Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5)
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Authors: Jill Paterson
DEADLY INVESTMENT
A Fitzjohn Mystery
JILL PATERSON
Deadly Investment
Copyright © 2015 Jill Paterson
Cover design by Renee Barratt
http://www.thecovercounts.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
eBook ISBN 978-0-9925840-2-3
Book ISBN 978-0-9925840-1-6
Publisher: J. Henderson, Canberra, Australia
Publication Date: 4
th
December 2015
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Paterson, Jill, author
Deadly Investment/Jill Paterson
ISBN: 9780992584023 (ebook)
Paterson, Jill. Fitzjohn mystery; 5.
Detective and mystery stories.
Australian fiction
Sydney (N.S.W.)—Fiction.
A823.4
For my dear friend, Anna
A Fitzjohn Mystery
Featuring Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, Deadly Investment, is the fifth book in the Fitzjohn Mystery Series.
It was an accepted fact that Beatrice Maybrick, owner and operator of the Maybrick Literary Agency, accidentally fell to her death. Or did she? Esme Timmons thought not, her suspicions fuelled by a letter she received from Beatrice following the tragic incident. Faced with this dilemma, Esme takes steps to find the killer.
Meanwhile, Detective Chief Inspector Alistair Fitzjohn commences his investigation into the suspicious death of entrepreneur, Preston Alexander. With robbery ruled out as the motive, Fitzjohn is drawn to Preston’s investment portfolio and the Maybrick Literary Agency.
Finding an antiquated establishment where uncertainty prevails following the demise of its owner, Beatrice Maybrick, Fitzjohn asks himself two questions. Why did the high flying investor, Preston Alexander, invest in such a business, and did it lead to his death?
The green cafe door squeaked on its hinges when Esme Timmons pushed it open and stepped inside. Amid the din, she spied Mildred sitting at their favourite table in the window recess, staring down at her hands. She looked up when Esme approached, her expression sombre. Without a word, Esme sat down, her gaze falling upon the empty chair between them.
‘I can’t believe Beatrice is gone,’ said Mildred, her voice quivering. ‘I wonder which one of us will be next.’
Esme studied her friend’s face. She knew, of course, that Mildred had a tendency to be negative. That had been evident from the first day they met at teacher’s college all those years ago.
‘Don’t be morbid, Mildred. It doesn’t become you,’ she said, removing her straw sun hat and placing it with her handbag and walking cane on the window ledge next to her chair.
Mildred bristled. ‘I’m not being morbid. I’m being realistic. At our age you can’t help but wonder, can you? After all, Beatrice and I were the same age, seventy-six, and you’re what; eighty-one?
Heaven forbid!
’ Mildred grabbed a tissue from her handbag and stemmed her tears.
Esme patted her hand. ‘You must get a grip, my dear. You can’t sink into melancholia. Not now. There’s too much to be done.’
‘But that’s just it, Esme. There’s nothing that has to be done now except to attend Beatrice’s funeral and wait for our turn.’ Mildred took another tissue. ‘This whole thing has made me realise that I could drop dead at any time. We both could, for that matter, just like Beatrice. I’m seeing my solicitor this afternoon to put my affairs in order. I suggest you do the same. Just in case.’
‘I have a will,’ replied Esme. ‘I had it drawn up, years ago, after Thomas failed to return from the war in Korea.’ Esme took a moment to reflect on her handsome young fiancé. What would he think of me now, I wonder, with my wrinkles and arthritic hip? Esme sighed.
‘Have you ordered the tea, Mildred?’ she asked, pushing the thought away.
‘Yes and no. I ordered tea for you and a strong black coffee for me.’
‘But you don’t drink coffee.’
‘I do now. I need something to keep me going.’ Mildred looked wistfully out of the window. ‘Alison was there at the time Beatrice fell. She said that she hung onto life by a thread until the ambulance arrived. Her neck was broken. Apparently, it’s what killed her in the end.’ Mildred winced. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about. What made it worse was that there wasn’t the slightest sign of emotion on Alison’s part when she told me.’
‘Alison isn’t an emotional person,’ replied Esme. ‘Or if she is, she doesn’t show it.’
Mildred turned from the window. ‘Even so, Beatrice was her step-mother, so I thought that there might have been a hint of sorrow.’
‘You’d think so, but as we both know, Mildred, those two never did get on. Not from the day Alison’s father married Beatrice. Initially, I thought Alison’s aversion to Beatrice was a natural one for a young teenage girl who’s lost her mother. It can’t have been easy to watch her replaced by another woman in her father’s affections. Still, I did hope that she and Beatrice would eventually become friends once Alison grew up. Especially since they’ve both worked together for so many years at the agency. But it never happened.’
‘And now it’s too late.’ Mildred paused. ‘Has Alison been in touch with you about the funeral?’
‘No, but I’m sure she will.’
