The Fourth String

  THE FOURTH STRING

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  JILL PATERSON

  Also by Jill Paterson

  The Celtic Dagger

  Murder At The Rocks

  Once Upon A Lie

  Lane’s End

  Deadly Investment

  Poisoned Palette

  The Fourth String

  Copyright © Jill Paterson 2017

  Cover design by Renee Barratt http://www.thecovercounts.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-9925840-6-1

  Print book ISBN 978-0-9925840-5-4

  Publisher: J. Henderson, Australia

  Publication Date: December 18th, 2017

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Fourth String

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Cast Of Characters

  About the Author

  The Fitzjohn Mystery Series

  Connect with me on-line

  The Fourth String

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  Featuring Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, The Fourth String is the seventh book in the Fitzjohn Mystery Series.

  “The Claremont”, an outdated, run-down apartment building, is thrown into turmoil when its latest and most celebrated resident, Crispin Fairchild, conductor of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, is found murdered.

  His eccentric neighbours and members of the orchestra appear saddened by his death but are they? Is one of them his killer? These are questions Detective Chief Inspector Alistair Fitzjohn asks himself when he takes on the case and unearths not only the innermost secrets of those who knew Crispin but the enigma that surrounds him.

  CHAPTER 1

  Through the half-open doorway, Elvira glimpsed the ornate front hall before her fingers gripped the doorknob and gave it a tentative push. She knew, of course, that Crispin had had his apartment refurbished before he moved in, but try as she might, observing the modifications had been virtually impossible with the entrance shielded from view by those working on the project. Not to worry, the opportunity had finally arrived.

  ‘Crispin, it’s Elvira from across the hall,’ she called, peeking around the edge of the heavy oak door, her very being quivering with anticipation. ‘I’ve brought the minutes of last night’s meeting. I know you’ll be anxious to find out what the committee decided about the foyer upgrade.’ With no reply she stepped across the threshold, her head twirling as her gaze went from the gilded framed paintings on the walls to the exquisite mouldings on the ceiling high above, their intricate style surrounding a glittering chandelier. ‘Oh my!’ Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she edged deeper into the apartment until she came face-to-face with a set of carved double doors. ‘Crispin,’ she called again. When still no reply came, she turned the gold knob on one of the doors. It opened to reveal more sumptuous surroundings, enhanced by three, tall arched windows which looked out over the lush green foliage of the botanical gardens and the breadth of Sydney’s harbour beyond. It was then, however, her gaze dropped to the body splayed out on the Persian rug in front of the white marble fireplace, and an agonising scream left her lips.

  CHAPTER 2

  With his wire-framed glasses wedged on his forehead and a sense of blissful cheer, Fitzjohn browsed the library’s shelves studying the spines of each book in his chosen category — growing orchids. As he did so, his mobile telephone vibrated inside his jacket pocket, its irritating buzz breaking the silence and raising the eyebrows of those around him.

  ‘Damn and blast,’ he muttered as he fumbled for the phone and watched the books he held in his other hand fall to the floor adding to the din. ‘I hope this is a social call, Betts, because, as you’re aware, I’m on a week’s leave,’ Fitzjohn whispered, his gaze catching the annoying look of a woman at the reading table in front of him.

  ‘I am, sir. Aware, you’re on leave, that is, and I apologise for the interruption because it sounds like I’ve got you at a bad time.’

  ‘You have. I’m in the library so perhaps we can continue this conversation at a later date.’

  ‘No need, sir. I just called to tell you that you’ve been recalled from leave.’

  ‘What! I’ve hardly got started,’ Fitzjohn screeched.

  ‘I realise that, sir, as does Chief Superintendent Ashby.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, Betts. Who is Chief Superintendent Ashby.’

  ‘Our temporary replacement for Chief Superintendent Grieg, sir.’

  ‘Since when?’ asked Fitzjohn as he sat down at the table and watched her eyes narrow.

  ‘Since this morning because apparently, Chief Superintendent Grieg has come down with a case of the shingles and we’re told he could be out of commission for up to three months.’

  ‘Really? That’s unfortunate for him. I’ve heard that shingles can be particularly painful. But I still don’t know why I’m being recalled.’

  ‘It’s because of a reported homicide, sir. Acting Chief Superintendent Ashby wishes you to attend.’

  ‘Can’t someone else attend? After all, I might be thousands of miles away on a tropical island in the South Pacific, sipping a cocktail.’

  ‘But you’re not, sir. You’re at the library.’

  ‘They have libraries on tropical islands, Betts.’ Fitzjohn sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Betts. I realise you’re just the messenger.’

  ‘There’s probably something else you should know, sir.’

  ‘Save it till I get there. Where is the crime scene?’

  ‘At an apartment building on Macquarie Street in the city called The Claremont.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I know of it. It’s an expensive address. Do you know who the victim is?’

