The Celtic Dagger (9 page)

Fitzjohn sat for a moment in thought.  ‘I can appreciate that these allegations concerning your wife’s death open up old wounds, Dr Wearing, and I want to thank you for coming forward.’  James nodded.  ‘As you will no doubt realise, we have interviewed everyone who came into contact with your brother, including Simon Rhodes, but in view of Julian Gould’s accusations, there may be more here than we realised.  If you'll leave it with me...’  Fitzjohn smiled slightly.  ‘Of course, it may come to nothing, but I'll be in touch.  I’ll also find out who the man was who gave these photographs to Julian Gould, and speak to the officer who was in charge at the time of your wife’s death.’  Fitzjohn held up the photographs.  ‘Do you mind if I keep these for now?’

‘By all means.’

James arrived home that evening to the sound of the telephone.  He threw the mail on the hall table, lurched into the living room, and picked up the receiver.  ‘Hello.’

‘Dr Wearing?’

‘Yes, this is James Wearing.’

‘My name’s Patrick Spender, Doctor.’

James sat down on the chair at the desk.

‘Dr Wearing, are you still there?’

‘Yes.  You just took me by surprise.  I’ve been trying to locate you, Dr Spender.  I understand from Alex’s housekeeper that you’d been in touch with him recently.’

‘Yes, I have, and that’s what I want to speak to you about, but I hesitate to do so over the telephone.  I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you come to see me in Melbourne?’

‘Melbourne?’

‘I wouldn’t ask, Dr Wearing, if I didn’t think it important.’

‘No, it’s all right.  I’m more than happy to travel to Melbourne.’  James reached for a pen and wrote down the address.  ‘I’ll get an early flight in the morning.’

CHAPTER 14

Fitzjohn arrived at his office early the next morning.  He settled himself at his desk, opened the file in front of him and looked through the photographs James Wearing had left him the previous day.  As he did so, Sergeant Betts came into the room.

‘Morning, sir.’

‘Ah, good morning Betts.  I’m glad you’re early, I want you to have a look at these.  They’re the reason Dr Wearing came to see me yesterday afternoon.’  Fitzjohn handed Betts the photographs and recounted his conversation with James Wearing.

‘It sounds bizarre, sir.’

‘It does, but in light of our present investigation, I think it’s wise to follow it up, especially since Simon Rhodes has been mentioned.’

Fitzjohn sat back in his chair.  ‘I’ve spoken to McAllister, who was the officer in charge at the time of Louise Wearing’s death.  He’s going to look into the records, but doesn’t hold much hope of finding anything new.  I want you to check up on the man who died in prison last week and supposedly took these photographs.  You never know, it might give us a lead.’

Betts handed the photographs back to Fitzjohn.  ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir.  What about Gould?’

‘I was coming to that.  See if you can locate him.  Shouldn’t be too difficult.’  Fitzjohn gathered up the photographs and placed them in a folder on his desk.

‘Have you found out anymore about James and Alex Wearing’s relationship?’

‘Yes, I have, and by all accounts it was stormy.’

‘Oh?’

‘I spoke to Tristan Harrow.  I think you’d agree he’s an odd sort, but forthcoming with information.  I got the impression he disliked Alex Wearing and doesn’t have much time for James Wearing, either.  Says there was no love lost between the two brothers and, on the whole, they avoided each other.’

‘Did he know why?’

‘No.  I also spoke to Vera Trenbath, who confirmed what Tristan Harrow said but was kinder in her remarks.  She said she’d always hoped Alex and James Wearing would settle their differences, whatever they were, but that brings me to my next point, sir.  They weren’t brothers at all, but cousins.’

‘What?’

‘Yes.  After I spoke to Dr Trenbath, I went to see Catherine Wearing and, in the course of our conversation, she let it slip.  Apparently, her father-in-law, Harold Wearing, had a sister, Mary, who gave birth to an illegitimate child.  She never named the father.  Mary Wearing lived less than two days after the baby’s birth.  Emily and Harold Wearing took the child in and brought him up as their own.’

‘James Wearing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he aware of this?’

‘Apparently.  But there’s more, sir.  I spoke to the family solicitor.  Alex Wearing stood to inherit the bulk of the family estate but, with his death, that bequeath now goes to James Wearing.  Along with what he would have inherited anyway, a small fortune according to the solicitor.’

