The Celtic Dagger (4 page)

Edward, in his late thirties, was the youngest director the museum had engaged, his energy and enthusiasm evident in the changes he had made in the last five years.  In that time, he and James had became friends and now, James felt Edward was the only person he could confide in.

When they reached Edward’s office, the door stood open.  ‘Take a seat.’  James sat in one of the chairs in front of Edward’s desk.  Edward sat down and closed a file that lay open in front of him.  ‘Now, what’s the problem?’ he asked.

‘The artefacts we borrowed were found missing the morning of Alex’s death, and the events following that discovery have led to them becoming part of the murder investigation.’

Edward frowned.  ‘How?’

‘This morning I found the dagger laid out on my desk in a manner that can only be described as ritualistic.  Catherine found the ring in Alex’s study at home.’  A look of disbelief crossed Edward Sommersby’s face as James recounted the last twenty-four hours.

‘And you believe this Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn sees you as a suspect?’

‘Yes, I do.  You see, I have no alibi.  No one can substantiate my whereabouts after I left the dinner.  If the dagger turns out to be the weapon that killed Alex…’ As his uneasiness grew, James got to his feet and walked over to the window where he stood for a moment before turning back to face Edward.  ‘I’ve got to do something.’

Edward sat back in his chair.  ‘I can understand your distress, James, but I don’t see there’s much you can do.  Surely the police will see you’ve been set up.’

‘And what if they don’t?  Once they start asking around about my relationship with Alex, I’m sure you’d agree it’ll only get worse.’

‘Mmm.  Well, it won’t help.  I saw you two at it the other night before the dinner started.  What was that all about?’

‘Cragleigh.  Alex arranged to have a valuer go out there.  He also lined up a real estate firm to handle the sale.’

‘Even though you hadn’t agreed to sell?’

‘Yes.’  James ran his hand through his hair.  ‘You know, it’s strange.  Alex loved Cragleigh.  More than me, I think.  I couldn’t believe it when he became so adamant that we sell.  And why take the artefacts without clearing it with Miles?  It’s so out of character for him.’

‘You don’t know that he did.’

‘How else would the ring get into his study?’

Edward nodded.  ‘True.’

James shook his head.  ‘If the newspapers get wind of it, I don’t think my father could cope if they started to drag Alex’s reputation through the mud.’

‘I know it’s a problem, but you can’t afford to worry about that now.’

Minutes later, James left Edward Sommersby’s office only to see Fitzjohn entering the museum.  Their eyes met across the foyer, annoyance evident on the Chief Inspector’s face.

CHAPTER 5

In the fading afternoon light, James emerged from Waverton station and made his way home along Crows Nest Road, his spirits sagging after the day's events.  The grandfather clock chimed the half hour as he opened the front door, its familiar sound inducing some sense of normality to return.  He threw the mail on the hall table and made his way into the living room where he poured himself a drink.  Taking a gulp, and feeling the whisky's warmth slide down his throat, he sat down heavily into an armchair.  As he did so, the usual emptiness returned as he looked around the room, filled as it was with memories of Louise.  His eyes caught the photograph of Louise with her friend Edwina Parker on the desk.  It had been taken outside the pair's joint venture 'The Gallery', and his mind drifted back to Louise's disappointment when he told her he would not be there for the official opening.  James looked away.  Claudio was right.  He had to move on.

He put his glass down, left the room and made his way upstairs.  When he reached the landing, he took the stairs that led to the attic and Louise’s studio.

The steps creaked under his weight and cobwebs stuck to his face as he climbed to the top and walked into the room, its air musty and close.  James moved to the dormer window, pushed it open and felt a gust of cold night air rush in and with it, the sound of the wind.  The temperature in the room dropped and particles of dust flew as the sheet that covered Louise's easel billowed and fell to the floor.  At the same time, the attic door slammed.  James turned back to the window and pulled it shut.  Silence returned.

