Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) (16 page)

CHAPTER 19

Fitzjohn paced the floor of his office, dissatisfied with the progress of his investigation and with a growing frustration at his inability to get Ziegler to open up.

‘Sir?’ Fitzjohn swung around to find Betts standing in the doorway. ‘I have news on Portland Moore. I’ve spoken to the staff at the casino who were on duty the night Preston Alexander died. They all state that Portland wasn’t at the casino at any time during that day or that evening.’

‘He wasn’t?’

‘No, sir. In fact, he hadn’t played black-jack for almost two weeks.’

‘I see.’ Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘Well, in that case, we’ll speak to him again, Betts, but this time, we’ll do it here at the station. Have him brought in, would you, please?’

At that moment, the Duty Sergeant appeared. ‘There’s a Dr Charles Stratton here to see you, sir.’

‘Dr Stratton?’
Fitzjohn looked at Betts, his eyebrows lifting.

‘He says it’s urgent that he speaks to you.’

‘Very well. Show him in, Sergeant,’ replied Fitzjohn, returning to his desk. As he did so, a tall, slim, fair haired young man walked into the room. The same man pictured in one of the photographs in Beatrice Maybrick’s apartment.

‘Chief Inspector Fitzjohn? I’m Charles Stratton,’ he said, his hand extended. ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’

‘Thank you for coming in, Doctor. As a matter of fact, we’ve been trying to contact you.’

‘I had no idea,’ replied Stratton, sitting down. ‘I’m here because I’ve come to understand that you’re investigating the death of a man by the name of Preston Alexander.’

‘That’s right, we are,’ replied Fitzjohn, pulling out his chair and sitting down. ‘Did you know him?’

‘No. Unfortunately, we never met.’

‘But you think you have information that might help in our investigation into his death, do you?’

‘Not Preston’s, but perhaps Beatrice Maybrick’s.’ Fitzjohn sat straighter in his chair, his interest piqued. ‘You see, this morning, I received a letter from Beatrice. Regrettably, there was a mix up with my post office box and it’s taken almost two weeks to find me. Because of what she wrote in her letter and who she spoke of, I was able to find out about your investigation.’

‘I take it she mentioned Preston Alexander,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘Yes, she did. His death was reported on the news in Melbourne last week but not knowing of him at the time, I didn’t take much notice. If I’d known then what I know now... Anyway, that’s why I thought I should come to see you, Chief Inspector.’

‘What exactly did Beatrice’s letter say?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘I have it here.’ Stratton took a letter from his inside breast pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Fitzjohn. ‘As you can see, it’s quite long. That’s because it tells the story of her early life.’ Fitzjohn ran his eyes over the pages of the letter. ‘It starts off, however, in the present day and the situation she found herself in just prior to her death. She explains that because her business didn’t appear to be recovering from its debt, despite a considerable amount of money being injected into it, she’d decided to spend the weekend going through the accounts. It was then she found discrepancies. Money systematically siphoned off over a considerable period of time.’

‘What did she do about it?’

‘She confronted the person responsible for the accounts. She goes on to say that in hind-sight, it was a mistake but at the time she’d been blinded by the enormity of the problem the embezzlement had thrown her business into. She said she wished she’d questioned the man concerned in the presence of her financial backer, but it was too late. She goes on to say that the man in question had turned on her with such venom that she panicked.’

‘Did she say she feared for her life?’

‘Not at that point. Firstly, she says that she wants to explain a few things to me regarding my father.’ Charles paused. ‘It’s a long and complicated story, Chief Inspector, but as it concerns Preston Alexander, I think you should hear it.’

‘How did you come to know Beatrice, Doctor?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘She was my grandmother.’ Stratton smiled. ‘Having said that, I only learnt of her existence quite recently after she’d contacted an organisation called Jigsaw. They help those who have been separated by adoption.’

‘So Beatrice had been searching for...’