Fitzjohn’s eyebrows rose.

‘Puts a bit of a different slant on things, doesn’t it, sir.’

‘It does, Betts.’

‘Do you think these photographs and James Wearing’s story are a ploy to deflect our attention away from him?’

Fitzjohn sat and thought.  ‘One could make that assumption, yes, but these were taken a couple of years ago and do suggest Louise Wearing was being stalked.   No, Betts, I think James Wearing is telling the truth.  It was obvious to me he was rattled by Gould’s story.  But having said that, we mustn’t forget, he did have a strong motive to kill his brother.’

CHAPTER 15

James arrived at Tullamarine airport early the next morning, and after finding the piece of paper in his wallet with Patrick Spender's address on it, took a taxi to Prahran.  Forty minutes later, he paid the driver and turned toward a narrow Victorian terrace house, its drawn curtains and peeling paint lending a feeling of abandonment to the place.  The wooden gate squeaked as he pushed it open and made his way through the small neglected garden to the front door.  He knocked and waited, aware of movement inside.  Eventually, the door opened to reveal a slim middle-aged woman with grey, wavy hair and a large cardigan draped around her shoulders. Her face tense, she looked at James through narrowed eyes.

‘Mrs Spender?’

‘Yes, I’m Muriel Spender, can I help you?’

‘My name’s James Wearing.  I’m from Sydney.  I spoke to your husband on the telephone yesterday.  Did he mention me to you?’

The expression on Muriel Spender's face looked to ease.  ‘Yes.  Come in, Dr Wearing.’  James stepped inside and followed Muriel Spender through the darkened, stuffy house, the only light coming from a room at the back into which they walked.  A slight man in his mid-sixties stood at the kitchen sink looking out onto the blustery day.  He ran his hand through his thick white hair and turned as they entered the room.  James could see the strain in the man’s eyes, and the skin on his face, translucent against the light from the window behind.

‘Dr Spender.’  James Wearing.’

Patrick Spender extended his hand.  ‘Dr Wearing.  Thank you so much for coming.  May I call you James?’

‘Yes, by all means.’

Patrick Spender gestured for James to sit down.  James took off his overcoat and gave it to Muriel Spender, who disappeared from the room.  He pulled out a kitchen chair while Patrick sat at the opposite side of the table.  Muriel Spender came back into the room, filled the kettle with water, and placed it on the gas stove.

‘When I heard of Alex’s death it saddened me,' said Patrick.  'Your brother and I have been friends and colleagues for many years.’

‘I had no idea.  Alex never mentioned you to me.’

Patrick smiled.  ‘Well, I can’t say that surprises me.  I liked Alex very much.  He was a great friend, but I found him an unusual man.  In all the years I knew him, he never spoke of his family or friends.  I didn’t question it, but now, I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn't a way to ensure that those around him didn't become involved in what was happening to him.’

James frowned.  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘I’m sorry, James.  I should explain.  Alex and I met in the early 1980s.  I found him hitchhiking just outside Gosford.  It was late... or perhaps I should say early, about one in the morning.  I picked him up and drove him into Sydney.  I didn’t see him again until we met, by chance, at a conference here in Melbourne.  By that time, he was married and had a position as a lecturer at the University of Sydney in the Department of Archaeology.  We’ve kept in touch ever since.  Recently, we’d been planning a project together; a documentary.  At one of our meetings, Alex seemed particularly agitated and I asked him if he’d had a change of heart and wanted to pull out.  He said no but something had happened and he didn’t know what the outcome would be.  We talked for some time and eventually he told me.  He was being blackmailed.’

‘Blackmailed?’

‘My reaction exactly.  I couldn’t believe it.’

James’s thoughts went to his arguments with Alex over the sale of Cragleigh.  That must have been why he was so desperate to sell.  Then there were the loans he had taken out and the mortgage over the house.

‘Actually, Patrick, it confirms what I suspected.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’  James told Patrick Spender about the loans taken out by Alex and his determination to sell Cragleigh.’

‘Patrick, did he say why he was being blackmailed?’