He stood for a time, taking in the shadows that moved around him before his eyes came to rest on a painting, dwarfed by the easel on which it sat.  It was a small oil painting of a woman’s head and shoulders in a gilded frame.  Why would Louise leave such a beautiful painting up here?  James picked it up, blew the dust off and looked for the artist’s name.  Puzzled when nothing appeared, he tucked the painting under his arm and made his way downstairs.  Perhaps Edwina Parker would know of someone who could clean it.  When he reached the front hall, he placed the painting on the hall table.  As he did so, the doorbell rang.  James opened the door to find Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and his Sergeant.

‘Good evening, Doctor.  We called in at your office, but missed you.  I wonder if we can speak to you again.’

James, his head still reeling from his earlier encounter with Fitzjohn stepped back from the door.  ‘Come through.’  He led the way into the living room and gestured for the two men to sit down.  Fitzjohn glanced around as he sat in one of the armchairs opposite the sofa.  ‘We don’t plan to stay long, Dr Wearing.  We dropped by to let you know that the dagger has proved to be the weapon that killed your brother.’  James stared at Fitzjohn in the silence that followed and the implications of this fact fell into place in his mind.

‘Of course, you realise that as the dagger was found in your office, it’ll be necessary to take your fingerprints so as to eliminate them from any others that may be found on the weapon.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Fitzjohn got up from his chair, put his hands behind his back and circled the room before turning back to face James.  ‘However, having said that, I think tomorrow will be soon enough.’  Fitzjohn continued pacing and stopped in front of a group of watercolours on the wall above James’s desk.  He removed his glasses and looked at them intently.  ‘These are impressive, exquisite in fact.  Who’s the artist?’

James felt unnerved by Fitzjohn sudden change of subject.  ‘My late wife, Louise.  She died two years ago in a car accident.’

Fitzjohn looked back at James.  'I’m sorry to hear that.  Such a loss.'  He looked back at the watercolours.  'She had great talent, Doctor.’

'Is there anything else you wanted to ask me, Chief Inspector?' said James impatiently.

'There are a few questions, Dr Wearing, the first being whether you have any idea how the dagger got into your office.'

‘I have no idea.  I’m sure I locked the door when I left for the dinner.’

‘Is there a chance you could be mistaken?’

‘I suppose there’s always that possibility, but I doubt it.’

‘Right.  Assuming you did lock the door, who else has access to your office?’

‘Two people.  Alex who held a master key and, of course, there’s the key registry held by the attendant.’

‘I see.  Very well, we’ll look into it.  Now the other matter is concerning your brother.  Dr Trenbath has identified two academics he worked closely with in his current research.’  Fitzjohn looked over to Sergeant Betts, who turned the page of his notebook.

‘A Dr Gillespie and a Dr Ross.’

Fitzjohn looked back at James.  ‘Can you think of anyone else he spent time with?’

‘Only Ashley Manning.  She’s a PhD student Alex has supervised for the past two years.’

‘And how did they get on?’

‘Fine, I believe.  At least I’ve never heard anything to the contrary.’

‘How well do you know Ms Manning?’

James’s thoughts went to his time at the excavation site that past summer and his attraction to Ashley Manning.  They had spent many hours working together during his time at the site but, nevertheless, she remained aloof.

‘I haven’t had much to do with her other than at the excavation in France that I mentioned to you earlier today, so I wouldn’t say I know her well at all.  You might ask Vera Trenbath.  She’s the postgraduate co-ordinator.’

Fitzjohn nodded.  ‘We'll do that.  There’s just one more thing I’d like to mention, Dr Wearing, and I’ll be blunt.  I feel it necessary to impress upon you that I do not appreciate interference in my work, and how important it is that you do not discuss the investigation with anyone.  I’m speaking, of course, about your meeting with Dr Sommersby late this afternoon, contrary, I might add, to my advice earlier in the day.  I’m sure you can appreciate the task we have before us in an investigation of this type and it’s crucial that investigation isn’t compromised.’  Fitzjohn paused before continuing.

‘Do you have any more trips planned for the foreseeable future?’

‘In light of what’s happened, no.’

‘Good, because I’m sure we’ll want to speak to you again.’

