ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) (17 page)

Unaccustomed to discussing his investigations openly with anyone other than his team of investigators, Fitzjohn, nevertheless, felt drawn to answering Esme
Timmons’s question.  Why was that?  Her enquiring mind, and pragmatism?  Yes, but there was something else, he thought as he looked into those bright blue eyes.  It was Esme’s unmistakable zest for life.  Even when she had just suffered the loss of yet another member of her family.  One more blow in her long life.  ‘We’re led to believe that your nephew went to see someone at the New South Wales Art Gallery last Friday afternoon, Miss Timmons, to ask about the sketch,’ he answered at last.

‘
Oh, I see.  So, it’s quite possible Michael was looking for Claudia’s report as well as letters when he came to see me last Friday evening.  Mmm.’

‘
Where’s the report now, Miss Timmons?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘
Charlotte has it.  As I mentioned before, she plans to speak to the previous owner of the sketch.’  Esme frowned.  ‘But that might not be a good idea if it’s a fake as you say.  Oh dear.’

Fitzjohn eased himself in to the passenger seat of the car and watched Betts climb in beside him, his arms loaded with books.  ‘It looks like you made use of your time in there, Betts.’

‘Us
ed bookshops, sir.  I love them.’ Betts placed the books on the back seat of the car.  At the same time, Fitzjohn’s mobile phone rang.

‘Fitzjohn here. 
I beg your pardon
?’ Fitzjohn stared out over the hood of the car as Betts pulled away from the curb.

‘
Is it bad news about the tree, sir?’ he asked, maneuvering his way in to the traffic.

‘I wish it was
.  That was the Duty Officer at Day Street Police Station.  Sophie’s in the
nick
.’

‘She’s
what
?’ said Betts, grinding in to third gear.

‘Just what I said.
’  Fitzjohn looked across at Betts.  ‘She was arrested this morning at the university sit in.’  Fitzjohn’s eyes narrowed.  ‘Do I denote amusement in your face, Betts?’

‘Not in the least, sir.  Sophie must be very upset.’

‘To hell with Sophie,’ barked Fitzjohn.  ‘I’m upset.  Can you imagine what my life will be like if her mother finds out?’  Fitzjohn sighed.  ‘There’s nothing for it.  I’ll have to bail Sophie out.’

CHAPTER 17

Fitzjohn arrived at Kings Cross Police Station later that afternoon in an uncharacteristically tense mood.  He found Betts and Reynolds in the Incident Room standing at the whiteboard, discussing the case.

‘Is Sophie all right
?’ asked Betts as Fitzjohn sat down in his chair.

‘
I daresay her pride is hurt, but otherwise, I believe, she’s faring better than me right now, Betts. I’ve left her to watch the tree branch that’s now scraping the top of my greenhouse.’  Fitzjohn opened his briefcase and took his papers out.  ‘She has strict instructions to call me if it snaps.’  Fitzjohn sighed.  ‘It’s distressing bailing one’s niece out of gaol.’

Reynolds, sensing Fitzjohn chagrin, glanced at Betts before he said, 
‘I was just about to get a cup of coffee, sir, would you like one?’

‘I don’t know about coffee. 
I think I need a stiff drink,’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘but coffee will be fine.  Thanks, Reynolds.’

‘
Perhaps it’s just as well Edith and I weren’t blessed with children,’ said Fitzjohn as Reynolds left he room.  ‘I doubt I’d have coped.’  He removed his pen from his breast pocket and tossed it on to his desk.  ‘How are things here, anyway?  Have you been able to contact Charlotte Rossi about that sketch?’

‘I tried
, sir, but she still hasn’t returned to the bookshop.  I’ll try again later.’

‘
Do that, because I have a feeling that sketch is about to become central to our investigation.  Not only because of Michael Rossi’s death, but the death of his sister as well.  Anything more on those death cap mushrooms?’

‘Yes, sir.  The New South Wales Art Gallery has confirmed that Claudia
Rossi was in Canberra in July, 2010.  She went there to do some work at The National Art Gallery.  I’m just waiting for the exact dates she was there.’

