been pleased to see a contingent of police officers arrive at Crispin’s apartment early that morning. Were they looking for the documents which Edwards had referred to? she wondered. With a sigh, she sat down heavily in the chair at her desk, the blank page on her computer screen a reminder that she had made little headway in finishing her latest manuscript with her deadline only hours away. Perhaps the circumstances surrounding Crispin’s death and the threats from Edwards had affected her more than she realised. Nevertheless, she had to carry on even though she somehow doubted that Moira would call to check on her progress. She had sensed something was wrong when they had spoken on the telephone the night before, but try as she might, Moira would not be drawn in on the subject. Perhaps the meeting she’d attended hadn’t gone well.

  Restless, Elvira swivelled her chair around to face the bookcase and ran her eyes across the many titles, searching for anything which might be a source of inspiration. It was then she spied a green box file wedged into the bottom shelf underneath a pile of old magazines. Oh my, I’d forgotten all about this. As she reached for it she was reminded of Crispin’s incessant determination to persuade her to ghostwrite his autobiography. He must have been confident I’d agree to have entrusted his most private thoughts and anecdotes to me, she thought. Even so, nothing could stir my interest in such a project. But the question is, what should I do with his documents now he’s gone? Tentatively, she lifted the lid and peered inside, the pile of papers held down by a metal arm. His unwritten life story left behind in an A4 box, she said to herself. A shame really.

  At that moment, the doorbell sounded. Startled, she closed the lid and made her way to the front door. Rarely had she used the peephole in its centre as her visitors were more often than not, expected. However, with all that had happened and her growing paranoia, she now placed her eye on the glass and looked through the periscope-type eyepiece. When she did so, she saw the handsome face of Sergeant Betts, and with a sigh of relief, opened the door.

  ‘Good evening, Sergeant. I hope you’re here to tell me you have Raymond Edwards in custody.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Ms Travers. Has he made any further contact with you since last night?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t, thank goodness.’

  ‘Well, if he does, I want you to phone me right away, Ms Travers.’

  ‘I hope I don’t have the need to but I’ll keep it in mind.’ Elvira glanced along the hall towards Crispin’s apartment doorway. ‘I see you’ve had your officers here for the best part of the day. Are you looking for those documents which Edwards wants?’

  ‘All I can say is that you’re very perceptive, Ms Travers,’ replied the sergeant with a smile.

  ‘Well, that answers my question anyway. I hope they’ve found whatever it is he wants and it helps lead you to him.’

  ‘We’re doing our best.’

  As the sergeant spoke, a number of police officers carrying boxes emerged from Crispin’s apartment and made their way into the elevator.

  ‘It’s a shame they have to leave,’ added Elvira. ‘It’s been comforting having them here all day.’ Elvira gave a quick smile and went to close the door. ‘Oh, I almost forgot, Sergeant. I’m in a bit of a quandary about something and as it has to do with Crispin, you might be able to help.’ Elvira ushered Sergeant Betts inside. ‘A few months ago, he asked me to ghostwrite his autobiography,’ she continued as she led the way into the living room. ‘I told him I wasn’t interested but Crispin being Crispin wouldn’t take no for an answer and he left a box file with me containing his personal papers. I’d forgotten all about it, otherwise I would have given it to you before.’ Elvira reached her desk and lifted the lid of the box. ‘As you can see, there’s quite a lot in there including a few photographs. He must have some family who would want to have it.’

  ‘I’m sure he does, Ms Travers,’ replied the sergeant, taking the file. ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ****

  With the police presence in the building now gone and night falling, Elvira’s sense of unease returned. She had always enjoyed the lights of
the city at night, but now she crossed the room and started to close the shutters against the growing darkness. As she did, however, she stopped when the telephone rang. Oh. That’ll be Moira calling after all, she thought, turning to reach for the telephone. Nevertheless, before she could pick it up, it went to the answering service and she heard Edwards’s voice.

  ‘I know you’re there, Ms Travers. Why don’t you pick up the phone?’

  A shiver ran through Elvira. He’s watching the building. Or is he inside? It was then she heard the elevator making its grinding ascent and when the door jittered open at the end of the hall and footsteps sounded on the tiled floor, she held her breath. ‘It’s him,’ she whispered. ‘Who else would stop on this floor?’ Gingerly, she left the living room and edged along the darkened hallway to see the handle on the front door turn. As it did, she placed her eye on the peephole in the door and gasped — Edwards.

  CHAPTER 15

  Fitzjohn stood before the whiteboard in the incident room, rearranging it to include information on the missing Stradivarius violin. As he did, the door behind him opened and he turned to see Betts.

  ‘Ah, you’re back,’ he said. ‘How did the search of the victim’s apartment go? Did they find anything which might lead us to Edwards?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, sir, so I’ve requested a search warrant from the magistrate to enable us to look through his office at the Opera House.’

  ‘That’s good,’ replied Fitzjohn, glancing at a green box underneath Betts’s arm. ‘Did you bring a packed lunch?’

  ‘I doubt it would be particularly appetising,’ replied Betts as he placed the box file on the desk beside him. ‘Ms Travers gave it to me. Apparently, Crispin Fairchild had asked her to ghostwrite his autobiography.’ Betts recounted his conversation with Elvira. ‘It might explain why we’ve found very little personal paperwork in his apartment. She didn’t know what she should do with it so I told her we’d see that it’s given to a member of his family. Presumably his brother, I guess.’