Fitzjohn and Sergeant Betts got to their feet.  ‘We'll not take up anymore of your time, Doctor.  If you’ll just present yourself at the station in the morning, it would be appreciated.’  A polite smile crossed Fitzjohn’s face.  ‘Good night.’

‘Good night, Chief Inspector.’

James closed the door behind the two men and returned to the living room, a sense of foreboding taking hold.  He walked over to the rain-splattered window and pulled the curtains across, his mind going over the day’s events.  He found it hard to believe that Alex would have taken the artefacts from Miles Bennett’s office without telling him.  A stickler for rules, it would be so out of character for him.  But everything pointed to the fact he had done so.  How else would the ring be in his study at home?  James slumped down in a chair.  Would Alex have confided in Ashley Manning?

CHAPTER 6

Fitzjohn and Sergeant Betts emerged from James Wearing’s house and hurried to the car through the rain.  Betts started the engine, put the windscreen wipers on, and looked across at a silent Fitzjohn.

‘Where to now, sir?’

Fitzjohn turned to Betts, his glasses spotted with rain.  He took them off and wiped them with his handkerchief before glancing at his watch.  ‘Well, I suspect it’s too late to seek out that postgraduate student Dr Wearing mentioned.  What was her name?’

‘Manning, sir.’

‘Ah yes, Ashley Manning.  We’ll visit Ms Manning first thing in the morning but for now, I think we’ll call it a night, Betts.’

Betts turned the car lights on and pulled away from the curb.

‘I’ll drop you at home, shall I, sir?’

‘No.  Take me back to the station.  I have a few things on my desk to clear up.’

They drove for a time in silence, Fitzjohn lost in thought.

‘What do you think, sir?  About James Wearing, I mean,' Betts asked.

‘I think he’s making light of the argument he had with his brother the night he died.’  Fitzjohn paused.  ‘I believe Alex Wearing’s mere suggestion of the sale of their house in the Blue Mountains angered James Wearing.’

‘And it doesn’t sound like an isolated incident, sir.  Both Vera Trenbath and Tristan Harrow mentioned the animosity between the two.’

‘Mmm.  So one might assume that there's some underlying problem.  We need to find out what it is, Betts.  Ask around.  See what you can find out.’

‘Do you think James Wearing could have killed his brother?’

Fitzjohn frowned.  ‘I don’t know.  Although, everything so far would lead us to believe so.  He has no alibi and he left Sydney not long after the murder took place.’

‘Plus the murder weapon was found in his office.’

‘True, but if he is our man, I think he would have disposed of that dagger, not set it out on his desk.’  Fitzjohn paused and looked out through the rain-splattered windscreen.  ‘But then again, after thirty years in this job, I’ve seen people do the strangest things.’

Despite the late hour, the station buzzed with activity as Fitzjohn made his way to his office.  He put his briefcase on his desk, pulled his overcoat off and hung it behind the door.  For a moment, he stood at the window and looked down onto the deserted street, its wet pavement glistening under the streetlight, his conversations with James Wearing replaying in his mind.

The next morning, as was his habit, Fitzjohn rose early and, dressed in an old pair of trousers and a jumper Edith had knitted him years earlier, he went downstairs.  At the back door, he slipped his feet into a pair of rubber boots, and stepped outside.  A breeze caught the few wisps of hair remaining on the top of his head.  He smoothed them back down as he surveyed the garden where, although its summer colours were now faded, the manicured borders gave him satisfaction.  Stepping down onto the stone path, he walked to the greenhouse, closed the door and switched on the small CD player he kept on the shelf.  Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A major filled the air while Fitzjohn hummed quietly to himself and made slow progress along each row, tending his orchids.

When Sergeant Betts arrived two hours later, he found Fitzjohn in the kitchen.  His boss was dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit with a white handkerchief just visible in the top left hand pocket, any hint of his earlier garb gone.  The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air.  ‘Ah, good morning, Betts.  Or is it?  You look a little worse for wear.’

‘We had a farewell last night for one of the blokes, sir.’