‘
Ah.  So, if it’s found that Claudia was in Canberra just prior to when she fell ill, there’s every possibility she came by the mushroom herself.  Perhaps brought them home with her for dinner.’  Fitzjohn paused.  ‘It’s a chilling thought.’

‘
But it doesn’t fit with what Michael Rossi told Ms Davies, sir.  That his sister had been murdered because of the Brandt sketch.’

‘
That’s true.  Which is why we have to look for other ways she could have come by them.  We’ll start with Aiden Maxwell.  Have him brought in for questioning, Betts.’  As Fitzjohn spoke, Williams put his head around the Incident Room door.

‘
Ah, Williams, come in,’ said Fitzjohn sitting forward expectantly.  ‘News on Douglas Porteous, I hope.’

‘Yes, sir.
  Apparently, Mr Porteous died in July, 2010.  At around about the same time as Claudia Rossi, but from natural causes.  A massive stroke, apparently.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Fitzjohn
, slumping back in his chair.

‘
He’s survived by his wife, Eunice Porteous, who still lives in the family home in North Balgowlah.’

‘Right, well, it’s not ideal but we’ll speak to Mrs Porteous
.’

Fitzjohn and Williams made their way to North Balgowlah a short time later, pulling up in front of a neat, red brick semi-detached house where a middle-aged woman stood pruning white standard roses that bordered the garden path.  She stopped when Fitzjohn and Williams approached, her gloved hands falling to her sides, her expression wary.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Mrs Porteous?’ asked Fitzjohn, sensing the woman’s nervous disposition.

‘Yes
.’

Fitzjohn held up his warrant card. 
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn. This is Detective Senior Sergeant Williams.  We’re from the New South Wales Police.  We’d like to ask you a few questions, if we may, about your late husband, Douglas Porteous.’

‘
Douglas?’  Eunice Porteous looked around furtively displaying her nervousness.  ‘We’d better speak inside then.’  Removing her gardening gloves and placing them, along with her secateurs, on the lower step of the front porch, she led the way in to the house.  ‘We can sit in here,’ she said ushering Fitzjohn and Williams in to a small living room overlooking the front garden.  ‘I take it that young woman, Charlotte Rossi, reported me to the police,’ she said as they sat down.

Fitzjohn gave Eunice Porteous a qu
izzical look.  ‘No.  We haven’t heard from Ms Rossi.  But I daresay we’re here about the same matter.  A sketch that we understand your late husband once owned?’  Eunice Porteous shifted in her chair.  ‘Is that the case, Mrs Porteous?’

‘No, it isn’t
, Chief Inspector.’

‘I see.  Then can you tell us your husband’s connection to the sketch?  I take it there is one.’

‘There is, but it’s a long and complicated story,’ replied Eunice Porteous.

‘We have the time to listen
, Mrs Porteous.’ Fitzjohn sat back on the sofa.  ‘Perhaps you can start by telling us what happened when Charlotte Rossi came to see you.’

‘
Well, like you, she was under the impression that Douglas was the previous owner.  I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about.  I’ve since had second thoughts.  It’s been bothering me all day.’

‘Why
is that, Mrs Porteous?’

‘Because I wished I’d told her not to pursue the matter, Chie
f Inspector. The reason being that I think it’s one of the reasons my husband is dead.’

‘But
we’ve been led to believe your husband died of a stroke.’

‘He did
, but there’s no doubt in my mind it was brought on by what happened in the week prior to his death, and culminated the night his workshop burned to the ground. I think that was the end for him.  Everything Doug had worked for all his life, gone.  The fire was found to be caused by an electrical fault, but at the time, as far as the insurance company was concerned, there was every possibility my husband had started the fire.  And that meant a long and protracted investigation.’

‘
But I’m getting ahead of myself.  I should digress to what happened before the fire.’  Eunice Porteous pressed her lips together before she continued.  ‘I told Ms Rossi that she had the wrong Porteous.  That my husband was a furniture maker, not an artist.  That wasn’t true, of course.  He was an artist who, unwittingly, became involved with an unscrupulous art dealer who offered to market and sell his work.  Initially, Doug was pleased.  How could he not be?  To have someone in the art world the slightest bit interested in his work pleased him no end.  But all too soon that pleasure came to an end.’

