The Case Has Altered

by Martha Grimes

  “Jenny, that’s not true.”

  Her smile was bitter and disbelieving, but she continued. “So when I saw her at Fengate, it had been the first time in fifteen years.”

  “And yet you didn’t let anyone know she was your cousin.” No wonder Bannen thought he had a case.

  Jenny tied the scarf round her neck and pushed hair out of her eyes. Rain, more a mist than rain, had come with the wind. “No. I’m not sure why. But, you see, neither did she. Why didn’t she say, ‘Jenny, my God, after all these years’? I knew she must have planned something. With Max Owen in mind, probably.”

  “But she’d divorced him.”

  “For Verna, nothing was ever final.” She pulled her coat collar tighter. “Except death.” She paused. “Within a year Max Owen turned round and married his present wife. The point being that Max was then happy. To Verna that would have presented a challenge. She couldn’t have him be happy with Grace after being miserable with Verna herself. You know, I doubt Max ever caught onto her. She was masterly at making the other person think his misery was caused by himself, never by her. Nice people like Max tend to take responsibility for misfortune. He’d have had a problem sorting out their life together. He’d have taken most of the blame.”

  “I still can’t understand why Grace Owen invited her.”

  “I don’t know. It wouldn’t be difficult, if I put my mind to it, to work out the approach Verna would have used.”

  “How well do you know Grace?”

  “I’d been to Fengate once or twice over the years after Max married Grace, never when he was married to Verna. My husband was a friend of Max, and we went there once just before James died. Max met Grace in Yorkshire when Sotheby’s acted as agent for that glamorous auction at Castle Howard. Max was still married to Verna and Grace’s husband had died a few years before. The Owens divorced about a year after the Castle Howard auction. And within another year, Max and Grace married. I expect you know she had a son.”

  “Yes. He died in a riding accident, something like that, didn’t he? Pretty awful.” He did not add that the source of his information about much of this was Melrose Plant.

  “Toby was a hemophiliac.”

  “That must have been a terrible strain for the Owens. A kid who can’t participate in sports, a mother who has to keep constant vigil because death waits round every corner.”

  “Or Verna Dunn.’

  Jury frowned. “Meaning?”

  “She used to be an occasional visitor at Fengate. That’s what she told me, probably to provoke me. I just wonder if this so-called accident happened during one of her visits. No one witnessed it, as far as I know. I wanted to ask Grace, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was afraid of the answer.”

  Jury frowned, thinking about Grace Owen. In the silence that followed, he watched the river where the ducks slept now in the rushes, bobbing on ripples the wind stirred up. The ghostly white swans, farther off, coasted. He wondered if they stayed in this part of the Avon the year round. He remembered Bannen talking about the swallows, how their exodus always made him feel strangely hopeless. Jury had been struck by this small confession, for Bannen impressed him as being an intensely private sort of person, even for a police officer. Jury looked at the swans now bathed in moonlight and shared Bannen’s feelings.

  “One thing that might work in your favor, ironically, is Dorcas Reese. Not only did you have no motive, you weren’t even around when it happened.”

  She was silent. She seemed about to say something, and stopped. Then she said, “They’ll just say it’s not very far between Stratford and Algarkirk. Still, what reason would anyone have for killing the girl?”

  “She might have presented a danger. According to—” He didn’t want to bring Plant into it; it would merely confuse things. “According to Annie, the cook, Dorcas was somewhat nosy. Perhaps she overheard something? Hard to tell.”

  “Then I’d have as much reason as anyone, wouldn’t I?”

  “Any of the people Bannen questioned—” Jury gave it up. He didn’t make a hell of a good comforter. He was sure Job would agree.

  Jenny looked down at the ground, pushed a pebble with her foot. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’re doing for me.” She took his hand, said nothing else.

  Her failure to mention Jack Price wasn’t lost on him. But he wouldn’t ask, at least not now. He could feel her eyes on him but didn’t meet her gaze for fear of ruining what little resolve he had. He would have to tell her what Lasko had said. It was difficult; it would mean her giving up the luxury of doubt. If in her mind there was still room for that. Bringing in someone like Apted made the whole thing a certainty.

  She shook her head. He could see panic written all over his face. “I simply wanted to make sure Apted would be available if, as in my case, things go that far. Just a precaution.” How banal. She didn’t believe it for a minute, that it was precautionary.

  “It’s all against me, isn’t it?”

  Her face was white as the moon. He wanted to say, No, of course the facts aren’t all against you, but he couldn’t. Because he was afraid they were. It was true that Verna Dunn appeared to be universally disliked, but that almost canceled out motives for the others at Fengate, for there was nothing specific that had surfaced. “Pete Apted never loses, remember that.”

  Her brief laugh was tear-choked. “There’s always a first time.”

  Then a long silence with neither of them moving.

  She hadn’t—not in so many words—actually said she was innocent.

  And he hadn’t asked.

