‘Can I help you?’ she asked, peering closely at the two officers.
‘We’re from the police, madam,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Are you Stephanie Mowbray?’
‘Yes, I am. Are you here concerning Howard Greenwood, by any chance? It’s just that I heard about what happened to him only minutes ago, on the news.’
‘We are.’ Fitzjohn held up his warrant card and introduced himself and Betts. ‘We’re investigating the circumstances in which he died.’
‘You mean it wasn’t by natural causes? I thought perhaps… That is, I know he had high blood pressure.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Greenwood was attacked by person or persons unknown in the early hours of this morning at the Adelphi Theatre,’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘Oh. But who would want to do that to him?’
‘We understand Mr Greenwood hosted a party after last night’s performance.’
‘That’s right, he did. I was there. He called it a wake because the theatre is being demolished. An innocuous term to use at the time but now…’ Stephanie hesitated. ‘I’m sorry it’s just such a shock,’ she continued, her voice quavering.
A moment of silence followed before Fitzjohn asked, ‘I know it’s a difficult time, Ms Mowbray, but it might help us to know who else attended the party?’
‘Yes, of course. Well, let me think. They were mainly members of the cast. The only non-actors were Howard’s brother, Leo, Simon Roach who wrote the play and me, of course.’
‘Are you well acquainted with both Leo Greenwood and Simon Roach?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘No, not really. I’ve met Leo a couple of times when I’ve dined at one of his restaurants, but Simon Roach I’d only met once before at a Christmas party that Howard and his wife Marsha hosted.’
‘I see. And how long had you known the Greenwoods?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Oh, we go back a long way. Before I got into fashion design, I tried acting. The three of us were students together at acting school. Howard and Marsha went on, of course, to have successful careers whereas I decided it wasn’t for me. We stayed in touch though. Marsha wore a lot of my designs.’ Stephanie smiled. ‘They were the perfect couple. Both loved the theatrical life until, sadly, Marsha died. I don’t think Howard ever got over it. He worshipped her; he really did.’
‘We understand Mrs Greenwood died at a Christmas party. Was that the same Christmas party where you met Simon Roach?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. It was a heartbreaking evening.’
‘Did you witness the incident, Ms Mowbray?’
‘Thankfully no. I was outside on the patio at the time. There was panic initially, as I remember but good sense prevailed, and an ambulance was called. The paramedics did what they could, but I understand she died on her way to the hospital.’
As Stephanie spoke, the bell on the door tinkled and a woman walked in. ‘Oh, this is my two-p.m. fitting.’
‘In that case, before we leave,’ said Fitzjohn, ‘can you tell us what time you left the party last night?'
‘Yes. It was just before midnight. The party had barely got underway but I had a client arriving early this morning so I couldn’t stay any longer.’
‘Did anyone else leave at the same time?’
‘No. As I said, the party was just getting underway.’
‘So you were the first to leave?’
‘I think so, yes.’ Stephanie smiled before glancing at her client. ‘Will that be all, Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes, other than to ask about the roses on your counter over there. Can you tell me how you came by them? A gift from a friend, perhaps?’
Stephanie looked over her shoulder. ‘Funny you should ask. I suppose they are a gift of sorts, but not from a friend. I must have a secret admirer because they were lying in front of the door when I arrived this morning.’
‘No card with them?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘No.’
***
The two officers left Stephanie Mowbray in conversation with her client and emerged from the arcade into the rain swept afternoon. Buffeted by the wind, Fitzjohn pulled up the collar of his raincoat and, following Betts, dashed across the street to the car.
‘Leo Greenwood seemed positive that Stephanie Mowbray was still at the party when he left and yet she appears certain she was the first to leave,’ said Betts as he turned the windshield wipers on and pulled out into the traffic.
‘Well, Greenwood did say he’d had a few too many glasses of champagne so his memory may not be serving him well. Still, it’ll be interesting to hear what Simon Roach has to say,’ said Fitzjohn, settling himself back in the passenger seat. ‘To tell you the truth, it’s the roses on the counter that worry me,’ he continued. ‘Either it’s a disturbing coincidence that a secret admirer decided to leave Ms Mowbray flowers on this particular morning or they’re from our killer in which case she may be in danger.’
‘Or she had something to do with Greenwood’s death and she sees the flowers as a way of deflecting suspicion from herself,’ replied Betts.
‘That’s a good point and it's a possibility we have to consider,’ said Fitzjohn as they crossed the harbour bridge onto the north side of the city. As they did so, the two men fell into silence as Betts manoeuvred his way through the traffic. When they reached Cremorne, he slowed down before he pulled over in front of a Federation style house, its front garden enclosed behind a white wooden fence where geraniums and rose bushes had entangled themselves between the palings. Fitzjohn swept an admiring glance over the garden as they walked to the front door where he rang the bell. Presently, the door opened to reveal a tall, slightly built man with curly dark brown hair, wearing a turtleneck sweater and jeans.
‘Mr Roach?’ said Fitzjohn, stepping forward.
‘Yes. I’m Simon Roach. And you are?’
