‘So I understand,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘It must be difficult for you and everyone who works here to see that happen.’
‘I’ve worked here now for nearly twenty years, so it is very difficult,’ replied Dolores with an air of wistfulness. ‘It’s the end of an era.’
‘How long has the present play been running, Ms Madden?’
‘For the past eighteen months.’
‘And was Mr Greenwood in his role for that length of time?’
‘Yes. It’s the original cast but for one person.’
‘So, presumably they were a compatible group,’ said Fitzjohn. Dolores did not reply. ‘Tell me, Ms Madden, would you say Howard Greenwood was well liked?
‘He was initially. Before his wife’s death, that is.’
‘And when was that?’ asked Fitzjohn, his interest piqued.
‘It wasn’t long after the play opened. Howard became a different person after that, but I suppose it wasn’t surprising considering the circumstances. You see, Marsha, that was her name, had been his leading lady in the play. After her death I imagine every performance must have been a painful reminder of her passing.’ Dolores paused before she continued. ‘Of course, we all tried to make allowances for his grief but as time went by and Howard became increasingly argumentative… Well, let’s just say it hasn’t been an easy time, Chief Inspector.’
‘Who replaced Marsha Greenwood in the leading female role?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Auditions were held and Madelaine Wells, who’d played a minor part previously, was chosen.’
‘Is she here this morning?’ asked Fitzjohn, looking around.
‘I haven’t seen her since last night’s performance ended.’
’Did she attend the get together after the show?’
‘I have no idea since I wasn’t invited,’ replied Dolores with an indignant tone. ‘The party was only for Howard’s invited guests and members of the cast.’
‘I see. Do you know the names of the guests who were invited, by any chance?’
‘Other than Howard’s brother, I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. I’m sorry.’
‘Not at all, Ms Madden. You’ve been most helpful.’ Fitzjohn, got to his feet. ‘Oh, just one more question, if I may. What time did you leave the theatre last night?’
‘It was just as the party got under way. Around eleven-thirty.’
***
Fitzjohn re-joined Betts in the aisle. ‘Have you come across a cast member by the name of Madelaine Wells?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. There’s no one by that name here although Nigel Bennett, the security guard on duty at the stage door last night, did mention her name. Evidently, she became ill during the performance and left soon after the play finished.’
‘Which is, no doubt, why she hasn’t appeared this morning. Find out whether she called in sick.’
‘I have and she did, sir. She spoke to the director of the play early this morning and asked that her understudy take over for the day.’
‘Very well. Add her to the list of those we need to locate because even though she didn’t attend last night’s festivities, we need to speak to her at some point.’ Fitzjohn scanned those still seated in the auditorium. ‘Has anything come to light while you’ve been taking statements?’ he asked.
‘Only that there was a party for the cast after the play finished last night, sir.’
‘So Dolores Madden said and confirmed by the glasses and empty champagne bottles scattered around the victim’s dressing room. Apparently, it’s likely that one of those in attendance was his brother, Leo Greenwood, along with a few other guests. We’ll need to find out who they were so we can speak to them,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘But for now, there’s the pressing matter of informing Howard Greenwood’s next of kin of his death and, given his celebrity, I only hope we’re able to do so before it’s broadcasted throughout the media. According to Ms Madden, Leo Greenwood, owns a restaurant in Double Bay called “The Salty Oyster” so we’ll try there first.’
The two men left the theatre by the stage door and made their way through a soft drizzle of rain, to the car, Fitzjohn dwelling on the unfortunate task ahead.
CHAPTER 4
F itzjohn and Betts arrived at The Salty Oyster and walked into the buzz of lunchtime diners. ‘Do you have a booking, gentlemen?’ asked a voice with a European accent. Brushing off his dampened suit coat, Fitzjohn turned to see a slight man of medium height dressed in a dark suit and carrying a tray of drinks. The plastic tag on his lapel indicated he was Gerard Lafleur, the restaurant’s maitre d'.