‘Why?  What happened?’
asked Fitzjohn.

‘
Well, you see, Chief Inspector.  Much of Doug’s work was copying old masters as well as other well known artists.  He didn’t realise anything was wrong until the day Claudia Rossi came to see him.  She also believed he was the previous owner of a Brandt sketch she had recently purchased.  She didn’t know that it was one of Doug’s reproductions.  Brandt’s name had been surreptitiously added to the work and Doug’s name included in a long provenance.  Mrs Rossi said she was looking in to the sketch’s provenance because she’d been told by an expert that it was a fake. She asked my husband if he’d be prepared to support her if this turned out to be true.  I’ll never forget Doug’s face.  He was mortified.  The thought he was involved in art fraud, albeit, without his knowledge, was more than he could bear.  Not to mention his embarrassment at having to tell this woman that she was right.  It was a copy, and he was the artist.  It all but destroyed him, Chief Inspector.’  Eunice Porteous blinked back her tears.  ‘His reputation, as far as he was concerned, was sullied, and that afternoon he went to see the art dealer who’d sold the sketch to Claudia Rossi.’

‘What was this art dealer’s name?’
asked Fitzjohn.

‘Aiden Maxwell
,’ said Eunice slowly. Williams looked up from his notebook and caught Fitzjohn’s eye.  ‘He has a gallery in Paddington.’

‘And was he the dealer who had approached your husband earlier?’

‘No.  That man’s name was Bernard Wilson.  I still have the card he left, but it won’t be much good to you.  The contact details are false.’

‘W
hat was Aiden Maxwell’s reaction when your husband confronted him?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘
Doug said he appeared in utter shock, but then he would be, wouldn’t he?  Whether he’d sold that copy as authentic or not.’  Eunice paused.  ‘He told Doug he’d acquired the sketch from another dealer, and would look in to the matter immediately.  Of course, there was no way of knowing whether he was telling the truth so my husband suggested they report the matter to the police.’

‘And what was
Aiden Maxwell’s response to that?’

‘
Maxwell agreed, and they made arrangements to meet the next day, but that night Doug’s studio burnt to the ground and events took over.  A few days later, Doug had a stroke and died.’

‘Did you hear from Aiden Maxwell again?’

‘No.  Not a word.  And I wasn’t surprised.  After all, if Aiden Maxwell was mixed up in the fraud, he would have been counting his blessings when Doug didn’t contact him again.  And even if he wasn’t involved, I imagine he’d welcome the opportunity to sweep the whole affair under the rug. Let’s face it, Chief Inspector, that sort of publicity wouldn’t do his business any good.’  Eunice Porteous sighed.  ‘Needless to say, when Charlotte Rossi turned up here this morning and told me who she was, and that her mother had also died in 2010… well, quite frankly, I panicked.’

‘I can appreciate that, Mrs Porteous, but how do you feel now
?  Would you be willing to give us a description of the man who approached your husband initially?’

‘
I’m certainly willing, Chief Inspector, but I don’t know how helpful my description will be. It was quite a while ago but I do remember that he had one of those charismatic personalities that draws you in, so to speak.  No wonder Doug was fooled by his performance.’

‘And his physical description
.  Can you tell us what he looked like?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Well, he
looked to be in his forties.  Of average height.  Quite a good looking man as I remember.  And I might be mistaken, but I think he had blue eyes.’

Fitzjohn and Williams left Eunice Porteous to continue her pruning in the early evening light.  ‘Seems there’s no real closure to this for Eunice Porteous, sir,’ said Williams, getting into the car.  ‘She’s a nervous wreck.’

‘Well, let’s hope we can help t
o change that for her, Williams, although I don’t think it’s going to be easy.  It seems to me that Aiden Maxwell could be unaware that the Brandt sketch is a copy.  On the other hand, if he was mixed up in that art fraud, he’s the person who’ll be able to tell us who approached Douglas Porteous.’