The Celtic Dagger (11 page)

'Mmm.'

James shook his head.  'I wish I'd known.  I couldn't understand him at the time.'

A moment of silence followed.  'Anyway, I know you and Edwina will have a great weekend.  Are you driving up?'

'Yes, and no.  I'm going by train on Friday morning and Edwina's driving up in the afternoon after she closes the gallery.'

'Then I'll ring Tom Gregory and have him meet you at Blackheath station.  He's our neighbour.  He keeps an eye on the place.'

CHAPTER 17

James arrived home tired and restless.  He pulled his overcoat off, threw it across the banister and walked into the kitchen to find a sink full of unwashed dishes.  The fridge revealed a drop of milk in the bottom of a carton and a plastic bowl, its contents speckled with green mould.  He groaned and ran his hand across the back of his neck.  Seconds later, the telephone rang.

'James Wearing.'

'Oh, James, I'm glad I've been able to reach you.'

James sensed the urgency in Edwina's voice.  'What is it?'

'I'd arranged to leave for Blackheath late this afternoon, but this morning's storm has caused the gallery to flood.  I'll have to stay and clean up.  The problem is contacting Ashley.  I've telephoned Cragleigh and she doesn't answer.  I've also tried her mobile with no luck.  I didn't think Cragleigh was in a black spot.'

'It isn't.'  James tried to keep any hint of uneasiness out of his voice.  'But with the weather the way it is today, there could be a problem with the mobile phone tower.'

'Oh, of course.  I hadn't thought of that.  Well, I wonder if you could keep trying to reach her, James.  She'll wonder where I've got to.  Let her know that with any luck, I'll be there sometime tomorrow morning.'  Edwina paused.  'I'm sure we can salvage, at least, part of the weekend.'

'Don't worry.  I'll let her know.'  James hesitated.  'Can I do anything to help?'

'No, my dear.  I have loads of help, I assure you.'

Moments later, James dialled Cragleigh's number.  After listening to the phone ring out, he rang Nick Ellis at the inn.

‘Nick, it’s James.  Have you a room available for the weekend?  I’d like to get away from here for a couple of days.’

‘Of course.  At this time of year, you can take your pick.  But why my bed and breakfast?  Why not Cragleigh?  Let me guess.  You want to sample Mrs Thompson’s fine cuisine.’

James tried to hide the disquiet he felt and looked back into the open fridge.  ‘Yes, and the fact I have someone staying at Cragleigh.’

‘Oh?’

‘Mmm.  One of my postgraduate students.’

‘Female?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

Nick laughed.  ‘Thought so.  I’ve never known you to drive up here at this hour.’  He paused.  ‘Anyway, joking aside, when can we expect you?’

‘A couple of hours, I expect.’

James hung up the phone.  Nick was right.  He had never started out for Blackheath this late in the day, but as his concern for Ashley grew, he couldn't get her out of his mind.

After packing an overnight bag, he grabbed a jacket and torch from the hall closet and left.  Outside, he climbed into his car, started the engine and turned the heater on.  Within minutes, it took the edge off the sharp crispness in the air.  He drove through the city streets and emerged into the countryside, its landscape mottled with shadows cast by the moon.  As he did so, his thoughts turned again to Ashley and their conversation over the telephone the night before, her enthusiasm about getting away for the weekend evident.

It was not until he was well into the Blue Mountains that the first flakes of snow hit the windscreen, and by the time he reached Blackheath, two hours after he left Sydney, it was blowing horizontally across the headlights, making visibility minimal.  James parked in front of the inn, grabbed his bag and climbed out into a biting wind.  The front door opened as he approached and Eileen Thompson appeared.  A short, stocky woman in his late sixties and a village local, she had come to work as Nick’s housekeeper when his military career ended.

‘Nicholas told me to expect you, James.'  Come in where it’s warm.’  James stepped inside the nineteenth-century house, its walls echoing the past.  ‘He's gone out to help with a fallen tree.  There’s a severe weather warning for the area so, it’s a good thing you got here when you did.  We haven't had this much snow for years.'

James put his bag down, pulled off his coat and hung it on the coat stand.  ‘Do you mind if I use the phone, Mrs Thompson?  I want to phone Cragleigh and my mobile seems to have lost its signal.'

‘No, go right ahead.  Nicholas said you have a student out there.  She might appreciate a call, especially with this storm brewing.’

As Eileen Thompson bustled off to the kitchen, James dialled Cragleigh’s number without any response.  Putting the receiver down, he walked along the hall to the kitchen, his anxiety growing.  Eileen Thompson turned as he entered.

‘That was quick.’

‘I can’t get through.  There must be a problem with the line.'

‘It’s no wonder with this howling gale.’

‘I think I’ll drive out there.’

‘Is that wise in this weather?’

‘I have to make sure she’s all right, Mrs Thompson.’

‘Well, drink this before you go.’  Eileen Thompson handed James a steaming mug of tea.’

