The Case Has Altered

by Martha Grimes

  “Depends on the kind of past one’s had, I expect.” They were standing near a small, dilapidated bridge, stretching six or eight feet across a narrow canal. The bridge seemed to serve little purpose, for one could have made a short leap across the water. Perhaps the bridge was simply built for aesthetic reasons, beneath willows that trailed leaves over the rotting wood, beside rush, water dock, and loosestrife, which seemed favored by butterflies. Several fluttered above it.

  The bridge looked romantic. Indeed, the entire scene around looked romantic. Perhaps it was the antiquarian nature of their task that made it seem so. The horses lunging away, pulling the oak a bit farther from its watery bed; Jack Price in his boots and cap and with his cheroot; the sinewy old farmer, and his young big-muscled son; the steaming dray horses’ breath, white in the early morning air. It was as if some canvas by Constable had come alive and moved. Melrose watched the chalky water moving in the dike and asked Jack what river it fed into.

  “Welland, most likely. That reed bed’s turned to swamp over there. Used to be open water. After the reed swamp takes over, you get woods. Or carr. There’s enough flora and fauna in this one place alone to keep researchers going for a long time.

  “Do they all flow into the Wash, the rivers?”

  “Yes, I expect so.”

  Melrose asked, carefully, “Aren’t you awfully curious about what Verna Dunn was doing at the Wash?”

  Jack smiled. “I try not to wonder too much about Verna, the artful little bitch. But, yes, I find it very peculiar. She was hardly the type to take herself off to some place like that to commune with nature or think brave thoughts. Can’t imagine why, except—”

  He paused, and Melrose was about to prompt him when Jack excused himself and moved closer to the bog oak operation. He spoke for a minute or two with the two men, gesturing toward the horses. Melrose wondered if the horses were quarterhorses or dray horses. When it came to horses, Melrose didn’t know much of anything, never having been a horseman, despite his upbringing. This always seemed to annoy people who were hellbent on getting him to a hunt. The very idea made him shudder.

  When Jack Price walked back to stand beside him and relighted his cigar, Melrose said, “We were talking about the body on the Wash. You were saying you couldn’t think of any reason, except—”

  “I was thinking that Verna loved games; I mean, she might have agreed to go to such an unlikely place for a lark. She was like that; she was mercurial, unpredictable. And the person who got her to go there might simply have wanted to dissociate her from Fengate. Because one of us, obviously, might be the guilty party.”

  “True.” But that still didn’t explain, for Melrose, the murderous venue of the Wash. “How long have you lived with the Owens?”

  Jack removed his cigar and checked the end to see if it was still lighted. “Long time. It’s hard for me to call him ‘Uncle’ Max because there’s only about fifteen or sixteen years difference in our ages. He took me in after my mother—Max’s sister—died. I was a teenager. My father was never much good—a drunk, mostly. I didn’t even see him for the ten years after that before he died. I’ve lived with Max ever since.” He smiled and puffed on the stogie. “My arrangement would be the envy of any artist trying to scrape by with a regular job. Not only do I have a studio, but I have my privacy. I could stay out there and work and brood for days and no one would invade it, my privacy. If I’m working, they assume I don’t wish to be disturbed and Suggins puts a tray by the door. It’s as good as an artists’ colony—no, it’s better. It’s bloody wonderful. I get my meals cooked by Annie and served in a candle-lit dining room with several bottles of wine. To top it off, the Owens are simply great people. Max always was, but now there’s Grace. Imagine a new wife taking on a grown nephew as part of the marriage deal.”

  “A rare deal, I agree. You were part of the ‘deal,’ as you put it, when Max was married to Verna Dunn. I get the impression she was no Grace.”

  Jack Price laughed: “Your impression is quite correct. Verna was nothing but trouble. That Max could put up with her as long as he did simply testifies to his resilience—his kindness, really.”

  Melrose was afraid his questions were imprudent for one who was on the scene as an antiques appraiser, but he went on asking them anyway. “I get the impression the Dunn woman was rather, well, profligate. Did she ever try anything with you?”

  Price laughed again. “Of course. I think the only man around she might have missed is old Suggins.”