‘No,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’re…’
‘In that case, I can only offer you one table towards the back of the restaurant, sir,’ continued Gerard, his voice raised above the din.
‘That won’t be necessary. We’re not here to dine.’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘We’re here to speak to Leo Greenwood. Is he available?’
‘Are you from the council?’ asked the maitre d', his left eyebrow raised as he cast a suspicious eye over the two officers.
‘No. We’re here to see Mr Greenwood on a personal matter,’ replied Fitzjohn reluctant to display his warrant card amid the diners.
‘Is there a problem, Gerard?’
Fitzjohn looked around to see a tall man in his late forties, his small brown eyes and hooked nose set in an angular face.
‘These gentlemen wish to speak to you, Leo,’ replied Gerard, stepping back.
‘If it’s a complaint about the food or the service, gentlemen, my maitre d' is the person you should speak to.’
‘It’s neither, Mr Greenwood. We’re here on a purely personal matter.’ Feeling Greenwood was not convinced, Fitzjohn finally showed his warrant card.
‘The police,’ whispered Greenwood under his breath. ‘Look, whatever it is, can’t you come back in a couple of hours when things here have quietened down. This is our busiest time of the day. I just don’t have the time to…’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Greenwood but I’m afraid the matter can’t wait,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘We need to speak to you at once.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said Greenwood with a sigh. ‘We can talk in my office. This way.’ Fitzjohn and Betts followed Leo’s loping stride as they wended their way between the closely arranged tables and chairs into a small room at the rear of the restaurant. ‘I didn’t realise the council had taken matters this far,’ said Leo, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk before he closed the door and sat down. ‘I suppose you’re here to serve me a summons.’
‘No, Mr Greenwood. We’re here to…’
‘Oh my god! I’m being sued by one of my diners, aren’t I? That’s all I need.’ Leo slumped back in his chair. ‘And even though the health inspector gave us a clean bill of health last week. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘We’re not here on behalf of the council nor to serve you with a summons. And, as far as I know, you’re not being sued,’ said Fitzjohn endeavouring to contain his exasperation. ‘We’re here concerning your brother, Howard. His body was found early this morning in his dressing room at the Adelphi Theatre.’
Leo stared at Fitzjohn with a look of disbelief before he uttered, ‘Howard’s dead? But I was with him last night. He’d just finished his performance and he was fine. What happened? Was it his heart?’
‘All we can tell you at this stage is that we’re treating his death as suspicious,’ said Fitzjohn.
Leo Greenwood’s face paled. ‘Suspicious. You mean he was murdered? How?’
‘He received a blow to the right temple although the actual cause of his death is yet to be determined. I say that because of the possibility that the blow could have precipitated a heart attack, for example.’
‘Even so, whoever it was wanted him dead. But why?’
‘We had hoped you might be able to shed some light on that,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Do you know of anyone your brother had a problem with?’
‘That’s a difficult question to answer, Chief Inspector, because I should th
ink Howard had a problem with everyone at that theatre. He never stopped complaining about them and I can only think they felt the same way about him because he wasn’t an easy person to get along with.’
‘You said earlier you were with him after his performance.’
‘Yes. You might not be aware, but the Adelphi is being pulled down to make way for inner city apartments. Last night was their last evening performance. Howard asked me to come along and stay for the farewell party he’d organised. To tell you the truth, I can’t think why he’d bothered but I guess he had his reasons.’ Leo hesitated before he said, ‘Did you say he was found in his dressing room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which means someone at that gathering killed him, doesn’t it?’ said Leo.
‘Not necessarily,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘His assailant might have remained in the theatre and waited until everyone, other than your brother, had left the building.’
‘Ah, I see what you mean but under those circumstances it’d be impossible to find his killer. It could be anyone out there.’
‘That’s true, it could be and it would make our task more difficult but not impossible,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘To start with, however, we need to know the people who attended the festivities after the show. Can you tell us who they were?’
‘Yes, of course. Let’s see, other than myself and members of the cast there was the man who wrote the play, Simon Roach, and the woman who designed the costumes, Stephanie Mowbray.
