The Celtic Dagger (14 page)

‘I have it here, James.  According to my diary at the time, I was to meet Andrew Finlay in Sydney on 10 August 1983.  I know by the time we arrived in Sydney, it was just before 2am that morning, so it was on the tenth when I gave Alex the lift.'

James scribbled the date down on his notepad.  ‘That’s marvellous, Patrick.’

‘I hope it helps.  Let me know how things go.’

That same afternoon, James made his way to the State Reference Library Reading Room where past issues of the
Sydney Morning Herald
could be accessed on microfilm.  He located the reel that held the newspaper for 10 August 1983 and sat down at one of the machines.  As he spun the reel forward, a photograph of Rosemary’s car came into view.  He stared at the small picture of Rosemary in the inset, before reading the headline.

‘Fatal Crash, Woman Found Dead.’  The first paragraph read: ‘Rosemary Wentworth, student from the University of Sydney, was found late last night on an access road to the Pacific Highway outside Gosford, having been thrown from her vehicle.  It is thought speed caused the accident.’

James sat for a long time, staring at the screen.  It couldn't just be coincidence that Alex had been hitchhiking along the Pacific Highway the same night that Rosemary died.

A short time later, James left the Reading Room and made his way along Day Street to the police station.  He stood for a moment amid the flurry of activity, before seeing Sergeant Betts emerge from a doorway with a number of other officers.

Sergeant Betts smiled as he approached.  ‘Good afternoon, Dr Wearing.  Can I help you?'

‘I had hoped to have a word with Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.  He did say to contact him if anything came up, and it has.’

'I see.  Well, unfortunately, he's not in today but if you'd care to wait, I'll see what I can do.'

Sergeant Betts returned a few minutes later.  ‘I've spoken to the Chief Inspector, Dr Wearing, and he's asked if you can call around to his house.  He's in Birchgrove.  This is the address.'  Betts handed James a card.

James drove to the address through the cold but clear sunny afternoon.  He found Fitzjohn in the greenhouse at the bottom of his garden and he tapped lightly on the glass.

Fitzjohn looked around and smiled.

‘Dr Wearing, come in.'

'Please, call me James.'  Fitzjohn nodded.  James stepped inside to be met with a close, humid atmosphere, music filling the air.

'I won’t shake your hand,' said Fitzjohn.  'Bit grubby, at the moment.’  He switched off the CD player and turned back to the bench he had been working at where rows of potted orchids sat.  ‘Beautiful, don’t you think?’  He looked back toward James.  ‘I inherited their care from my late wife, Edith.  Actually, I must say I do enjoy looking after them.  Relaxing, I find.  Takes my mind off my work.’

James at once saw Fitzjohn in a different light.  Dressed in a pair of old trousers and a moth-eaten blue jumper, with his glasses balanced on top of his head, he looked the epitome of disorder.

‘Sergeant Betts said you’d be along.  We’ll go up to the house.’  Fitzjohn wiped the soil off his hands, closed the greenhouse door, and led the way through the garden.  Once inside, he gestured toward the conservatory.  ‘Make yourself at home.  I’ll make us some coffee.'

In the conservatory, James picked up a photograph on the table next to the window.  As he did so, Fitzjohn came into the room.  ‘That’s Edith and me not long after we arrived in Australia from Britain twenty years ago.'  Fitzjohn paused.  'It’s a year now since she passed away.’  Fitzjohn put two steaming mugs of coffee on a small round wicker table and sighed as he sat down.  ‘I still expect to see her in the kitchen when I come into the house.’  After taking a sip of his coffee, he looked expectantly at James.

‘I’m told you have news.’

‘Yes, I believe I might have found out why Simon blackmailed Alex.’

‘Oh?’

‘I spoke to Ashley Manning earlier today and what she said reminded me of something that happened years ago.’  James relayed his conversation with Ashley and his subsequent telephone call to Patrick Spender.  ‘I’ve just come from the State Reference Library.  Rosemary died when she was thrown from her car just off the Pacific Highway in the early hours of 10 August 1983.  I took a photocopy of the newspaper article.’  James took the clipping from his shirt pocket and handed it to Fitzjohn.  He recounted his conversation with Patrick Spender.