As James left the shelter of Blackheath, the road disappeared under a mantle of snow, the trees that lined its sides his only guide.  He stared ahead, mesmerized by the snow that crossed his field of vision, and watched for the entrance to Cragleigh.  When it appeared on his left, he pumped the brakes.  The steering wheel whirled and the car’s back end spun out to the right before the wheels caught the gravel on the drive.  He continued on following the winding driveway bordered by oak trees, their bare limbs creaking in the wind.  When he rounded the last bend, the house loomed ahead, its darkened stone edifice illumined by the headlights.

Pulling his coat collar up, James grabbed the torch and climbed out into the wind, his senses deadened by the cold.  As he approached, a shutter hanging from its remaining hinge, banged against the house.  Another lay on the porch.  James's heart quickened as he stepped over it to the open front door, it’s stained glass window broken.  Walking into the oak panelled hall, now open to the elements, he flicked the light switch with no response.  In the darkness, his unease grew as he edged his way along the passage toward the kitchen.  Entering, he flashed the torch across the room.  A coffee mug sat on the large table in the centre, another lay broken on the floor, its contents spilt.  Porcelain crunched under his shoes as he walked around the table to where a chair lay on its side, the kettle on the floor beside it.  He put his hand on the Aga, its warmth still evident.  It was then he caught sight of a trail of blood across the floor that led him to the unlatched back door.

James’s head reeled as he pulled the door open and stepped out into the courtyard, where a thin layer of snow covered the ground.  He raised the torch and flashed it out across the yard.  As he did so, he glimpsed the outline of a car, its surface shimmering with ice.  He lunged toward it, but his foot caught in something hidden beneath the snow, and he fell forward.  Now on his knees, he turned to see an arm protruding through the snow next to his leg.  ‘Ashley!’  Frantic, he scraped at the snow to see a face.  ‘Tristan?  My God!’  Pulling his glove off with his teeth, he put his fingers on Tristan’s neck.  No pulse.  Seconds passed.  James remained hunched over, unable to move, oblivious to the piercing cold before he began scraping away the snow that encased the man.  When his hand touched something hard, he lifted the torch, its light revealing the handle of a knife protruding from Tristan’s back.  Stunned, James sat back on his haunches and wiped the sleet from his eyes before getting to his feet and stumbling back to the house.

Once inside, he made his way upstairs.  In the torch light, he could see Ashley’s suitcase on a chair in one of the bedrooms and her clothes hanging in the wardrobe.  It was then he glimpsed her wallet and mobile phone on the bed cover.  Beads of sweat poured from his face in the frigid air.  He spun around and ran back down the staircase, stumbling as he went.  In the hall, he flung the library doors open, his torch flashing across the familiar room.  Its air of cloistered stillness undisturbed by the raging storm beyond its windows.

As his anxiety grew, he crossed the hall and burst into the sitting room, the white sheets covering the furniture billowing with the gust of cold air that rushed past him.  His torch danced across the room, the sound of the shutter moving back and forth across the window lending an eerie feel.  His heart pounding, he turned and made his way out to his car and drove back down the driveway and out onto the road toward Tom Gregory's house.

No light penetrated the curtains of Tom’s cottage as James approached, and there was no sign of his truck.  Even so, James stopped the car and climbed out.  He hammered on the front door and waited.  When no sound came from within, he turned the knob and watched the door swing open.  James stepped inside and shouted.  ‘Tom.  Anyone here?’  Putting his head around the living room door, he could see Tom's pipe on the table next to his chair.  In the kitchen, at the rear of the cottage, a plate of untouched food sat on the table, a mug of coffee beside it.  James retraced his steps, slamming the front door behind him.  He climbed into the car and drove back onto the highway in the direction of Blackheath, driving more from memory than sight because the road was now concealed in snow.

CHAPTER 18

Fitzjohn sat back in his chair and threw his pen down, his eyes taking in the date on his desk calendar.  A year since Edith’s death.  A day he wished to be consumed by work.  Impatiently, he looked at his watch.  Where was Betts?  He started to get up from his chair when the door opened.

‘Ah, Betts.  At last.’

Betts, his face flushed from the cold outside, closed the door behind him.  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, sir.  My plane was delayed due to the fog.’  He undid his overcoat while Fitzjohn sat back, an expectant look on his face.

‘How did you get on?’

‘Well, sir.  Pamela Marquis confirmed that this is the Simon Rhodes she knew.’  Betts sat down and pulled the photograph of Rhodes from his pocket.  He handed it to Fitzjohn.  ‘She said they separated four years ago, although she has no idea where he went after that.  Apparently, Rhodes took her for everything she had invested and left her with a mountain of debt.’

‘It sounds as though he creates havoc for whomever he comes into contact with, Betts.  Do you think she’d be willing to stand up in court?’

‘I don’t know, sir.  The woman’s terrified of coming into contact with Rhodes again.’

'Mmm.  One could hardly blame her.  Very well.  Let's deal with first things first.  We'll pay Simon Rhodes a visit.’  Fitzjohn half smiled.  ‘See if we can hit a nerve or two.’

Fitzjohn and Betts made their way through the hubbub of the station and out to their car.

As Fitzjohn settled himself into a seat, Betts pulled away from the curb.  'Any luck in locating Julian Gould?'