‘No.  He wouldn’t give me any details.  I think he believed the less I knew the better, although having said that, I sensed he needed to talk to someone about it.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘Only that he’d managed to raise a substantial amount of the money, obviously through the loans you mentioned, but needed more and planned to sell three artefacts he had in his possession.  I told him it was madness, but he said he’d given it a great deal of thought and could see no other way.  The man was at breaking point, James.  This scourge went against everything he believed in.’  Patrick Spender paused.  ‘In the end, though, I think he decided not to succumb to the blackmail demands.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He didn’t pay the blackmailer.  He left the money with me.  I think that’s the reason he’s dead.’

James frowned.  ‘Where’s the money now?’

‘Here, in the house.  Thousands and thousands of dollars.’  James could now understand the tension he felt in the house.  ‘I know I should have gone to the police immediately, but I hesitated.  I didn’t want to draw the blackmailer here.  I decided to speak to you first.’

James noted again the frailty of the man in front of him.  ‘I’m glad you did.’  He paused.  ‘I hate to involve you further in this, Patrick, but we have to go to the police.’  Muriel Spender stood at her husband’s side, her hand on his shoulder.

‘I expected no less,' said Patrick.  'In a way, it’ll be a relief.’  He patted Muriel’s hand.  ‘We’ve been worried sick with this money in the house and thinking it may have something to do with Alex’s death.’

‘I can understand.’  James reached for his mobile phone.  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn is in charge of the investigation into Alex’s death.  Would you mind if I give him a call now?’

Patrick hesitated as he glanced at his wife.  He looked back at James. ‘No, go ahead.’

James waited with the Spenders’ until Fitzjohn and Sergeant Betts arrived early that afternoon.  After introductions, he feigned a meeting and made his way back into the city, Patrick Spender's disclosure about Alex dominant in his mind.  What in Alex’s life could cause him to be the target for blackmail?  As the taxi wended its way through the streets, James sat back and stared out at the figures of pedestrians distorted by the rain- spattered windows, his thoughts turning to Simon Rhodes.  Where in Melbourne did he say he and his wife’s antique business had been?  James leaned forward.  ‘Take me to South Yarra instead, please, driver.’  The driver nodded.

When the taxi pulled up on Toorak Road, James paid the driver and climbed out.  As he did so, he pulled his collar up against the wind and looked around to see a number of antique shops.  For the next half hour, he made his way along both sides of the street but after enquiring in a number of them, he found no one had heard of Simon Rhodes.  James began to feel his idea a futile one.  He crossed the street once again, dodging between buses and cars, and headed for the taxi rank.  As he did so, he found himself in front of yet another antique shop, its awning faded and worn.

A bell sounded as he opened the door.  When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties at the rear of the shop talking to an elderly gentleman.  She turned when she heard the bell.  ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,’ she called.

James raised his hand and began browsing through the bric-a-brac on a table underneath the window.

‘I'm sorry to keep you.’

James turned.  ‘That's okay.'

'Is there anything in particular you're looking for?' she asked, smiling.

'Actually, I wanted to ask you whether you know of a Mrs Rhodes who has an antique business in the area.'

The woman frowned.  ‘Rhodes?  I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.  I’ve been here for a few years now and I don’t know of a Mrs Rhodes.’

James nodded.  ‘Well, I must be mistaken.  Perhaps I have the wrong area.’  James turned to leave.

‘I do remember a
Mr
Rhodes, however, if that helps.’

James turned back.  ‘Oh?’

‘Yes.  I bought this shop four years ago from Pamela Marquis.  I believe her partner’s name was Rhodes.’

‘Four years ago, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have any idea where she went?’

‘She did leave a forwarding address.’  The woman frowned.  ‘Would you mind waiting for a moment and I’ll see whether I still have it?’

The woman walked to the back of the shop and disappeared through a door.  As the minutes ticked by, James looked at his watch.  ‘I’m sorry to keep you,' she said on her return.  'It’s been so long since her mail stopped coming here, I’d put this away in a drawer.’  She handed James a card.

'The Norwood Parade in Adelaide.’

‘Yes, I remember now.  She said she had family in Adelaide.  I don’t think she was too well at the time.  I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more.  I only met her on two occasions when I was looking at the property.’

‘Did you ever meet, Mr Rhodes?’

‘Yes.  I believe he was here on one of those occasions.  Slight build, very well dressed, as I remember.’