  Melrose wanted to ask, point blank, if Jack Price had accepted Verna Dunn’s favors, but he didn’t, not only because the question was not one for a stranger to put, but because the answer probably wouldn’t have helped. In the dim, damp air, a tempest of birds rose from the willows and reed beds and the sun was bright enough to glaze the reeds and reflect on the smooth water of the dike. Except for them and the horses straining against the heavy, buried wood, there was nothing inhabiting the flat land for as far as Melrose could see. It was as if theirs were the last activity on earth.

  Melrose took another tack, mentioning a fact that was by now general knowledge at Fengate. “Strange about this girl Dorcas’s so-called pregnancy, isn’t it?”

  Jack Price shifted, as if uncomfortable. “Surprised me, certainly. Although some people might not think so.” He tipped his head in the direction of the footpath and beyond. “Regulars at the Case might have me auditioning for the role of father. That little barmaid certainly would.”

  “Well, then, would they have had you auditioning for another part, too? The killer’s?”

  “Oh, of course. Probably had that buzz up anyway. Dorcas presumably had a ‘crush’ on me. Presumably, she’d a man in her life, a mysterious man. I’m as good a prospect as any, I expect. Excuse me. Doesn’t look like they’re making much progress.” Price walked again over to the men and horses.

  It was like uprooting some ancient tomb at an archaeological dig.

  “Do you shoot?” Melrose asked.

  Price looked somewhat astounded. Laughing, he said, “Not really; I don’t care much for it. However, if you’re asking can I load, aim, fire a gun, the answer is yes. But did I load, aim, fire at Verna? Answer is no.”

  “Oh, but I wasn’t really—”

  “Yes, you were. Really.”

  Melrose knew he’d asked one question too many. So he attempted to demonstrate he was hardly a threat by adding, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be nosy. Anyway, I’m going back to North—back to London today. I’ve been as much help as I can be here, and there’s an auction coming up at Christie’s I’m interested in.”

  Jack was silent for a moment looking off toward the two men and the oak trunk. Then he said, “Jenny’s a friend of yours, you say?”

  Melrose was surprised that the conversation would take this turn, especially as Jack’s voice had taken on a note of intimacy Melrose hadn’t heard before. “Not a friend, exactly. More of an acquaintance. Why?”

  “It doesn’t look too good for her, does it?”

  Melrose was again surprised by the distinct note of gloom in the voice. “No, it doesn’t.”

  Jack plucked the stub of the cigar from his mouth and tossed it into the wet grass at his feet. “Sorry you have to leave so soon.” Then he walked off toward the bog oak, leaving Melrose to wonder just how good a friend Jack Price might have been.

  • • •

  Melrose did not know whether Max Owen’s friend Parker could be of help, or would even want to talk to him, but as Zel had said that Dorcas Reese had stopped there, and more than once, Melrose thought he might as well find out what he could before returning to Northants.

  After the call last night to Jury, he had taken his final and spurious notes regarding Owen’s furniture and told Max and Grace that he would be leaving today. That before he left, he wished to take up Major Parker on his kind invitation to lunch. Lucky man, Max Owen had quipped. Despite his clear discomfort over Bannen’s visit, he’d managed a smile and told Melrose th
at he was going to lunch with arguably the best cook in South Lincolnshire. They all took it as a compliment (especially their cook, Mrs. Suggins) that Parker came to dine with them.

  • • •

  His shirtsleeves rolled up, his forearms whitened with a flour-film, Parker’s “cook” persona looked ready to walk on stage. Parker apparently thought the world would see nothing at all unusual in the master of this enormous pile of stone in kitchen-kit. But there was nothing stagy in this greeting; it was sincerely warm, so heartfelt Plant was a little ashamed that his motive in coming here wasn’t simply luncheon.

  Parker led Melrose through the high, wide, cold hall, through a room three times the size of Grace’s “gallery,” but quite unlike it in furnishings. From what Melrose could see in their long walk to a place to sit down in, the pieces in these rooms, although possibly very valuable (he should know, he was an appraiser) had little to do with one another. They didn’t mesh. In one of the drawing rooms (there were several such rooms) a Spanish sideboard of a wood so dark it looked burnt fought for place next to an Italianate settee.

