Authors: Jill Paterson
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Cozy, #International Mystery & Crime, #Police Procedurals
Lane's End (18 page)
Amanda sat back in her chair. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I’m a detective, Ms Marsh. I detect.’
‘Thanks for all your hard work over the past couple of weeks, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn as he stood behind his desk and placed his papers into his briefcase. ‘It hasn’t been an easy case. So much so that for a while there, I thought it might have got the better of us.’
‘I still don’t understand how you knew Henry Beaumont had spoken to Amanda Marsh before he left Lane’s End that day, sir,’ said Betts, leaning against the filing cabinet.
‘I didn’t. I just hoped. If I was right, I thought it’d be enough to throw Ms Marsh off balance. You see, it seemed to me that Henry had been an excellent gardener, so I presumed he knew all about noxious weeds as well as the plants he worked with. I also think he was an astute man and would have noticed that there was something wrong with Rachael, physically, when she pulled away from Sebastian. After all, Ben Carmichael did say that Henry had left him behind and run toward them. Being that sort of person I thought there was every possibility he might just have looked around at the scene after Rachael fell and noticed the half eaten salad. Put two and two together, perhaps. And it seems he did.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘There was also the fact that Richard Carmichael became angry about the food presentation during the cocktail party that night and said he was going off to speak to Amanda. From what we’d gleaned about his personality being rather placid, that reaction seemed to me to be out of character. Of course, we now know it wasn’t that at all, that actually, he’d just learnt from Van Goren that Amanda had attempted to poison Rachael.’ Fitzjohn sighed. ‘Makes you wonder whether that knowledge was a catalyst for his eventual heart attack, doesn’t it?’
‘What do you think about Amanda Marsh, sir? Do you think she’s sound, psychologically?’
‘That’s difficult to say until she’s assessed. She might well be sound, in which case she missed her calling because she’d have made a successful career on the stage. I tend to think, however, that that’s not the case.’
‘So you think she believed that Emma Phillips was Rachael that day at Ivy Cottage.’
‘Yes. I do.’ Fitzjohn closed his briefcase and shrugged into his suit coat before he took in Betts’s smart appearance.
‘Going somewhere special this evening, are we?’
‘I have a date with a certain young lady, sir.’
Fitzjohn gave Betts a knowing look. ‘She wouldn’t happen to be my niece by any chance, would she?’
‘As a matter of fact...’
‘Enjoy your evening, Betts,’ Fitzjohn said with a smile as he grabbed his briefcase and disappeared through the doorway.
As night time fell and with an ambulance wailing in the distance, Fitzjohn arrived home that evening to be met by the sweet sound of silence as he stepped inside his Birchgrove cottage. Closing the door behind him, he sighed, happy in the expectation of a peaceful evening tending his orchids but, at the same time, saddened by the fact that this pastime was about to come to an end with the demolition of his greenhouse. He placed his briefcase and the mail on the hall table and, humming to himself, he made his way upstairs. Minutes later, now dressed in an old pair of beige slacks and a T-shirt that had seen better days, he made his way back downstairs, through to the kitchen and out into the back garden. There, he stood for a moment or two on the porch reflecting on the successful outcome of not only his investigation into Peter Van Goren’s death, but also that of Rachael Carmichael’s. It would, of course, remain to be seen what Grieg’s reaction to the solving of the latter would be. Good or bad, however, he decided it was a thought for another day. Rubbing his hands together, he stepped off the porch and headed down the garden path toward the greenhouse, looking sideways at the offending murraya hedge as he did so. It was then he realised that he had a surprisingly clear view into Rhonda Butler’s garden. Fitzjohn stopped in his tracks, at the same time, looking down at the debris strewn along the fence line. With the hedge now at fence height, he tentatively peered over to see Rhonda armed with a gas powered hedge trimmer. ‘Good evening Mrs Butler. Doing a little night time gardening are we?’
Rhonda squealed. ‘It’s none of your business what I’m doing, Mr Fitzjohn.’
‘It is when it’s my hedge you’re trimming, madam. Let’s say, game, set, match, shall we? In other words, I won’t make a complaint to the New South Wales Police Department about you tampering with my property if you withdraw your complaint about my greenhouse to Leichhardt Municipal Council.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. The police would never listen to you,’ sneered Rhonda.
‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. They’ll listen because I’m a policeman. Or had you forgotten? Good evening, Mrs B.’ Chuckling to himself and with a spring in his step, Fitzjohn stepped over the debris and made his way into the greenhouse. ‘The perfect ending to a perfect day,’ he said with a smile.
In the weeks that followed, Emma returned home, at last free from the nightmares that had haunted her days and nights while she recuperated in the hospital. Joanna and Laura set off on a Mediterranean cruise in an effort to put the past behind them and start again. For Ben, the violence and suffering he had witnessed during his years roaming the world, had finally taken their toll and now, he pondered his future.