‘So you think your brother might have been in the car at the time of the accident?’

‘Well, it seems too much of a coincidence that Alex was out there hitchhiking on the same night.’

‘I agree.  But one might also ask why he would make a secret of it if he was in the car.  Unless, of course, he was driving at the time and he’d been drinking.  When he realised this young woman was dead, he panicked.’

‘I can’t imagine Alex panicking but, under those circumstances, he may have.’

Fitzjohn handed the clipping back to James.  ‘Where does Simon Rhodes come into this?’

‘Alex and Simon lived in the same university residence at the time.  He would have known that Alex and Rosemary dated.  Perhaps he saw them leave together that evening.  Patrick said Alex looked a mess when he picked him up.  I wonder if Simon saw Alex return and asked after Rosemary.’

Fitzjohn took another sip of his coffee.  ‘It’s possible and if it did happen like you suggest, then he might have held this over your brother all these years.  However, we won’t know for sure unless Rhodes tells us and it doesn’t seem likely that is going to happen, does it?  Nevertheless, it is something.  Every bit of information we gather will help.’

James nodded but at the same time, a deep sense of dissatisfaction gnawed at him, his gut feelings about Simon Rhodes's involvement lingering as he left Fitzjohn in the greenhouse amongst his orchids.

CHAPTER 22

With his jacket slung over his shoulder, James strolled back to his office after giving his lecture, to find Edwina Parker on a chair outside, a parcel wrapped in brown paper on her lap.  ‘Edwina.  Is that the painting?’

Edwina looked up, her usual cheery expression replaced by one of pensiveness.  ‘Yes, but I need to have a word with you about it, James.’

‘Of course.  Come in.’  James unlocked the door to his office.  ‘I’m surprised you managed to get it cleaned so quickly.’  He closed the door and gestured for Edwina to sit down.

Edwina put the painting on the desk and unwrapped it.  ‘It hasn’t been cleaned, James.  I’m afraid there’s a problem.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.  Albert Gilmore came to see me this morning bringing the painting with him.  He told me he believes it’s one that was stolen from a gallery in Paris a couple of years ago.’

‘Stolen?’

‘Yes.  He said it seemed familiar when I brought it in to him, but he didn’t want to say anything, at the time, until he’d made a few inquiries.  Anyway, as it’s turned out, he said he’s positive it’s the same painting.’

‘Then what was Louise doing with it?’

‘I’m sure she had no idea the painting was stolen.’

James hesitated.  ‘Perhaps she did, Edwina.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s something Julian Gould said when I last spoke to him.  He said Simon Rhodes deals in stolen art and Louise had come to him saying Simon wanted her to become involved.'

A look of shock crossed Edwina’s face.  ‘I find all these accusations about Simon Rhodes so difficult to believe.  How can you be sure this Julian Gould is telling the truth?’

‘Well, initially I wouldn’t have believed him, but there’ve been a few other issues crop up over the past week or two concerning Simon.’

‘I see.’  Edwina sat back in her chair.  ‘Well, if Mr Gould is telling the truth and Simon Rhodes does deal in stolen art, that might explain why Louise had this painting in her possession, and why she wanted to go to the police station that morning.'  Edwina paused.  'Oh, this whole thing sends a chill through me, James.’  She glanced at the painting.  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘I’ll take it to Chief Inspector Fitzjohn after my next lecture.  He’ll know the necessary channels to go through to find out whether it is stolen.’

‘That sounds wise.’

Late that same afternoon, James returned to his office.  After putting his books down on his desk, he walked over to the safe, opened it, and took the painting out.  As he did so, he heard a knock at the door.

‘Come in.’  He turned to see Gould in the doorway.  ‘Julian.’  James carried the painting to his desk.  ‘What brings you here?’