James left the shop minutes later and hailed a taxi.  'Tullamarine, please, driver.'  So, Simon had lied.  The antique business had been sold four years earlier.  But what of Pamela Marquis?  Had she been Simon’s wife or was that another lie?  He looked at the card again.  It seemed more and more likely that Gould could be telling the truth about Simon.  Perhaps he should take the opportunity to speak to Pamela Marquis.  She may be able to give some insight into Simon Rhodes if, in fact, her partner had been the same Rhodes.

At the airport, James booked a flight to Adelaide and an hour and a half later stood outside Adelaide Airport before jumping into a taxi.  When they reached The Parade in Norwood, he found himself standing outside another antique shop, its window cluttered with bric-a-brac.  On opening the door, he found a woman in her early forties behind a wooden counter, her light brown hair framing a delicate face.  She smiled as he entered the shop.

‘Good afternoon.  Can I help you?’

‘I hope you can.  I’m looking for a Pamela Marquis.’

‘I’m Pamela.’

‘James Wearing, from Sydney, Mrs Marquis.’

‘It’s Ms actually.’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’

‘That’s all right.  You’ve come a long way, Mr Wearing.  Are you interested in a particular piece?’  She looked past James toward the furniture.

‘Actually I’m here on another matter.  I wonder if I might have a word with you about a man called Simon Rhodes.’  James watched the smile disappear from the woman’s face.  ‘I understand you knew him at one time.’

Pamela Marquis hesitated, her hands fiddling with the papers on the counter in front of her.  ‘Who told you where to find me?’

‘I talked to the woman who bought your antique business in South Yarra.’

A look of relief came across Pamela Marquis's face.  ‘Oh.  For a minute I thought he’d sent you.’

‘Simon Rhodes, you mean?  No.’

Pamela Marquis looked past James as the door of the shop opened and two women entered.  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s rather difficult to talk at the moment.  I have a break in about half an hour.  I could meet you at the café across the street, if you like.’

James took a seat next to the window in the café and waited.  Pamela Marquis appeared a short time later.  She ordered a cup of coffee and sat down.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have long, Mr Wearing.  The owner of the shop is a difficult person at the best of times.  He’s not keen on me taking my break outside the shop.’

‘I’ll try not to keep you too long, Ms Marquis.  It’s just that it’s important I find out whether Simon Rhodes lived in Melbourne at one time and when he left?’

‘Why do you want to know?'

‘I’m not at liberty to say other than there’s a police investigation involved.’

Pamela Marquis’s brow furrowed.  ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a policeman?’

‘No.'  James paused.  'It’s a long and complicated story, actually, and I’d sooner not go into detail, but I believe Simon Rhodes may have had something to do with my wife’s death.  I’d be grateful for any information you can give me about the man.’

Pamela Marquis looked down at her hands holding her cup of coffee before looking up again at James.  ‘Mr Wearing, I’ve gone to great lengths to ensure Simon Rhodes doesn’t know where I am.  To be quite honest, I’m not keen to get involved.’

‘I can understand your reluctance.  He seems to have brought pain to a lot of people.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t surprise me.’  Pamela Marquis paused.  ‘Look, I’ll tell you what I know and you can make of it what you want.  I met Simon at a fundraising dinner about six years ago.  After that, I came across him socially and eventually we started to see each other.  Now, of course, I realise it was all planned.’

‘Planned?’

‘Yes.  He wheedled his way into my life through my friends and associates.  Frequented places where I spent my leisure time, charities I supported.  Sounds bizarre, I know, but it’s true.’  Her dark eyes looked at James as she took a sip of her coffee before continuing.  ‘Once he’d established himself firmly in my life and had gained my confidence, he proceeded to take over.  Not so I’d notice, you understand.  Just a gradual process.  Looking back, I can only blame myself and my naivety. Like a fool, I trusted him.  Let him manage my investments.  By the time I realised what was going on, it was too late.  I had nothing left except my antique business.  He tried to get that, too, in the end.  Anyway, I sold it to pay my debts, left Melbourne and came here.’  Pamela took another sip of coffee.  ‘The man’s a predator, Mr Wearing.  As far as I know, he doesn’t know where I am and I want it to remain that way.’