Rose Scented Murder

by Jill Paterson

  CHAPTER 13

  W eary from the long day, Fitzjohn and Betts drove in silence to the sound of the rain and the repetitious rhythm of the wiper blades on the windscreen. ‘If you’d told me we’d be here at the theatre again tonight to attend another homicide, I wouldn’t have believed you,’ said Fitzjohn as Betts turned into the laneway. ‘Do we know who the victim is?’

  ‘No, sir. Also, there’s a possibility that there’s more than one homicide because, apparently, there was some confusion in the mind of the person who reported the crime. Consequently, the dispatcher wasn’t able to be clear on the details.’ Betts pulled over to the side of the laneway behind a number of other police vehicles.

  ‘Who reported the crime?’

  ‘The demolition team’s foreman, sir.’

  ‘Well, hopefully, he’ll be able to shed light on what happened here tonight,’ said Fitzjohn as they left the car and dodged the puddles, sprinting towards the stage door. After showing their warrant cards to the constable on duty, they entered the building, its atmosphere now humming with activity.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Evening, Sergeant,’ replied Fitzjohn, turning to see an officer standing behind the door. ‘Which way is the crime scene?’

  ‘There are two, sir. The first straight ahead to the end of the hallway and turn right. You’ll find the pathologist there attending to the body.’

  ‘And the second?’ asked Fitzjohn, his spirits plummeting.

  The second is further along, sir, although the victim is being transported to St. Vincent’s Hospital as we speak.’

  ‘Thank heaven for small mercies,’ mumbled Fitzjohn as he and Betts carried on, deeper into the theatre. When they reached the end of the hallway and turned to the right, Fitzjohn hesitated as his gaze was attracted to the light shining from what he knew to be the costume department. With a sense of foreboding, he moved ahead to be met with the gruesome scene of Dolores Madden’s blood soaked body.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Charles Conroy, looking up, his face drawn with fatigue. ‘We have more roses.’

  ‘So it seems,’ replied Fitzjohn as he and Betts joined Charles next to the body. ‘Which might suggest we’re dealing with the same killer if it weren’t for the fact this woman was stabbed.’

  ‘And not just once,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve recorded three wounds, one severing the aorta, the largest artery in the body. Let’s just say she would have died quickly.’

  ‘Can you estimate time of death?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I’d say between eight and ten o’clock this evening.’

  Fitzjohn looked at Betts, his face white. ‘Betts, find the foreman who reported the crimes this evening and have a word with him, would you, please?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Other than the roses, do you see any other similarities to Howard Greenwood’s killing?’ he asked, turning back to Charles.

  ‘Only that, as in the Greenwood murder, she doesn’t appear to have put up a struggle,’ replied Charles, looking down at the body, ‘so it indicates she knew her assailant. Of course, there is the possibility that something might come to light during the post mortem that suggests otherwise. This isn’t the only crime scene, however, as I’m sure you’re aware. Another woman was found unconscious in the wings. She sustained a head injury and is clinging to life. I’d say it’s touch and go whether she survives.’

  ‘Fleeing from whoever did this, no doubt,’ said Fitzjohn as he looked down at Dolores’s body and shuddered. ‘Do you have any idea who the other woman is?’ he continued.

  ‘I believe her name is Parsons.’

  ‘Constance Parsons?’ Fitzjohn winced and passed Charles an agonising look.

  ‘Yes, that’s her given name. Constance. Have you met her through your investigation into Greenwood’s death?’

  ‘Yes, her connection being that she was ghost writing his memoir. The question is, why was she here?’

  ***

  Fitzjohn left Charles and retraced his steps through the maze of passageways in search of his young sergeant whom he found in a room some distance away. As he entered, Betts turned around.

  ‘This is where the foreman found the other victim, sir. No where near the costume department so it’s difficult to say whether she witnessed Dolores Madden’s murder. The good news is the foreman arrived in time. She’s alive.’