‘Do you have their contact details by any chance?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘No. Being an actor, Howard moved in somewhat different circles than I do. All I can tell you is that Stephanie is a fashion designer. I believe she has a shop in the Strand Arcade in the city and all I know about Simon is that he lives in Cremorne. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Chief Inspector.’
‘That’s quite all right, Mr Greenwood. I’m sure we’ll be able to contact them both with that information. Do you remember what time you left the theatre, by any chance?’
‘It was somewhere around twelve-thirty.’
‘And how many people remained when you left?’
‘Oh. To be honest, I’d had a few too many glasses of champagne to know for sure although, I do know Stephanie was still there because I said goodbye to her as I left. Simon was there too as was another woman. I don’t know who she was but her costume stood out. It was a long electric blue gown with gold beading. I’m afraid that’s all can I remember.’
‘Thanks, Mr Greenwood. You’ve been most helpful. I just have one more question. Did you happen to speak to your brother before the performance? The reason I ask is because in hindsight you might remember something he said that would indicate he was troubled.’
‘As a matter of fact, I did speak to him; to wish him well. Break a leg as they say.’ Leo faltered. ‘Anyway, thinking back, the only thing that seemed to be troubling him was the closure of the theatre even though he’d known it was coming for some time.’
***
Although the rain had ceased, threatening grey clouds obscured the sky and the rumble of distant thunder sounded as Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from The Salty Oyster and walked back to their car.
‘Leo Greenwood’s interpretation of his discussion with the victim before his performance doesn’t match that perceived by Dolores Madden, does it, sir?’
‘No, it doesn’t, although it is possible that when she came into the room, she took their silence the wrong way,’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘especially if she and our victim had had words previously over the repairs needed to his costume.’ Fitzjohn opened the car door and climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Having said that, however, if she’s right and they were arguing, I doubt it’s something Leo Greenwood would want to admit, given the circumstances.’ Fitzjohn sat back and thought for a moment. ‘And then there’s his description of a blue gown with gold beading worn by one of the party goers. Sounds a lot like the dress Dolores Madden had on this morning, doesn’t it? And yet she said she didn’t attend the party.’
‘Unless there are two such gowns,’ said Betts as he pulled out into the traffic.
‘It’s possible. I suppose a theatre is one place you would find multiple copies of the same garment. Even so, it’s something to be noted.’
‘Where to now, sir?’
Fitzjohn looked at his watch. ‘We’ll go to the morgue. Hopefully Charles will have finished the post mortem and have news that will enable us to move forward with our investigation. There’s also afternoon tea on offer, I’m told,’ Fitzjohn added with a smile.
‘I think I’ll skip the tea, sir, and find out where Simon Roach can be reached.’
‘As you like.’
***
The antiseptic atmosphere tinged with a metallic tang filled Fitzjohn’s nostrils as he followed the attendant through the morgue. From the doorway, Charles Conroy and a technician could be seen going about their tasks. Fitzjohn hovered on the threshold until the pathologist looked up.
‘Ah, Alistair. Well timed. We’ve just finished. Let’s go to my office and I can give you my conclusions while we have that afternoon tea I promised. Betts not with you?’ he asked as they left the room.
‘He said he preferred to wait in the car and do some background work.’
‘Oh. That’s a shame because I have chocolate brownies to go with the tea. Still, he’s not alone in declining my offer and I don’t take it personally. I know it’s the venue and not my company that puts folk off,’ he added with a chuckle as they reached his office. ‘You go in and make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back.’
Moments later, Charles reappeared with a tray containing two steaming cups and a plate of brownies which he placed on the desk before settling himself into his chair. ‘Before we get down to business, I have news,’ he said, offering Fitzjohn a brownie. ‘I’m planning on retiring at the end of winter.’
‘Oh,’ was all Fitzjohn could manage as he put his cup down.
‘You’re supposed to say, “That’s great, Charles.” '
‘That’s great, Charles, but what will you do to fill your time?’