  ‘Only that it’s a male and he was a prominent figure, sir. I’m on my way there now. Would you like me to send a car for you?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll order a cab and meet you there.’

  CHAPTER 3

  When the taxi pulled over, Fitzjohn peered out through the rain-splattered window at The Claremont, the building’s sandstone edifice with its tall arched windows, brass railings and fittings enhancing an opulent grand entrance, a testament to times long since past. Needless to say, in the course of his work in the city over the years, he had observed the building on many occasions and had always harboured the desire to see the interior. So, with a sense of expectation, he emerged from the taxi into the rain and sprinted across the road. However, after showing his warrant card to the constable on duty at the front entrance, he was somewhat disappointed when, on entering the foyer, he found that the years had taken their toll. Not only were the black and white marble floor tiles past their prime, the surrounding intricately carved woodwork also needed attention. The fo
yer’s one redeeming feature, however, appeared to be the moulded ceiling which gave way to a stained-glass dome, high above.

  ‘The victim’s on the second level, sir.’

  Fitzjohn spun around to see, Betts, his tall, ginger-haired young sergeant, descending the staircase. ‘Which pathologist is attending?’ he asked, brushing the rain from his suit coat.

  ‘Charles Conroy, sir.’

  ‘Splendid. It helps to have the best.’ Fitzjohn looked sideways at the elevator before pressing the button. When he did so, the door opened with a jitter. ‘Do you think it’s safe?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir. I wasn’t brave enough to use it.’

  ‘Mmm. It does look to have the propensity to get stuck, doesn’t it? I’ll take the stairs,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘I’ll be up shortly, sir. I was just about to have a look at the surveillance camera down here and try to find out which security company monitors it.’

  Fitzjohn looked to the camera high above, its lens pointing down towards him. ‘It doesn’t look like state of the art technology, does it?’

  ‘It’s pretty old like the building,’ replied Betts. ‘It may not even be in use anymore.’

  ‘Let’s pray it is,’ said Fitzjohn as he started up the stairs.

  He reached the first-floor landing to see Charles Conroy standing in an open doorway speaking on his mobile phone. He hung up and placed it in his pocket as Fitzjohn walked towards him.

  ‘Alistair, I thought you were on leave.’

  ‘I’ve been recalled,’ replied Fitzjohn, peering in through the open doorway. ‘I’ve yet to find out the reason why. Who’s the victim? Betts seemed to think he’s a person of some note.’

  ‘It’s Crispin Fairchild, the conductor of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra,’ replied Conroy as he led the way into the apartment.

  Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘That is a blow to the world of music. It was only last month that I saw him performing at the Opera House.’

  As they entered the apartment, Fitzjohn’s attention went immediately to its interior, a vast contrast to the other parts of the building, all of which seem to have seen better days.

  ‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’ said Charles, noticing Fitzjohn’s look of surprise. ‘I’d say he must have spent a fortune on its refurbishment,’ he continued as they walked into a massive room where a flood of morning sunlight shone through its four arched windows.

  Fitzjohn paused in the doorway and took in the sumptuous décor somewhat mitigated by a body of a man lying face down in front of a white marble fireplace.

  ‘It’s a tragic end for such a gifted man,’ said Conroy as they both knelt down next to the victim, his silver-white hair turned red from the gash to the back of his skull. Fitzjohn winced. Thirty years of such sights had not lessened the shock he felt.

  ‘At this point in time, I’d say the cause of death is blunt force trauma although that could change when I conduct the postmortem,’ said Conroy. ‘And as far as a murder weapon is concerned, I’d say it’s that candelabra.’ Charles pointed to a long metal object on the floor not far from the victim where blood and hair could be seen sticking to its base.

  ‘What’s that wound around his neck?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘It looks to be a piece of wire,’ replied Charles. ‘I’m no musician but I’d say it’s a string from an instrument and as you can see, it hasn’t penetrated the skin in the least so it didn’t contribute to his death. I’d say it was placed there after he was bludgeoned.’

  ‘A symbolic gesture perhaps,’ said Fitzjohn, peering closely at the victim’s neck.

  ‘I can’t see that there’d be any other reason, Alistair.’

  ‘What about the time of death? Any thoughts?’

  ‘At this stage, I believe between ten last night and one o’clock this morning but I’ll be able to give you a more approximate time after the postmortem,’ replied Charles as he continued to examine the body.

  While he did so, Fitzjohn got to his feet and took in the room until his attention was drawn to a violin which rested in its open case on the lid of a grand piano.

  ‘You’ll find it still has all four strings,’ said Charles as Fitzjohn went to have a closer look.

  ‘Which begs the question; where did the fifth string come from?’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Either the killer came prepared and brought it with him or he happened to find one here in the apartment. After all, the victim was a violinist so he’s sure to have a store of strings here.’