  ‘So Charles said,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘What I can’t understand is why she was here in the theatre in the first place. The injured woman is Constance Parsons.’ Betts stared at Fitzjohn. ‘Charles seems to think it’s touch and go as to whether she’ll make it.’ Fitzjohn fell silent. ‘I should have done more to protect her.’

  ‘You weren’t to know she’d come here tonight, sir,’ replied Betts.

  ‘Even so, I should have made her more aware of the danger she was in and I didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t want to frighten her more than she already was, sir.’

  ‘That’s true, but there is a certain balance you need to reach between the two, and in this case, I didn’t find it, Betts.’ Fitzjohn looked around the dimly lit room filled with discarded chairs.

  ‘The only explanation I can think of as to why she was found here is that she became disorientated while she ran away from whoever attacked her,’ said Betts.

  ‘It’s possible,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘This place is a maze at the best of times. Under those circumstances I should imagine it’d be impossible to navigate. I think we have two scenarios to look at. The first that Ms Parsons witnessed the murder and ran for her life and lost her way. The second, that the murder happened before or after she was attacked, and she saw nothing. But as I said, it puzzles me why she was here.’

  ‘She could have been set up, sir. Maybe they both were.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘because I think you’ll agree that when we left here earlier today, we were both under the impression that Dolores Madden, along with the rest of the crew, had left the building. And Constance Parsons certainly had no reason to come here.’

  ‘If she doesn’t survive, we may never know what really happened,’ said Betts. ‘She was unconscious when the foreman found her. In fact, he thought she was dead.’

  ‘Did he find Dolores Madden also?’

  ‘No. She was discovered by the police officers who attended the call out,’

  ‘Let’s get to the hospital and see how Ms Parsons is,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ***

  It was close to one a.m., when the two officers arrived at St Vincent’s Hospital and emerged from the elevator into the Intensive Care Unit. Fitzjohn approached the nurses' station where a man in his mid-fifties stood talking to a nurse.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re from the police,’ said Fitzjohn, holding up his warrant card and introducing himself and Betts. ‘We’re here to inquire about a woman by the name of Constance Parsons whom, we understand, was admitted this evening.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I’m Dr Williamson, her attending physician, Chief Inspector. I’m afraid, at this stage, there’s little I can tell you. She hasn’t regained consciousness after suffering blunt force trauma to the right side of her skull. She’s in a comatose state, I’m afraid. We’re doing everything we can for her but to be honest, it doesn’t look hopeful, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Fitzjohn as Constance Parsons' effervescent and cheerful nature, when they had met, came to mind. ‘We’ll come back in the morning, doctor. Hopefully, you’ll have some positive news for us.’

  As the doctor returned to the desk and resumed his conversation with the nurse, Fitzjohn looked at his watch. ‘We can’t do anything more tonight, Betts. Let’s call it a day and continue on in the morning.’

  ‘I have my examination first thing in the morning, sir,’ said Betts as they re-entered the elevator. ‘For placement on the promotion list.’

  ‘Ah, right. So you do. Thanks for reminding me.’

 
‘I thought it might be a good opportunity for Smithers to step in for a day,’ Betts continued. ‘He’s nothing but keen.’

  ‘That’s what we need,’ said Fitzjohn although his thoughts went to Grieg and his conversation with Peta Ashby concerning Smithers. Was Smithers genuinely keen or was this the opportunity he and Grieg had been waiting for? ‘At least he’ll have the opportunity he wants because I plan to interview the theatre’s security guard in the morning as well as attending a search of Dolores Madden’s home.’

  ‘Will you also be speaking to Madelaine Wells?’ asked Betts as they walked out of the hospital into the darkness.

  ‘No. You and I will do that together, after your examination.’

  CHAPTER 14

  A fter a restless night of concern for Constance Parsons' welfare, Fitzjohn rose early and while his sister Meg slept, he crept downstairs anxious to take advantage of the stillness he found the pre-dawn offered. He hesitated as he emerged from the house into the early morning light and took in the air, made fresh from the rain during the night. As he stepped off the porch to make his way down the garden path, he glanced over the hedge into Rhonda Butler’s garden, curious to see the half-built greenhouse and whether she had heeded his advice concerning the cannabis seedlings. With her garden still in shadow, however, it would have to wait until after he had tended his orchids.