‘Her son who was my father. Also named Charles Stratton. You see, as a young teenage girl, Beatrice had become pregnant by a fellow student she attended high school with. She explains in the letter that at that time, the 1950s, such an occurrence was something to be hidden so her parents, in their wisdom, sent her to Melbourne to live with an aunt until the child was born and subsequently adopted. Afterwards, she was enrolled in a Melbourne girls school as a boarder where she remained until she’d completed her high school education.’

‘And the young man? The father of the child?’

‘He never knew about the child and when they finally did meet, years later, she said she didn’t have the courage to tell him.’

‘Was this young man, by any chance, Preston Alexander?’ asked Fitzjohn. Charles nodded. Fitzjohn sat back in his chair. ‘So, that’s their connection.’

‘Yes. Preston was my grandfather.’

Fitzjohn took a moment. ‘It’s a sad story.’

‘It is. I understand Preston never married. One can only wonder whether it was because of Beatrice. She enclosed this ring with her letter.’ Charles retrieved a small blue velvet case from his pocket and opened it. Inside sat a gold ring with a small ruby encircled by diamonds. ‘It has an inscription on the inside of the band. It reads “
Beatrice & Preston 1957”.’

‘And the child? Your father?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘He was adopted at birth by Mary and William Stratton. They had one other child, also adopted, a nine year old girl by the name of Susan. My aunt.’ Fitzjohn thought of the woman he had seen in the photograph with Charles Stratton. ‘Aunt Susan and Dad both grew up with the Stratton’s on the Mornington Peninsula,’ continued Charles. ‘My grandfather, William, had a veterinary practice in Hastings which Dad join him in after he’d qualified and as I did about six years ago.’

‘So, Beatrice found you both,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. You see my father and my mother died in a road accident fifteen years ago. It was an added blow for Beatrice. With my father and me sharing the same Christian name of Charles, she thought she’d found him at last. I can only think that that might have been the reason she never told Preston about the baby.’

‘It also explains why your grandfather invested in her literary agency. He was the financial backer that she speaks of in her letter. His financial involvement has puzzled us till now because it was unlike any other investments in his portfolio.’

‘Obviously, he still cared for her and wanted to help, even after all those years,’ said Charles.

‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘So why did you think that we should know all this, Dr Stratton?’

‘Because Beatrice goes on to say that when she confronted Mr Ziegler about the discrepancies in the books, he told her that he knew about the child she’d had and if she accused him of embezzlement, he’d tell Preston.’

‘But how did he know about the child?’

‘Apparently, his family had lived in the same area in Sydney as Beatrice at that time and he said one of her relative’s had gone to school with his mother. Gossip, in other words.’

‘And he decided to use the information when it suited him.’

‘Is this letter reason enough to look into Beatrice’s death, Chief Inspector?’

‘You’re not the only person to raise the issue, Dr Stratton. A friend of your grandmother’s, the woman she asked to post this letter to you if something should happen to her, contacted us. We’ve since been looking into the matter.’

‘And do you think there was foul play in connection with her death?’

‘It’s too early to say at this stage.’

‘Do you think Beatrice and Preston’s deaths are connected?’

‘So far, there’s no evidence to suggest that but we won’t dismiss it.’ Fitzjohn paused.

‘Tell me, Doctor. Have you received a letter from the executor of your grandmother’s estate? The reason I ask is because it might have some bearing on whether her death was, in fact, not an accident.’

‘Their letter went astray as well. I received it at the same time as Beatrice’s. I’ve contacted the executors and have an appointment with them for later this afternoon. I take it you know the contents of her will.’

Fitzjohn nodded. ‘We didn’t mean to pry, but we did need to know who would gain by her death,’ replied Fitzjohn.

‘Of course. I’ll leave you my card so that you can contact me if you find you have further questions.’ Charles took a card from his pocket and handed it to Fitzjohn. ‘I’ll be in Sydney for the next couple of days, so I can drop by again if you wish.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Fitzjohn, taking the card.