  ‘If so, the SOCOs will find them,’ replied Charles, gesturing to the scene of crime officers conducting their tasks.

  ****

  Fitzjohn left Charles Conroy and retraced his steps through the apartment to find Betts examining the front door.

  ‘Any luck with the surveillance camera?’ he asked.

  ‘You were right in that it’s an old relic, sir, but apparently still working and monitored by one of the building’s residents.’

  ‘Excellent. It’ll make it easier for us to get the footage we need,’ Fitzjohn replied as he looked with interest at the front hall’s lavish furnishings along with an orchid which sat on the ornate hall table. ‘Is there any sign of forced entry?’ he continued.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Which means our victim might have known his killer. Do we know, yet, who found the body?’

  ‘Yes sir. It was a neighbour on this floor. A woman by the name of Elvira Travers.’

  ‘Elvira Travers?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know her, sir?’

  ‘Only through her writing. She’s a crime novelist of some acclaim. I’ve read a number of her books.’ Fitzjohn gave a quick smile. ‘I’ll have a word with her while you see if you can find out who else was in the building at the time of the murder. Also, try to locate the victim’s next of kin. We need to speak to the family before the media breaks the news.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ****

  As Betts headed for the stairs, Fitzjohn approached Elvira Travers’s apartment door and after straightening his suit coat and adjusting his tie, he knocked.

  The door opened to reveal a woman in her mid-fifties, her curly salt and pepper hair swept up and held by a large purple butterfly clip.

  ‘Ms Travers?’ asked Fitzjohn with a smile.

  ‘Are you from the police?’ she asked, taking in his civilian attire.

  ‘Yes, madam. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and I’ll be conducting the investigation into your neighbour’s death. I understand you were the person who found Mr Fairchild this morning.’

  ‘That’s right, I did.’

  ‘No doubt a distressing experience for you, Ms Travers,’ Fitzjohn continued. ‘Do you feel able to answer a few questions for me? If not, I can come back a little later.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ replied Elvira, moving back from the doorway and ushering Fitzjohn inside. ‘I admit, I was in a bit of a state at the time but I’m fine now. Come through, Chief Inspector.’ Fitzjohn followed Elvira, her long purple caftan gown swishing as she led the way into a living room which overlooked the city’s skyline. The far wall exhibited an extensive library of books on shelves which reached the ceiling high above while the main focal point in the room was a large oak desk smothered in sheets of paper surrounding a laptop computer.

  ‘It appears I’ve interrupted your work, Ms Travers.’

  ‘Not at all. My desk is in perpetual disarray, Chief Inspector, and besides, I’d have to dig deep to get anything written today with what’s happened. Shall we sit down?’ As she spoke, she picked up a photo frame which lay on the desk and moved over to an armchair where she placed it on the lamp table next to her. ‘This is a photograph of the man I was once engaged to many years ago,’ she said, aware her action had taken Fitzjohn’s attention. ‘His name was Trevor. He died in a climbing accident on Ben Nevis in Scotland. I don’t know why but when Morris brought me back to my apartment this morning after finding Crispin’s body, I felt the need to
look upon it again. Silly, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s comforting to have photographs of those we have loved around us, especially when we’ve had to face a disturbing situation,’ replied Fitzjohn, his thoughts going to his own late wife, Edith, and her untimely death. ‘You’re a fine novelist, Ms Travers,’ continued Fitzjohn, wishing to change the subject. ‘I’ve read many of your books. “The Hyde Park Murders” is one title which comes to mind. It was some time ago, I admit, but it was very good, particularly, I thought, your obvious understanding of police procedure.’

  ‘Well, coming from a police officer, I’ll take that as a compliment although I have to confess that I have help in that direction from a cousin of mine, replied Elvira. ‘His name is Arthur Fellowes. He’s a policeman, or at least he was until his retirement. You might know him.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ replied Fitzjohn with a smile as he remembered the good-natured chief superintendent. ‘He was one of our finest officers and his presence is greatly missed,’ he continued as thoughts of his replacement, Chief Superintendent Grieg, came to mind. ‘He also failed to mention he has such an esteemed cousin.’

  ‘And one who, I daresay, is now a person of interest in your investigation, along with everyone else in the building,’ said Elvira.

  ‘I can’t deny we’ll want to know where all the residents were last night, Ms Travers.’

  ‘Well, I can’t speak for my neighbours but other than attending the building’s committee meeting early on, I was at home all evening alone as it happens which, now I come to think of it, is unfortunate. Especially so since Crispin’s and my apartments are the only two on this floor. I didn’t kill him though. I can assure you of that.’

  Ignoring this declaration, Fitzjohn asked. ‘How did you come to find the body, Ms Travers?’