'No, sir, but I did manage to find out something about the man he claims ran Louise Wearing down.  His name was Eric Marsh.  A petty criminal and, as far as I can make out, nothing to link him to Simon Rhodes.'

'That's unfortunate.'

When Fitzjohn and Betts arrived on Cross Street in Double Bay, they parked across the street from ‘Rhodes Antiques’.  ‘Looks like this is the place, Betts.’

On entering the premises, they found themselves in a large showroom, the only sound, the ticking of clocks.  Fitzjohn took in a group of paintings on the wall next to the front door.

Betts looked around and in a whispered voice said, ‘I don’t think I could afford to shop here, sir.’

‘I doubt I could, Betts.’

As he spoke, Fitzjohn saw Simon Rhodes emerge from a doorway toward the back of the room, a smile on his face.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.  This is a surprise.’

‘Good morning, Mr Rhodes.  We tried your office in North Sydney, but your receptionist said we might find you here.  We have a few questions we’d like to ask, if we may.’

‘Of course.’  Simon looked at his watch.  ‘Although I have a council meeting in an hour from now.’

‘In that case, we’ll endeavour to not keep you too long, Mr Rhodes.’

Simon Rhodes led the way to a long mahogany dining table in the centre of the room.

‘I didn’t realise you were a councillor,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘Yes.  Woollahra Municipal Council.  I have been since I settled back in Sydney and came to live in Double Bay.  I find it rewarding to be involved in the community in some small way.’  Simon paused.  ‘Although I must say, with two businesses to run, it does tend to leave me with little time to spare.’  His sharp features cracked into a slight smile.

‘I can imagine.’  Fitzjohn undid the buttons on his overcoat and sat down.  ‘I was surprised to hear you were in the antiques business.  It must require a certain amount of expertise.’

‘It does but it’s something one acquires over a long period of time.  Antiques have always held a fascination for me, Chief Inspector.’  Simon turned and surveyed the room.  ‘I believe we have one of the most comprehensive collections of 18
th
century Georgian and early 19
th
century Regency furniture in Sydney.’  Fitzjohn nodded.  ‘Interested in antiques, Chief Inspector?’

‘I’m afraid my work keeps me far too involved, Mr Rhodes.’

Fitzjohn sat back.  Betts took out his note pad and pen.  ‘Well, perhaps we should begin, so as not to make you late for your meeting.’  Fitzjohn clasped his hands together.  ‘In our last interview, we spoke of your visit to Alex Wearing on the afternoon before his death.  I believe you said he’d asked you to see him regarding financial advice.’

‘That’s right.’  Simon Rhodes brushed lint from his trouser leg.  ‘I think we’ve been over this before, Chief Inspector.’

‘We have, but I don’t believe we established how well you and Alex Wearing knew each other.  I understand that you had called on Alex Wearing on a number of other occasions.  Was that also regarding financial advice?’

Simon Rhodes shifted in his chair.  ‘No.  Alex and I had been acquaintances since university days.  We had an interest in common, you see.  Antiques.  Although, Alex’s main passion was for porcelain.  You will no doubt have noticed his fine collection at his home.’  Fitzjohn nodded.  ‘Many of the pieces, I was fortunate enough to find for him in different parts of the country.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Oh, all over, Chief Inspector.’

‘Melbourne, I suppose would be a very good source.  I understand you lived there until four years ago when you returned to Sydney.’

Simon Rhodes frowned.  ‘You must be mistaken, Chief Inspector.  I’ve never lived in Melbourne.  I’ve lived in Brisbane for the past twenty years or so and only returned to Sydney in the last few months.’

Fitzjohn nodded.  ‘I see.’

After a pause, he asked, ‘Do you know a woman by the name of Pamela Marquis?’

‘No.’  He looked into Fitzjohn’s fixed gaze.  ‘And I can’t say the name’s familiar.’

‘What about a man by the name of Robert Manning?’

‘Manning.  Yes.  We did meet on one occasion.  I believe he worked for Alex Wearing’s publisher.’

‘That’s the only time you met?’

‘Yes.  Why, Chief Inspector?’

‘Just following our normal enquiries into anyone who came into contact with the victim.’

‘Of course.’

Fitzjohn looked at his watch.  ‘Well, I think we’ll leave it there for now, Mr Rhodes.  We’ll be in touch if we think of anything else.’

Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from Rhodes Antiques and crossed the street to their car.  Fitzjohn pulled his seat belt across his rotund shape while Betts turned the ignition.

‘Well, Betts, what do you think of our friend, Simon Rhodes?’

‘I don’t know what to think, sir.  I doubt we hit any nerves.  In fact, he comes across as a genuine, community-minded person.  One can’t help but get carried away with his enthusiasm.’

‘Ah, but there lies his gift, Betts.  To have you see and believe whatever he wishes.’  Fitzjohn looked across at Rhodes Antiques as the car pulled away from the curb.  ‘Yes, he’s good.  I’ll give him that.  The only time I saw a distinct shift in his confidence was when I mentioned Pamela Marquis.’