‘Ben?’ Emma walked into the study, the only light that from the desk lamp. She placed a mug of steaming coffee down in front of him, its rich aroma filling the air. ‘Making plans for your next assignment?’ she asked.
Ben leaned back in his chair and took her hands. ‘No, because there’s not going to be a next assignment. I resigned this morning.’
‘Resigned?
I don’t understand. You’re not doing it because of me, are you? I wouldn’t want that, Ben.’
‘That might be part of it, but not all. You see, I can’t do it anymore, Emma. I just can’t. I knew that when I was on my way back from Cairo this last time.’
‘But what will you do?’
‘I’ll freelance. I’m not sure in what direction. I’ll have to give it some thought but in the meantime, I’ve been asked to do an exhibition of my work in New York.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s quite an accolade.’ Emma paused. ‘How long will you be gone?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Could be months.’
Emma slumped down into the chair next to Ben’s desk.
‘Months?’
‘Yes. These things always take time. There’s so much to prepare. And the organisers want the exhibition to run for at least one month, possibly longer depending on how well it’s received so...’ Emma’s blue eyes stared at Ben. ‘Of course, after we’ve finished in New York, I thought we could take a holiday in Europe.’
‘We?’
A wide smile came to Emma’s face and she flung her arms around Ben’s neck.
‘Of course. Do you think I’d go without you?’
As Ben held Emma in his arms, the doorbell sounded. Ben looked at his watch. ‘That’ll be Emerson. I asked him to drop by because I’ve decided to put Lane’s End on the market.’
Emma sat back. ‘Is that wise? What I mean is. Shouldn’t you take some time to think about it first? You don’t want to do something you might regret.’
‘I have thought and I couldn’t come up with a reason to keep the place. It’s where my mother died a terrible death, and I can’t see you wanting to return. Not after what happened to you there.’
‘Amanda Marsh might have attacked me at Lane’s End, Ben, but I don’t have a problem with the place itself. Why would I? But having said that, I can understand that you might not be able to dispel the ghosts that lurk in your mind.’
Ben sighed. ‘You’re right, there are ghosts.’
‘Then wouldn’t it be a good idea not to rush into selling?’ Emma asked.
When Joanna had returned from the Mediterranean and on the afternoon before Ben and Emma left for New York, Joanna and Ben stood on the edge of the cliff at Lane’s End, and in the face of a soft sea breeze, threw the roses they held, one by one, out over the cliff top and into the swirling sea below.
The Sydney Observatory that features in Lane’s End was built in 1858 and is located on “Observatory Hill” in the heart of Sydney’s CBD. It is the oldest existing observatory in Australia.
During the 19th and early 20th centuries it provided time services for the colony, shipping and navigation, surveying measurement and meteorology recording, as well as observing astronomical events and the stars in the Southern Hemisphere sky. In 1982 Sydney Observatory became part of the Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences.
Sydney Observatory’s role today is astronomy education, public telescope viewing and the preservation of astronomical heritage. It houses the oldest refractor transit telescope in Australia, an 1874 29cm lens telescope, and a recently restored 1890s astrographic telescope, as well as contemporary computer-controlled reflector and hydrogen-alpha solar telescopes. Day and night tours by astronomers include a virtual reality 3-D space theatre and Digitalis planetarium, and exhibitions about astronomy, meteorology and the Observatory’s history.
The silver cane that features in Lane’s End and appears on the book’s cover, was hand-crafted in Italy by Pasotti. Founded in 1956 by Ernesta Pasotti, not only does the company make the most beautiful canes you will ever see, they also produce the most exquisite umbrellas.
When I first started to write Lane’s End, I envisaged just such a cane. Oddly enough, on one particular Tuesday in 2013, I found myself in a most fascinating shop bursting with antiques, soft furnishings and products from across the world. I'm a good browser so, of course, I stepped inside. There, leaning against an antique cupboard was the very SILVER CANE I had conjured up in my mind, complete with an eagles head for its handle, and a silver tip at its end. No doubt you know the rest. I bought it!
My sincere thanks goes to Nicola Begotti of Pasotti Ombrelli SRL, for giving me his permission to include the silver cane’s image on the cover of Lane’s End.
Jill Paterson was born in Yorkshire, UK, and grew up in Adelaide, South Australia before spending 11 years in Ontario, Canada. On returning to Australia, she settled in Canberra.
After doing an Arts Degree at the Australian National University, she worked at the Australian National University’s School of Law before spending the next 10 years with the Business Council of Australia and the University of New South Wales (ADFA Campus) in the School of Electrical Engineering.
Jill is the author of four published books, The Celtic Dagger, Murder At The Rocks, Once Upon A Lie and Lane’s End which are all part of the Fitzjohn Mystery Series. She has also authored two non-fiction books entitled Self Publishing-Pocket Guide and Writing-Painting A Picture With Words.
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