‘I’m planning on moving further up the coast where I can do a bit of fishing and armed with a pair of binoculars, sit on my front porch and watch the whales migrate.’
‘It sounds idyllic. I’m jealous,’ said Fitzjohn, taking a bite of his brownie.
‘Your time will arrive whereas, for me, as I turn seventy in a couple of months, it has arrived.’ Charles chose a brownie and sat back with a satisfied smile. ‘You’ll have to come up for a visit. We can do a bit of fishing.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Fitzjohn replied, finishing his tea.
‘Good. Now, let’s get down to business,’ said Charles, looking down at his notes. ‘Firstly, the cause of death was as I suspected, blunt force trauma. There were no signs that the victim suffered either an infarction, in other words a heart attack, or a stroke.’
‘So, it was murder,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Is there evidence he struggled?’
‘No which leads me to think he was taken by complete surprise, although you may have a different view.’
‘On the contrary, you’re probably right,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I doubt he was on his guard as I’m led to believe he was acquainted with everyone who remained in the theatre last night. What about the weapon used? Any thoughts on that? continued Fitzjohn.
‘No, and there lies a problem because, at this stage, I have to admit, I’m mystified,’ replied Charles. ‘It couldn’t have been the crystal vase that presumably had held the roses because whatever hit the victim wasn’t a hard object. If it had been, there’d be more damage to the skin and as it is, there’s only discolouration. What is interesting, however, and isn’t visible to the naked eye, is that there are microscopic pieces of plastic lodged in the tissue. I’ll have them passed on to the Forensic Services Group for analysis. Hopefully, it’ll assist you in finding the murder weapon.’
‘And what about time of death?
Is that still as you speculated at one a.m.?’
‘Yes.’
***
Fitzjohn emerged from the morgue carrying a small brown paper bag. He handed it to Betts as he climbed into the car.
‘What’s this?’ asked Betts, placing his notebook into his inside coat pocket.
‘Since you missed lunch and weren’t able to join us for afternoon tea, Charles saved a chocolate brownie for you.’
‘That was thoughtful of him but…’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t want it just because it came from the morgue. I have it on good authority Charles bought the brownies at the local bakery on his way to work this morning.’ Betts peeked inside the bag. ‘Come on, Betts. It won’t bite you,’ said Fitzjohn suppressing a laugh.
‘I’ll keep it for later, sir.’
‘As you wish,’ replied Fitzjohn as he pulled his seatbelt on. ‘Have you confirmed where Stephanie Mowbray can be contacted and also an address for Simon Roach?’
‘I have, sir, and it’s as Leo Greenwood said. Stephanie Mowbray does have a shop and workroom for her dress designs in the upper level of the Strand Arcade on George Street and I have an address for Simon Roach in Cremorne.’
‘Excellent. We’ll speak to Ms Mowbray first.’
CHAPTER 5
F itzjohn and Betts entered the Strand Arcade from George Street, its 19th century Victorian architecture of glazed timber shop fronts and ceramic tiled flooring emitting an atmosphere of a time long since passed. Making their way up to the second level, they emerged onto the balcony that stretched around the top floor, its ornamental wrought iron railing enabling a view of the arcade below. Fitzjohn looked up through the glass lantern roof, the heavy dark clouds a reminder of the blustery day outside before he continued on to where Betts stood in front of one of the shopfronts. It was unadorned but for a window display of the type of clothes that could be anticipated inside, and the plate glass window overlaid with the words, “Stephanie Mowbray Fashion Designs” in bold gold lettering. The two officers entered the shop to the tinkle of a small bell hung on the back of the door. Fitzjohn took in the room edged with racks of colourful dresses, scarves, and shelving filled with hats, soft leather handbags and gloves before his gaze came to rest on a vase of long-stemmed red roses on the counter. At that same moment, a tall, dark-haired woman probably in her mid-forties with large tortoise shell framed glasses perched on her long-pointed nose, emerged from the back room. Wearing a slim fitting purple dress, its length almost hiding her black stockinged legs, she glided across the floor.
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