  As if he were reading Melrose’s mind, Parker said, “Shows you, doesn’t it, how awful furniture can look if it’s just tossed together. Max, now, has a genius for arrangement. But I’m sure you noticed that.”

  “Absolutely,” said Melrose, thinking that if Parker saw Max’s stuff as “arranged,” no wonder Parker’s own pieces looked tossed together. His eye was held by what might possibly have been a Botticelli original, but which managed to look suspect because it was so carelessly placed beside a wondrous Dutch painting, luminously dark.

  Finally they came to rest in a small, snug room with a blazing fire and a table holding glasses and two decanters. “Whiskey all right? I’ve got some sherry but I don’t much hold with these effete directors of tongue-taste that say whiskey messes up the tastebuds. Whiskey never messed up anything as far as I’m concerned.” He set about pouring into two squat glasses.

  “A few lives, perhaps. Thanks.” Melrose took the glass.

  “Yes, there’s that. Cheers, anyway.”

  Melrose took out his cigarette case, held it up. “Do you mind?”

  Parker laughed. “I feel like a pariah when I take out the smokes. Give me one, will you? Mine are in the kitchen next to the tagine. If you’re wondering what this is, it’s stew—but Moroccan stew.” He took a cigarette and accepted a light. “I’m not showing off, mind you. I just love the foreign sounds of these dishes. I mean, tagine sounds a hell of a lot better tasting than ‘beef stew,’ wouldn’t you say?” As he waved his arm back toward the kitchen, flour dusted the air. He took out his handkerchief and brushed it over the other arm. “I’m a messy cook. Hope you’re hungry; I’m starved. Eat too much and drink too much of this”—he raised the glass—“but there’s not much left to enjoy at my age.”

  Melrose smiled and settled deeper into his chair. Parker had gone somewhat soft, perhaps, in the jaw and belly, but was by no means fat or even “corpulent.” He had more than six feet to spread any excess over, and comfortably did so. He was not a handsome man, but an exceptionally attractive one—at least, Melrose imagined women must think so. Why? For there was not a feature of his appearance that one could call exceptional: eyes too small, hair too sparse and balding in back, nose a little too broad, and an undistinguished mustache over a rather thin mouth. And yet one probably wouldn’t notice any of this unless one were attempting, as Melrose was, to discover Parker’s appeal.

  He was at the moment talking about this house, or this land. “I’m a farmer, you know; rather, I was a farmer. Stopped because it was just too damned hard and as I’m comfortably fixed, well, you wouldn’t call me much more than a ‘gentleman farmer’ anyway. The fields lie fallow now. This big pile of bricks has been in my family forever. Plumbing’s in an uproar most of the time, heat’s about as effective as if boy guides supplied it by rubbing sticks together. It’s an absurd place for a dozen to live in, much less one. Yet, you couldn’t pry me loose.”

  Parker scratched his forehead, then scraped the soft and thinning hair across it in a boyish gesture. He gave the impression that he’d been waiting for ages for just such a person as Melrose Plant to come along so that he could get down to the business of living. And Melrose thought this must be the source of his magnetism—that he gave the impression the company he had to hand was the only company that suited him down to the ground. He did not waste time in small talk; he plunged right into the way he felt about life. Unlike many who gave the impression of divided attention—whose minds, you knew, were elsewhere—Parker’s attention was wholly concentrated on the person he was with; he projected a sense of immediacy. He was not afraid to reveal things about himself, which invited whoever he was with to do the same. This was the source of the comfort Parker unknowingly and unselfconsciously offered. One felt at home. Parker was the sort of person one confided in without intending to, perhaps even without knowing one was doing it. Melrose therefore wondered how many confidences the man had shared and how many secrets he knew.

  “You’ve known Max Owen for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. So I also knew his first wife.”

  Parker’s somewhat inscrutable smile implied that he knew what Melrose had really come to talk about. Melrose moved in his chair, as if trying to shake free of the suspicion that everyone could see straight through him. “I must admit I wonder about her, the dead woman. It’s very queer, isn’t it?”