Charles Stratton got up to leave. ‘Oh. There is one thing you might be able to help me with, Chief Inspector. I’d like to thank the woman you mentioned who posted Beatrice’s letter to me.’

‘Her name is Esme Timmons,’ replied Fitzjohn with a smile. ‘I’ll ask her to give you a call.’

CHAPTER 20

Fitzjohn sat in his office re-reading Beatrice Maybrick’s letter to Charles Stratton while Betts wrote up his note-book. ‘Well, it seems that not only the mystery surrounding Beatrice’s lost ring is solved, but we now know Preston and Beatrice’s true connection and why he went to such lengths to help her,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘It also explains why she was so upset that day. She states here, clearly, that Max Ziegler threatened her with something that she had kept concealed for many years. It must have been difficult for her to realise that what she thought she’d successfully hidden had, in-fact, been an item of gossip in some circles. No wonder she panicked.’ Fitzjohn let the letter fall onto the desk and sat back in his chair. ‘We’ve got to get Ziegler to talk, Betts. Not only about the misappropriation of funds at the agency and Preston Alexander’s death, but also about Beatrice Maybrick.’

‘Do you think he killed her?’ asked Betts closing his note-book.

‘I don’t know. This letter doesn’t prove that he did, but it does make it more probable that her death wasn’t an accident. Let’s go over it again.’

‘Okay,’ said Betts with a sigh as he opened his note-book again. ‘We know that Beatrice approached Ziegler first thing on the Monday morning and, according to Olive Glossop, they had a raging row. We also now know that Beatrice wrote in her letter to Charles that Ziegler had threatened to tell Preston about the child if she continued with her accusation of embezzlement. Apparently, she ignored his warning because by mid-day, Preston arrived at the agency and he also confronted Ziegler. After that, Ziegler left the office.’ Betts closed his notebook and sat back in his chair. ‘What was to stop him returning that night and pushing Beatrice down the stairs?’

‘Nothing. Being an employee, he no doubt has a key to the building and we know that Beatrice’s apartment was never locked. He’d just have to make sure that no one saw him going in,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Now, what about Preston Alexander?’

At that point, a knock sounded on the door and Carruthers appeared. ‘Portland Moore is waiting in Interview Room #3, sir.’

‘Ah! Very timely. We can interview him and Ziegler one after the other.’ Fitzjohn looked over to the young officer who hovered in the doorway. ‘Thank you, Carruthers.’

‘Who do we speak to first?’ asked Betts.

‘Ziegler. We can’t hold him without charge for much longer.’

Fitzjohn and Betts made their way into the interview room where Max Ziegler waited with his solicitor. They found him pacing the width of the room emanating an air of asperity.

‘And it’s about time,’ he said, swinging around. ‘How much longer are you going to keep me here?’

‘The quicker we get started, the quicker we’ll finish,’ replied Fitzjohn, settling himself at the table. He gestured to Ziegler’s empty chair. Ziegler slumped into it and after introductions had been made, once again, the interview commenced.

‘Have you given anymore thought to how you acquired the $400,000, Mr Ziegler?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘I’ve already told you. I loaned it through a friend.’

‘That’s not the case now, is it?’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘It was money gained from your embezzlement of company funds at the Maybrick Literary Agency.’

‘It wasn’t me, I tell you. Giles has been doing the accounts for the past few months. If anyone’s been embezzling, it’s him.’

‘No, it isn’t. We know because we have evidence that you threatened Beatrice Maybrick when she approached you on that Monday morning and accused you of embezzlement.’

‘That’s ridiculous. What could I threaten her with?’

‘Her past, Mr Ziegler.’ Ziegler froze. ‘You told her that if she continued with her accusation of embezzlement, you’d tell Preston Alexander that he had had a son by Beatrice. Something she’d kept hidden from him for over fifty years. But she didn’t listen, did she? Instead, she exposed you to Preston Alexander as well as your work colleagues and suspended you.’

‘How do you...’