  The hinges on his glass door of the greenhouse creaked as it swung open emitting a rush of warm, humid air coupled with a strong earthy smell. Closing the door behind him, he switched on the light and gave an involuntary sigh as the shadowy interior was transformed into a sea of colour. His thoughts, however, would not still as he tended each plant. His concern was for Constance Parsons, thrust by circumstance into the murky world of crime and now fighting for her life. Would she survive?

  This thought, tinged by guilt, stayed with him until his attention was taken by the sun glinting through the trees, its warmth radiating onto the glass roof and promising a fine day. With this in mind, he opened the air vents and, satisfied that all was well, emerged into the fresh air and started back through the garden to the house. As he made his way, he glanced again over the hedge only to find Rhonda’s sister, Adele Carter, peering at him with a wide smile. Wearing a garish flowing gown and with her wavy greyish hair swept up and tied with a bright red scarf, his thoughts went back to the dire consequences of the last time she had visited her sister.

  ‘Mr Fitzjohn. How are you?’ she yelled out. ‘You remember me, don’t you?’

  ‘I do indeed, Ms Carter.’

  ‘Now, now, remember what I told you the last time I was here. My friends call me Blossom and so must you. Still looking after those orchids, I see,’ she added, her gaze going to the greenhouse. ‘I seem to remember you promised to show them to me. Before events more or less took over, that is,’ she added with a chuckle.

  Fitzjohn cringed not only at the mention of taking Blossom on a tour of his greenhouse but the “event” as she put it. A fire that had all but destroyed Rhonda’s home, started, he suspected, by Blossom falling asleep while smoking a cigarette. Or so it had been thought at the time. Fitzjohn, however, remained in doubt as to the cigarette’s specific content, convinced that Blossom preferred cannabis. Which brings the question as to what she thinks of Rhonda’s choice of plants, he said to himself. Surely she must be aware it’s marijuana.

  Deciding to ignore mention of a tour, Fitzjohn said, ‘Here on holiday are you?’ as he looked past Blossom to the garden bed in question.’

  ‘Yes, just for a few days,’ replied Blossom, following Fitzjohn’s gaze before moving to block his view.

  ‘In that case, perhaps I can enlist your help in a matter concerning your sister,’ he said.

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘It concerns the marijuana she’s cultivating in that garden bed.’

  ‘Marijuana?’ Blossom swung around. ‘And I thought you knew all about gardening. You’re mistaken, Mr Fitzjohn. They’re seedlings for her nephew’s school project. Flowers of some description.’

  ‘It’s true there are a few geranium seedlings planted,’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘but if you look a little closer, I believe you’ll see there are marijuana seedlings dispersed amongst them. No doubt waiting to be transferred to that new greenhouse once it’s finished.’

  ‘That can’t be right. Rhonda’s too strait-laced to grow pot,’ said Blossom with a snicker.

  ‘Other than the geraniums, I’m sure she has no idea what she’s growing, Ms Carter, but I have it on good authority that the said seedlings are definitely marijuana. Furthermore, I’ve had one of my officers consult the headmaster at her nephew’s school and there isn’t a horticultural school project. Your sister’s nephew is using her and in a dangerous way because, as you’re no doubt aware, there is a hefty penalty, perhaps jail time, for growing an illicit drug, not to mention being complicit in its ongoing sale.’

  ‘But Rhonda’s an upstanding, honest citizen,’ replied Blossom.

  ‘Even so, the law will apply, so please try to convince her to get rid of the plants immediately. Otherwise, the drug squad will more than likely be her next visitors and you may find yourself charged with being an accessory.’

  ‘You’re not serious,’ said Blossom, a horrified look on her face.

  ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life.’ As he spoke, Fitzjohn heard the side gate open and turned to see Constable Smithers, his expressionless pale grey eyes and insipid countenance providing no hint of his belligerent temperament beneath.

  ***

  ‘Ah, good morning, Smithers,’ said Fitzjohn as a sense of vigilance took hold. ‘I understand we’re working together today but you’re far earlier than I expected. If you wait in the car, I’ll be with you shortly.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ replied Smithers, his attention moving to Blossom. As their eyes met, she put her cigarette to her lips and inhaled, releasing several rings of smoke before she turned and disappeared into the house. ‘I didn’t wish to interrupt but is there trouble with your neighbour, sir?’

  ‘Merely a domestic matter, Smithers. Nothing to worry yourself about,’ replied Fitzjohn as he looked into Smithers’ smarmy face.

  ***

  Reluctantly facing a day with Smithers, Fitzjohn left his cottage and made his way to the waiting car. ‘I assume DS Betts has brought you up to speed concerning the murder of Dolores Madden and the attack on Constance Parsons at the Adelphi Theatre last night,’ he said, sliding into the passenger seat.

  ‘He has, sir.’

  ‘Good. So you’re aware that DS Betts and I were in attendance at the theatre at the time the security guard, Gordon Bennett, prepared to secure the building in readiness for its demolition.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Is that where we’re headed now? To the theatre.’

  ‘No,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘There’s nothing more we can do there. I want to start the day by speaking to Mr Bennett in the hope he can shed light on how these two women came to be in the building. He lives in Roselle. We’ll make our way there now.’

  ***

  Smithers turned the car onto a narrow, tree-lined street before he pulled over to the curb in front of an old terrace house, its rusting iron lattice work and peeling paint providing a backdrop for the shutter that hung precariously by a single hinge on the edge of the front window.

  ‘Mr Bennett doesn’t appear to be particularly house proud,’ said Smithers as he ran a critical eye over the building and sniffed his disapproval as they approached the front door.

  Fitzjohn did not respond. Instead, he moved ahead of Smithers and knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately to reveal Gordon Bennett in bare feet and dressed in a pair of black track pants and an undershirt. He stared at the two officers and removed the cigarette that hung from his lower lip.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Bennett,’ said Fitzjohn amicably. ‘As you may remember, we last met at the Adelphi Theatre late yesterday afternoon. My sergeant and I left as you closed the build
ing in readiness for the demolition team’s arrival today.’

  ‘Of course I remember,’ replied Bennett with a degree of scepticism. ‘Why, is there a problem?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid there is. May we come in?’

  Bennett did not reply but moved back from the doorway and the two officers stepped inside. ‘Come through,’ he said, leading the way into a small living room, it’s bare wooden floor boards and sparse furnishings lending an uncomfortable feel. Bennett turned off the television and gestured to the sofa before stubbing out his cigarette into an ashtray already overflowing with butts. ‘So, what is the problem?’ he asked as he sat down in the only available chair.

  Ignoring Bennett’s question, Fitzjohn asked, ‘When we met prior to the theatre’s closure, you mentioned that I wasn’t the only last-minute visitor you’d had that day and that Simon Roach had also called in.’

  ‘That’s right, he did. He said he wanted to take photographs of the auditorium.’

  ‘Did you see him leave, Mr Bennett?’

  ‘No. Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, it does because I’m trying to find out who might have been in the theatre after it was finally locked up. Did you, by any chance, go back inside after Sergeant Betts and I left?’ Bennett did not respond. ‘Well?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bennett at last with a degree of hesitation. ‘I went back to get my jacket.’

  ‘I see. And you left the stage door unlocked while you went to retrieve it?’

  ‘Of course. I only planned to be there for a minute or two.’

  ‘And was that the case?’ Bennett shifted in his chair. ‘How long were you inside, Mr Bennett?’ asked Fitzjohn again, his gaze on Bennett intense. ‘Mr Bennett, as you know, I’m the investigating officer into the death of Howard Greenwood. I am now also the investigating officer into another homicide that occurred at the theatre last night.’