  “To tell the truth, I’m not surprised somebody finally did in Verna, a manipulative bitch by anybody’s standards. Beauties usually are, aren’t they? Moneyed and beautiful is doubly bad—spoiled and with the means to indulge it.”

  “I thought she’d come here to ask for money. From Max Owen.”

  “For the play, you mean? Yes, well perhaps she did, but I doubt it. Verna just enjoyed making mischief.” Parker tossed back the rest of his glass and poured himself another finger of whiskey.

  Melrose declined a refill and wondered if Parker himself had been manipulated. He ventured: “For everyone or only Max?”

  For a moment Parker simply looked down at his glass, then answered obliquely. “She was a good deal of trouble, that woman. As far as I’m concerned, anyone of us might have been moved to do it; I was only surprised by the one who finally did.”

  “Lady Kennington? But that, of course, hasn’t really been proved.” He said this a little too passionately for a disinterested party.

  “She’s a friend of yours, Max says.”

  “Not really. More of an acquaintance. I met her once in Stratford-upon-Avon.”

  Parker grunted. “Nice woman.” He paused. “Unusually so, I’d say. A sympathetic person. The Spanish have a better word—simpatico. It suggests ‘kinship.’ He paused again, drank off his whiskey, said, “Come on, let’s eat our stew. It’s very good.”

  It was indeed. Seldom had Melrose eaten food so delicious. “I heard about your cooking. You’ve got a great fan.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “That little girl, the groundskeeper’s niece. Zel.”

  Parker laughed. “Ah, she’s an experience, I can tell you.”

  “She says you’re the best cook in Lincolnshire. Your specialty is plum ice cream.”

  “Which says more about her taste than about my cooking.” Parker refilled their wineglasses and returned the bottle to a cylindrical stone cooler. “Zel comes over here quite a lot. She helps me cook and she is, for one so young, remarkably good at it. Says she wants to be a chef.”

  Melrose smiled. “That says a lot for your influence.”

  Parker colored slightly, but seemed pleased. “Zel is the sort of child who makes one a bit sorry he hasn’t any. This wine is quite good.” He poured.

  Melrose noticed the label. “It should be. You drink a Grand Cru with lunch every day?”

  “Oh, no. Sometimes I suffer through a Premier Cru. When the lunch isn’t all that good.”

  “This lunch certainly is
‘all that good.’ ” Melrose broke a flaky roll, buttered it, and said, “It’s too bad about Zel’s uncle. What happened?”

  “Shooting accident. Did you see that old punt boat of his? He liked to take that out in the early mornings, out for partridge or plover. Some damned idiot trying to shoot in all of that fog accidentally shot Peter. Didn’t even know he’d done it, so Peter lay there half the day until some anglers found him. Damned fools with guns. They’re a menace. I keep telling Max’s gardener to stop shooting at anything that moves.” Parker sighed. “Pretty awful thing to happen to a man whose whole life is the outdoors. Peter’s just unlucky, I think. Everything bad that could happen, happened. He might have told you he worked for years as a young man on this hunting estate in Perthshire. When his uncle stopped, he took over the estate—huge estate. I expect he’s one of the youngest factors there ever was, a plummy job. There was a young lady, Scottish lass he was going to marry, but she drowned when she slipped from a footbridge. Peter was blamed, although he said he wasn’t within a mile of the place, poor fellow.”

  “That’s pretty rotten.”

  “Worse, the girl’s father claimed Peter had pushed her because he didn’t want to marry her. You see, the coroner discovered the girl was several months pregnant. Old Mordecai was a fire-breathing fundamentalist Presbyterian—”

  “You sound as if you know all of these people.”

  Parker looked surprised. “Do I? Well, I expect somehow I do after listening to Peter talk about it over the years. The father triggered an investigation, but there seemed little to investigate. Still, he was arrested and tried for manslaughter. Poor devil couldn’t put together much of a defense—how could he? And he didn’t deny he was the father. I think the thing that told most against him was that he was quite the ladies’ man—by his own admission—well, he’s still a very handsome fellow, but after he met Maggie, he changed his ways. The prosecution nonetheless managed to stir up feeling that Peter went about seducing and then leaving sweet young things. He was convicted. But the sentence was light, only two years, and he got out after serving one.