‘I wondered how the investigation’s going.’  Gould closed the door.  ‘I see Rhodes is still a free man.  I spoke to him this morning.  He made it clear he’d like me back on his payroll.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told him I’d think about it.  He knows it’s impossible for me to work for anyone else under the circumstances.  Who’d want an accountant who’s just spent two years in prison for misappropriating funds?’  Gould paused as he ran his hand over his bald head.  ‘You still have your doubts about what I’ve told you, don’t you?’

‘No, in fact I now believe he was blackmailing my brother, but proving it may be difficult.’

‘Well, if you want to do that, you’ll have to play him at his own game.  He’s no fool, Dr Wearing.’

‘I’m beginning to realise that.’

Gould looked down at the painting on the desk and frowned.  ‘Where did you get this?  The last time I saw it was when your wife asked me about Rhodes.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘This is the painting Rhodes wanted her to sell for him.  I wondered what happened to it after she died.  Where did you find it?’

‘At home in her studio.  I’ve just been told it was stolen from a Paris gallery a couple of years ago.’

‘Yes, with the help of Rhodes.’

At that moment, James realised his worst fear: Louise had indeed been murdered.

‘What’re you going to do with it?’ asked Gould.

‘I was just about to take it to Fitzjohn.  I’d appreciate it if you’d come along with me.’  Gould did not reply.  James continued.  ‘If you want Simon Rhodes behind bars as much as you say you do, I would have thought you’d be willing to get involved.  You've got to tell the police what you've just told me.’

Julian Gould picked up the painting.  ‘Taking this to the police isn’t going to get Rhodes behind bars because there’s no evidence to connect him with it being stolen.  It’s like the blackmail of your brother all over again.  We need evidence to prove he’s involved.’

James slumped down into his chair.  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

‘That we set him up.’

When James and Julian walked into the gallery that evening, they found Edwina sat at her desk.  She looked up when she heard the front door open, her eyes going from James to the man accompanying him.

‘Edwina, I’m glad we caught you.’  James turned toward Julian.  ‘I don’t believe you’ve met, Julian Gould.’

Edwina got to her feet and tentatively extended her hand to Gould.  ‘No, I don’t believe I have.  Hello, Mr Gould.  Edwina Parker.  James has spoken of you.’  Edwina looked over to James, a questioning look on her face.

‘We want to have a word with you, Edwina.  About the painting.’

Edwina’s eyebrows rose.  ‘Yes, of course.  Why don’t we sit in the next room?’  She locked the front door, pulled down the blinds and led the way to a group of lounge chairs.  She gestured for the two men to sit down.

‘Did you speak to the police, James?’

‘No, in fact that’s part of the reason we’re here.’

‘Oh?’

‘Julian believes Albert Gilmore is right.  The painting is the one stolen from the Paris gallery.’

Edwina turned to Gould.  ‘Then why did Louise have it in her possession?’

‘Simon Rhodes asked her to sell it for him, Ms Parker,' answered Julian Gould.  'It wasn’t till later that she found out it was stolen.  That’s when she came to see me.’

‘So her death wasn’t an accident.’

‘No.’

Edwina turned back to James.  ‘Why haven’t you been to the police?’

‘Because, as Julian says, going to the police isn’t going to put Simon behind bars.  We need proof he’s involved by having him found with the painting in his possession.  Will you help us?’

‘How?’  Edwina looked across at Gould as he began to speak.

‘If Simon Rhodes sees the painting he won’t be able to resist stealing it.  Believe me.  I know the man.’

‘And you want me to hang it in the gallery.’

‘Yes.’

Edwina hesitated.  ‘Very well.  In fact, I'll do better than that.  I’ll think of some excuse to hold a reception here next week, and Simon Rhodes will be on the invitation list.  I’ll make sure he sees the painting.’

‘I can’t thank you enough Edwina,' said James, 'and put me on that list.  I don’t want you doing this alone.’

Edwina struggled to her feet.  ‘It’s the least I can do if the man’s responsible for Louise’s death.’  Edwina smiled.  ‘Leave it with me, I’ll start making the arrangements in the morning.’