‘Self inflicted pain, then.  I have no sympathy for you.’  Fitzjohn turned back to the kitchen counter and poured coffee into a mug.  He handed it to Betts.  ‘Perhaps this will help.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

While Betts sipped the steaming brew, Fitzjohn gathered up his papers on the kitchen table and placed them in his briefcase.  ‘I want to speak to Ms Manning first thing.  Do you have any idea where we can reach her?’

‘Yes.  I dropped into the archaeology department on my way here and spoke to Vera Trenbath.  She gave me Ashley Manning’s address.’  Betts held up a small card.  ‘She lives in a flat in Paddington.’

‘Good.  Then we’ll make our way there now.’  Fitzjohn pulled on his overcoat as Betts gulped down the remains of his coffee.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled over in front of a three-story block of flats.  In the foyer, Fitzjohn pushed the button next to Ashley Manning’s name.  Moments passed.

‘Hello.’

‘Ms Manning?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, New South Wales Police.  ‘I’d like to speak to you in connection with the death of Alex Wearing.’

Fitzjohn waited until he heard the door into the building click.  As it opened, he followed Betts inside and up a narrow flight of stairs.  At the top, a tall, slim young woman, her brunette hair pulled back loosely in a chignon, stood in a doorway to the left.

‘Miss Manning, I'm Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, and this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’

Ashley Manning, her face pensive, stepped back from the door.  ‘Come in.’

Fitzjohn and Betts followed her into a living room that overlooked the tree-lined street below.  She picked up the magazines scattered across the sofa and placed them on the coffee table.  'Please, have a seat.'

Fitzjohn settled himself in an armchair.  Betts sat at one end of the sofa and fumbled with his notebook and pen as he watched Ashley Manning pull out a chair from the desk in front of the window and perched herself on its edge.

‘We understand you’re a postgraduate student at the University of Sydney, Ms Manning.’

‘Yes.  I’ve been doing my PhD there for the past two years.  Professor Wearing is... was my supervisor.’

Fitzjohn nodded as he glanced at a photograph on a small round table next to his chair.  ‘An archaeological dig?’

‘Yes, this past summer.  As you can see, Professor Wearing was there as was his brother, James Wearing.’

‘You knew Alex Wearing well?’

‘I suppose you could say that, yes.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘The afternoon before he died.’

‘Whereabouts?’

Ashley turned the bracelet on her wrist.  ‘In his office, but I was only there for a minute or two because his phone rang.’

‘What time would this have been, Ms Manning?’

‘Just after lunch.’

‘You didn’t go back to see him later in the day?’

‘No.  I had to work.  I have a part-time job at the Australian Museum.’

‘I see.’  Fitzjohn looked again at the photograph.  ‘In your opinion, did Alex Wearing get on well with people?  At this excavation, for instance.’

Ashley Manning hesitated.  ‘Yes.’

‘Forgive me for saying so, Ms Manning, but you don’t sound too sure.’

Ashley smoothed a few wisps of hair back from her face.  ‘Well, it’s just that he did have words with his brother, James Wearing, a couple of times, as I remember.’

Fitzjohn frowned.  ‘Do you know why they argued?’

‘No.’

‘How well do you know James Wearing?’

‘Hardly at all.  The only contact we’ve had was at that excavation.’  Ashley pointed to the photograph.

‘Very well, Ms Manning, I just have one last question.  Can you tell us where you were between midnight and 6am on the seventh of July?’

‘Here, asleep in bed.’

‘Alone?’

Ashley Manning glared at Fitzjohn.  ‘Yes.’

Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from Ashley Manning’s flat and made their way back down the stairs and out to their car.

‘Am I right in saying Ms Manning doesn’t fit your image of an archaeologist, Betts?’

Betts's eyebrows rose.  ‘I suppose I had visions of someone less...’

‘Attractive?’

‘Yes.’

Fitzjohn laughed.  ‘I thought you were a little taken.’

Betts turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb.  ‘You didn’t mention the missing artefacts to her, sir.’

‘No, I thought it prudent not to advertise their theft too widely for the moment.’

‘Do you think she knows more than what she’s saying then, sir?’

‘Most assuredly, Betts.  Most assuredly.’