‘How do we know?’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We know because we have a letter here from Beatrice stating what transpired between the two of you.’ Fitzjohn trained his intense gaze on Ziegler’s face. ‘You went back to the agency that night, argued with Beatrice and pushed her down the stairs.’

‘That’s preposterous.’

‘No it isn’t. We do have a set of fingerprints, found on the door jamb. Up until now, we haven’t been able to match them with anyone’s but I’ll bet that when we take yours, which we’re going to do very shortly, we’ll find that they are a match.’

‘You can’t take my fingerprints without my permission,’ said Ziegler with a degree of smugness.

‘If we believe on reasonable grounds that you have committed an indictable offence, we can, and we do, so we will,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Of course, they might also tie you into Preston Alexander’s murder. After all, no doubt he had some suspicion that you might have had something to do with Beatrice’s death.’ Fitzjohn leaned across the table and leered at Ziegler. ‘That’s why you went to see him the night he was murdered wasn’t it? You feared he’d go to the police.’

‘I’ve already told you that I didn’t kill Preston. I was at the restaurant in Neutral Bay with my chess club.’

‘So you were.’ Fitzjohn sat back again. ‘But after you left the restaurant, around nine-thirty according to your dinner companions, you drove to Cremorne. As I told you earlier, we have a witness who saw someone matching your description on Milson Road that night.’

Ziegler glared at Fitzjohn who waited for a response

‘All right,’ said Ziegler, running his hand through his hair. ‘I did go to see Preston that night but when I got to his house, he wasn’t at home so I left.’ Ziegler paused. ‘Why don’t you ask Portland Moore why he was there at the time?’

Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘You saw Mr Moore on Milson Road that night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he acknowledge you?’

‘No. He had his head down.’

‘What time was this?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Some time around ten. I’d just parked my car and I was walking down toward Preston’s place.’

Fitzjohn terminated the interview and followed by Betts, left the room.

‘So, according to Ziegler, Portland was in Cremorne that night. To tell you the truth, Betts, it’s the last thing I expected him to say. It’ll be interesting to hear what Mr Moore has to say about it. Didn’t the security guard say that he left the theatre at around eight that night and returned at nine?’

‘Yes, sir, and we know that he wasn’t at the casino during that hour.’

‘Mmm. And according to the autopsy report, Preston Alexander died anywhere between eight-thirty and ten-thirty. Bit of a puzzle though, isn’t it, because Portland was only absent from the theatre for an hour and yet Ziegler claims that he saw him on Milson Road around ten.

Moore jumped when the door to the interview room opened and Fitzjohn and Betts walked in. Dressed in a dark blue suit with red tie and his brown hair slicked back, he looked the epitome of style.

‘Hello again, Mr Moore,’ said Fitzjohn, pulling a chair out from the table and sitting down.

‘Why have I been brought here?’ asked Portland.

‘We thought you’d find it more conducive than your place of employment and it does give us the opportunity to record your answers.’ Without a reply, Portland sat down next to his solicitor and opposite Fitzjohn. After the preliminaries, the interview commenced.

‘When we last spoke, Mr Moore, you said that on the night of your uncle’s death, you left the Adelphi Theatre and went to the casino.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Out of interest. What do you play when you’re there?’

‘Black-jack.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

‘In that case, are you quite sure that you were there that night?’

‘Of course I’m sure. What sort of a question is that?’

‘A valid one because we’ve spoken to the staff on duty that night and they told us that you weren’t there.’

‘They’re mistaken.’

‘I’m afraid not for the following reasons,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Firstly, you’re known to them. Secondly, there is no CCTV footage of you at any of the black-jack tables at any time that night and thirdly, there is no record of you purchasing chips. In fact, the last records that they have of your presence at the casino are almost two weeks prior to the night your uncle died.’ Portland fidgeted with his collar. ‘We’d like to know where you went after you left the theatre, Mr Moore.’ Fitzjohn waited. ‘Okay. Perhaps I can help you remember,’ he continued at last. ‘A witness has stated that he saw you on Milson Road that evening. In fact, you were walking from the direction of the reserve where your uncle’s body was later found.’