‘We’re from the police, sir,’ replied Fitzjohn, showing his warrant card. ‘We’re conducting an investigation into the death of a man by the name of Howard Greenwood whom we understand you were acquainted.’
‘I was, yes. For the past eighteen months, Howard has played the lead role in a play I wrote some time ago. My agent phoned about an hour ago to tell me he died last night at the theatre. I’m finding it difficult to believe, particularly since I attended a party Howard hosted after the show.’
‘So we understand and that's why we’d like to speak to you. May we come in?’
‘Yes, of course, come through, gentlemen.’ Roach stepped back from the door before leading the way along a wide hall, the aged oak floor boards creaking under their weight. The warmth emanating from a log fire in the living room met them as they entered. ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable,’ he said, gesturing to the leather armchairs that encircled the fireplace. ‘On cold, wet days such as this, I like to have a fire burning while I work.’ As he spoke he looked towards his desk set in the bay window. ‘Now, how can I help?’ he asked, joining them by the fire.
‘With regard to the party you attended last night, how did Howard Greenwood seem at the time?’ asked Fitzjohn as he settled himself into one of the leather armchairs.
‘I think he was like all of us, saddened by the imminent closer of the theatre but other than that, he appeared his usual self. You have to understand, Chief Inspector, Howard was a rather sober fellow. He was never the life of any party. Even so, he was pleasant enough because I’m sure he felt that, as the leading man, it was his responsibility to offer the cast some sort of farewell get-together.’
‘Did you get on well with him?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘To be honest, I can’t say I did. At least not since the death of his wife, Marsha. Do you know about that?’
‘We do,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We understand she died during a party at their home some time ago. Were you there at the time?’
‘I was,’ replied Simon. ‘Such a tragic thing to happen. She was a talented actress. And it begs belief how Howard carried on in the role without her. I could never understand why he persisted be
cause his grief did cause problems in his interactions with the other actors. Disharmony is a lethal ingredient when you’re putting on a production.’
‘No doubt,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘And with that in mind, are you aware of anyone who was particularly affected by Mr Greenwood’s unfortunate behaviour?’ As Simon did not respond to the question, Fitzjohn quickly added, ‘No matter how insignificant it may seem.’
‘Well, I don't know if it was a result of his grief, but he did have a particular dislike for a woman by the name of Dolores Madden. She worked at the Adelphi as the costume director. They clashed constantly so I’m told. He believed her to be incompetent to the point of asking the theatre management to have her replaced.’ As he spoke, Simon rose from his chair and, taking the poker, tended to the logs in the fire. ‘She remained on staff, however, so I daresay his request fell on deaf ears.’
‘I see. Anything else?’ asked Fitzjohn.
Roach thought for a moment before he said, ‘Well, I may be mistaken, of course, but on a personal front I think Howard had been going through a bit of a rough patch with his brother and knowing Leo, I can only imagine it had something to do with money. I say that because of the odd comments he had made over the years of our acquaintance. It seemed to me that his brother leaned heavily on him.’
‘I see,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘What time did you leave the party, Mr Roach?’
‘I think it was around twelve-thirty.’
‘Were you the first to leave?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘That’s hard to say in the crush of that small dressing room.’
‘That being so, can you remember who remained?’
‘There were quite a few members of the cast still there and I can’t be certain but Howard’s brother, Leo, might have been there also.’
‘Can you name the cast members?’
‘I’m afraid I wasn’t taking that much notice although I think I saw Madelaine Wells in the laneway as I left the building. She played the leading female role opposite Howard.’
‘Well, I think that’s about all for now,’ said Fitzjohn, getting to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘Not at all, Chief Inspector,’ replied Simon as he led the way back to the front door. ‘I just hope I’ve been of some help.’
‘Everything helps in some way,’ said Fitzjohn with a quick smile. ‘We’ll be in touch if we find we have any more questions. Oh, there is one thing. When you left the theatre did you come straight home?’
‘Yes. I arrived home at about a quarter past one this morning.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘I doubt it. I live here alone.’
***
‘Well, according to Simon Roach, Leo Greenwood might still have been at the party at around twelve-thirty,’ said Betts as they emerged from the house. ‘One of them is mistaken or lying.’
‘It’s possible but Greenwood also told us that he said goodbye to Stephanie Mowbray on his way out of the dressing room and if she is to be believed, she’d already left the theatre,’ Fitzjohn replied buffeted by the wind as he climbed into the passenger seat of the car. ‘What’s also interesting is the fact that both Mowbray and Roach were at the Christmas party where Marsha Greenwood died. It tends to give weight to a notion that one or both of them could be involved in Howard Greenwood’s death, doesn’t it? After all, neither have alibis. Either one could have snuck back into the theatre until everyone had left.’
‘I can see that they both had the opportunity but there’s still motive to consider and the means,’ said Betts. ‘After all, Charles Conroy hasn’t come up with a murder weapon yet?’
‘Mmm. Add them both to our background checks, Betts, as well as that cast member Simon Roach mentioned.’
‘Madelaine Wells?’