‘What did you mean earlier when you said that there’s too much to be done?’ When Esme did not respond, Mildred continued. ‘Esme?’
Jarred from her thoughts, Esme looked at her friend. ‘What is it, dear?’
‘You said that there’s too much to be done,’ repeated Mildred with growing exasperation. ‘What’s to be done?’ Mildred narrowed her eyes at Esme. ‘Something’s going on. You have that look in your eye. I’ve seen it before. It means that you know something I don’t.’
Esme took in Mildred’s countenance, now bright with anticipation. ‘It’s nothing. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about the way in which Beatrice died and...’
‘And what?’ Mildred adjusted her chair and leaned forward across the table. ‘Tell me,’ she hissed.
‘I’d rather not,’ replied Esme.
‘You don’t have to worry. I wouldn’t dream of repeating a word.’
Esme pursed her lips and looked into Mildred’s expectant face. ‘I know that, but I think it best to keep my thoughts to myself. At least for now.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Mildred with growing indignation. ‘Unless, of course, you don’t value my opinion.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ replied Esme. ‘That’s not it at all, Mildred dear. It’s because I might be wrong.’ Esme met Mildred’s intense gaze and sighed. ‘Very well. I’ll tell you,’ she said, positioning her chair closer to the table. ‘It all started this morning when I received a letter in the post. It was from Beatrice.’
‘Oh, my heavens!’
Mildred sank back her eyes wide. ‘A letter from the grave.’
‘Not quite, but she did make rather an odd request.’ Esme clasped her hands together. ‘She said that if anything were to happen to her, I was to mail the letter she had enclosed to its addressee, Charles Stratton.’
‘And something has happened to her,’ replied Mildred in all but a whisper before she sat forward again. ‘Who’s Charles Stratton?’
‘I don’t know. Beatrice gave no indication in her letter and I probably wouldn’t have given it a passing thought except that it set me thinking.’
‘You’ve lost me, Esme. Thinking what?’
‘About whether Beatrice’s death
was
an accident. You see, the last time I saw her, was last Sunday, the day before she died. She appeared distressed. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her in such a state. It worried me, Mildred. It really did.’ Esme paused in reflection.
‘And?’ prompted Mildred.
‘Oh, yes, well,’ said Esme brought back from her thoughts. ‘I asked her if everything was all right. She replied that all was fine, but I knew it wasn’t.’ Esme shook her head. ‘Still, you can’t pry so I satisfied myself that it was a private matter and left it at that. Now I wish I hadn’t.’
‘So, what you’re saying is that you believe Beatrice was
murdered
,’ said Mildred as she tried to match Esme’s stride when they emerged from the cafe in the direction of St Leonard’s train station.
‘Yes, I suppose I am. Although, it’s not just the letter and her distress that prompted me to think that. It’s the way in which she died. Falling down those stairs.’
‘That could have happened to anyone, Esme.’
‘That’s true enough, but we both know that once Beatrice had finished work for the day in the agency, she always went upstairs to her apartment and didn’t come back down unless she was going out for the evening. And we know she wasn’t going out because, according to Alison, she was wearing her dressing gown when she fell.’
‘That’s right, and she wouldn’t have gone downstairs in her dressing gown when her staff were still working late as they were that night,’ put in Mildred.
‘Quite.’
‘What about the letter? Have you posted it?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to take it to the police and tell them of your suspicions?’
‘I can’t see that there’s any point,’ replied Esme as they crossed the road and walked into the station. ‘Not without concrete evidence that Beatrice’s death involved foul play, and I don’t have any. All I have is a niggling feeling fuelled, somewhat, by Beatrice’s distressed state the last time I spoke to her. And the stairs, of course.’
Mildred followed Esme onto the escalator and they descended to the platform below. As they did so a blast of air rushed through the station ahead of the approaching train. Esme and Mildred joined the throng and boarded the train.
‘Perhaps I should just post the letter and put it out of my mind,’ continued Esme as they took their seats.
‘But suppose you’re right and Beatrice was murdered, Esme. If that’s the case, we can’t just let her killer get away with it. That letter might be our only lead. There must be something we can do.’
Esme thought for a moment. ‘I could speak to Alison when she gets in touch with me about the funeral arrangements. After all, she was there that night. I wouldn’t have to tell her my suspicions, but I might be able to find out more detail about what happened. And she might also be able to tell us who Charles Stratton is.’
They both fell into silence, lost in their own thoughts while swaying with the rhythm of the train.
All at once, Esme stood up. ‘This is my stop. We’ll speak tomorrow.’
‘Ring me first thing in the morning,’ replied Mildred. ‘We owe it to Beatrice to find out whether her death was an accident or if something sinister happened to her. And, hopefully, before the funeral takes place.’ The woman sitting in front of Mildred turned, her expression agog.
Mildred smiled back.