The colour drained from Portland’s face, his mouth gaped. ‘That’s not true. I didn’t get to Cremorne until just after nine-thirty.’

‘Ah! So you were there.’

Portland ran his hand through his hair. ‘All right. I was.’

‘Then why did you lie to us?’

‘Because I didn’t think it would look good if I said I was in the vicinity when Preston was attacked. I know how you people work. Relatives are always at the top of your list of suspects.’

‘That’s not necessarily the case and lying to the police is never a good idea.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘So, why did you go to see Preston that night?’

‘I needed to speak to him about his investment in the agency. He’d told me earlier that day that he planned to make changes to it.’

‘You mean withdraw it.’

‘You know about that? How?’ Portland glared at Fitzjohn in disbelief.

‘You’d be surprised at the sort of detail that surfaces when one investigates a murder, Mr Moore. Although there is one detail that still puzzles me. Why did you leave the theatre earlier that evening only to return soon after?’

‘Because once I was on my way, I convinced myself that Preston wouldn’t listen to me and so I turned back.’

‘So why did you return later?’

‘Because I had no choice. I had to talk to him about it.’

‘About what? The trust? You wanted to convince him to leave things as they were, didn’t you, Mr Moore? After all, if your uncle went ahead with his plan, you’d be out-of-pocket.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, Chief Inspector,’ said Portland indignantly. ‘That money is for my boys’ education and a nest egg for their future.’

‘But as far as we can see, Mr Moore, there’s very little in their accounts. In fact they’re all but drained of funds.’

Portland looked aghast at Fitzjohn. ‘You’ve being looking into my private affairs?’

Fitzjohn ignored Portland’s retort and said, ‘You say that you arrived in Cremorne just after nine-thirty. Did you happen to see anyone else about?’

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Portland, shaking his head. ‘I was somewhat distracted at the time.’

‘Think, Mr Moore. It’s important,’ said Fitzjohn.

Portland shook his head. ‘I can’t remember seeing anyone.’

‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Betts as the two officers left the interview room.

‘I’m not sure what to think,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Portland had a lot to gain by his uncle’s death and initially, he did lie about where he was that night. Even so, if he was in the vicinity of where a murder took place, I wouldn’t have thought he was unwise enough to lie about it.’ Fitzjohn opened the door to his office and walked inside. ‘We’ll keep Mr Moore here for the present time because...’

At that moment, the office door opened and the Duty Officer appeared.

‘Yes, Sergeant?’

‘It’s the report on the fingerprints you’re waiting for, sir,’ he said, handing the report to Fitzjohn with a smile. ‘It’s a match.’

Fitzjohn gave Betts a satisfied look. ‘We’ll continue the interview with Max Ziegler.’

When Fitzjohn and Betts walked into the interview room, they found Ziegler stood behind his chair, pulling it back and forth. ‘And it’s about time!’ he exclaimed, letting the chair crash forward on all four legs and hit the table. ‘You can’t hold me here any longer than twenty-four hours and your time is just about up,’ he said, tapping his watch.

‘I’m well aware of the time, Mr Ziegler.’ Fitzjohn sat down and waited for Ziegler to do the same. When he was seated, Fitzjohn continued. ‘I said earlier that we have a set of fingerprints which were found on the door-jamb of Beatrice Maybrick’s apartment that we haven’t been able to match. Until now, that is. They’re yours, Mr Ziegler.’ Fitzjohn waited but Ziegler did not reply. ‘Very well. We’ll leave that little morsel for the time being and discuss your claim that you saw Portland Moore on Milson Road the night that Preston Alexander died. You didn’t though, did you?’ Ziegler glared at Fitzjohn. ‘Not only did you push Beatrice Maybrick to her death down those stairs, but you also bludgeoned Preston Alexander to death.’

‘I didn’t kill either of them I tell you. I swear it.’ Ziegler’s eyes flared with anguish and his shoulders sagged.