‘Yes. We’ll speak to her next but for now, let’s get to the station. We have to organise a management meeting as soon as possible.’
‘I spoke to Williams earlier, sir, while you were in the morgue. He should have it all set up by the time we arrive.’
CHAPTER 6
F
itzjohn and Betts walked into the station to be met by the duty officer who looked at Betts questionably. However, it was Fitzjohn, eager to impede further speculation relating to his presumed relationship with Peta Ashby, who addressed the sergeant. ‘Good morning, Sergeant. You’re just the man I want to see.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ replied the duty officer, his eyes darting back in Betts’ direction.
‘You don't need to look at Betts because I can answer your question,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘You lost the bet. Chief Superintendent Ashby could not be found at my home. Consequently, I’m sure you’ll see to it that those who did make money on your little venture will donate it to the station’s charity fund. It won’t make you popular, but it will ensure you have been instrumental in doing something worthwhile with your time.’ As the duty officer’s face reddened, Fitzjohn gave a quick smile, turned and carried on to his office but not without noticing the shrug given to the duty officer by Betts.
***
Satisfied he had got his point across, Fitzjohn walked into his office and placed his briefcase on his desk but as he sat down, he looked up to see Peta Ashby in the doorway.
‘Good afternoon, Fitzjohn,’ she said with a warm smile that somewhat softened the embodiment of officialdom her uniformed attire presented.
‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ replied Fitzjohn, scrambling to his feet and at the same time endeavouring to suppress the feeling of attraction that welled up inside him. In a flash, the wager that had involved them both crossed his mind. Should he mention it to her? he asked himself as he offered her a chair. Would it serve any purpose, especially since he had decided not to pursue their friendship further than that of chance meetings at the Charlotte Café? Granted there was no rule against fraternisation in the department, but it could lead to difficulties demonstrated by this morning's performance. It was clear that tongues had wagged so obviously his feelings toward the chief superintendent were not as discrete as he may have wished. He had to make sure that didn’t happen again.
‘How did everything go at the crime scene this morning?’ asked Peta as she settled herself into a chair.
‘Interesting to say the least,’ said Fitzjohn, the long-stemmed red roses coming to mind once again. ‘I’ll be holding a management meeting on the details in a few minutes.’
‘In that case, I’ll attend.’ Peta started to get up but hesitated.
‘Is there something else, ma’am?’
‘No, it can wait until later.’ As she spoke, Betts appeared in the doorway. ‘Hello, Sergeant,’ she said with a smile.
‘Ma’am.’ As the chief superintendent disappeared through the doorway Betts sighed. ‘She never fails to notice me and say hello. It makes me feel visible.’
From where he stood behind his desk, Fitzjohn craned his neck upwards. ‘Believe me, Betts, with your height you’re impossible to miss.’
***
Fitzjohn entered the incident room to the low hum of voices that dissipated as he joined Betts next to the whiteboard.
‘Good afternoon all,’ he said, adjusting his wire-framed glasses and casting his eye over the plain-clothed and uniformed officers gathered before him. As he did so, the door at the rear of the room opened and Peta walked in unobtrusively standing against the back wall. Nevertheless, it did not pass Fitzjohn’s notice that several of those present turned and nudged each other which only reinforced his earlier decision. ‘We have what I think will be a particularly complex investigation so plenty of work for you all to get involved in,’ he continued before turning to the whiteboard.
‘The victim is a fifty-nine-year-old male by the name of Howard Greenwood. You might recognise the name as he was a well-known thespian.’ A number of blank faces looked back at him. ‘In other words, he was an actor. His body was found at approximately nine-forty this morning in his dressing room at the Adelphi Theatre where a party had been h
eld the previous evening. The post mortem has confirmed his death occurred at approximately one a.m. Cause of death blunt force trauma. The weapon used, however, has not as yet been identified. To help us in that regard, the forensic pathologist has detected minute traces of plastic in the wound site here on the temple.’ Fitzjohn pointed to a photograph of the victim displayed on the whiteboard. ‘As we speak forensics are conducting an analysis in order to ascertain the type of plastic involved. Hopefully, the result will assist us in finding the murder weapon. As you can see, a number of persons of interest have been identified,’ he continued, drawing attention to a list of names. 'These include members of the cast who attended the party along with three invited guests. The victim’s brother, Leo Greenwood, Stephanie Mowbray, a dress designer of some note and Simon Roach, a playwright and author of the play being performed. I would like to add, however, that it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the killer was not amongst those at the party but waited elsewhere in the theatre until an opportunity arose.’
‘What about motive for the killing, sir?’ asked one of the young constables.
‘Although it appears there was friction between the victim and his fellow actors, as yet, a motive has not been established. Any more questions?’ Fitzjohn asked looking around the room. When silence prevailed he said, ‘Right, we’ll start with the usual background and telephone checks and continue our search for the murder weapon at the theatre. This will be made easier by the fact that the theatre has now been closed until its demolition in the near future. DS Betts will hand out your assignments before you leave. Thank you all and good luck.’
Rose Scented Murder Page 3