  19

  In his own house, seated in his own chair, and by his own fireplace, Melrose sat quietly turning the pages of a picture book about the fen country; here was a fine photograph of a fogbound mere. He supposed this absurd nostalgia he felt for the fens, for the good company and the good talk, was partially owing to the impoverishment of both in his present circumstances. He sighed deeply and allowed his spine to creep farther down in the wing chair, and looked at the picture of the Black Fens of Cambridgeshire, a seemingly endless expanse of soft, black soil. He could feel its silkiness running through his fingers, as he heard Agatha’s voice running through his mind, catching only a word here, a word there. He had become quite expert at holding a sieve to her mouth.

  “. . . minded,” she said, then took a sip of Fortnum and Mason’s special blend tea.

  “I beg your pardon? I didn’t catch that.” Most of it had gone through the sieve.

  “You should be more civic-minded, I said; you should shoulder more of your social responsibilities.”

  He stared at her. “There’s no society around here that one could possibly feel responsible for.” He set aside the book on the Black Fens and scooped up Helluva Deal!, an absolutely wonderful little book, in spite of (or perhaps because of?) the Nuttings being totally clueless when it came to prose style. But that hardly mattered since they provided so much entertainment in describing country auctions in small-town America. He was now reading the section devoted to “scams” in the antiques market—at least small-town American scams. He especially enjoyed reading about the Pointer cousins who had discovered a fortune in first editions up in an attic. It wasn’t, however, their attic and in order to get possession of this large box of books they had offered to clean out their neighbor’s attic. “Clean out” in every sense of the words. The treasure in books belonged to a little old lady who hadn’t a sou, who was living at bare subsistence level. The ebullient Nuttings (he an auctioneer, she a dealer) couldn’t get enough of these tawdry episodes. Neither could Melrose. He especially loved Peregrine “Piggy” Arbuckle, whose set-up included a little boy and a so-called doctor. It pleased him to find that Piggy was a Brit now living (and plying his trade) in the States.

  Agatha took up an argument Melrose hadn’t known he was engaged in. “You know perfectly well that Ada Crisp shouldn’t be allowed to continue at that shop, that the pavement is a death-trap, what with all of t
hose dribs and drabs of second- and thirdhand junk sitting about, not to mention that nasty little dog—what are you doing? Can’t you put that book down for a moment?”

  Melrose sighed. “Piggy Arbuckle had a good thing going.”

  “What?” Her brow furrowed as neatly as the black soil of the fen in Melrose’s photograph.

  Agatha shut her eyes as if she were suffering from a migraine. “Oh, do stop being idiotic, Melrose.”

  He reclaimed the Fens and opened the book to a photograph showing a field of tulips and another of daffodils that would inspire Wordsworth to write a sequel. “I wandered lonely as another cloud, That floats o’er fields and hills again . . . ”

  “Don’t try to change the subject.”

  Subject? Had there been one?

  “We were talking about your being a witness.”

  “Witness?” As if he didn’t know. “Surely, you’re not serious about that?” Of course she was. She talked of nothing else these days.

  Her eyes clamped tight shut in annoyance, as if Melrose’s person were too bright and blinding. She said, “Don’t try and diminish the accident or the attack by that nasty dog. You were right across the street, coming out of the pub.”

  “Drunk as a lord.” Melrose corrected himself: “As a commoner, I mean. How could you possibly expect me to remember what I saw?”

  “Melrose! You shall be subpoenaed if you don’t cooperate.”

  “I’ll be a hostile witness, then.” He smiled.

  “You will be nothing of the sort!” With her usual assumption that both God and the Law were on her side, she added, “You’ll be under oath. So will Trueblood be. Both of you were standing in front of the Jack and Hammer watching and no doubt making imbecile comments—”

  “Trueblood? You’re planning on calling him, too?” Melrose was astonished. She wouldn’t call on Marshall Trueblood for help even if she were sinking into a bog like the one in his fen book. “Well, I fear you’re to be disappointed. Trueblood didn’t see anything. His back was to you.” Melrose was almost sorry, for the thought of Agatha’s case depending on them made him laugh. Talk about folie à deux! “John Grisham would love it.”

  “John who?” She held a rock cake aloft. It looked like a lumpy spacecraft.

  “You know. That lawyer-chap in the States who writes legal thrillers.”

  “Oh, him.” Agatha waved the lawyer-chap away.

  “ ‘Oh, him’ has made millions.” Melrose took a sip of cold tea. Agatha had drunk up all the hot. “Who has Ada rounded up for her defense?”

  Indifferent to Ada’s defense, Agatha shrugged and selected a triangle of anchovy toast. “I’ve no idea, nor do I care. Probably have to get someone to take it pro bono.”

  Melrose slid even farther down in his chair, turning this foot-in-the-chamber-pot over in his mind. He could surely get some mileage out of this. “Who else is your chap going to call? What’s his name?”

  “Simon Bryce-Pink. He’s quite good, everyone says so—”

  “Everyone” probably meaning Theo Wrenn Browne. “Besides me, who else has he got on his short list?”

  Narrowly, she looked at him. “I don’t think I should tell you. I can’t trust you.”

  “Oh? Then why on earth are you having me as your star witness?”

  “I didn’t say ‘star.’ Theo is to have that distinction.”

  Melrose knew that she’d got together with the slippery Theo Wrenn Browne and between them they had maximized the extent of the injury. Probably found a bent doctor to verify it. And there were always the psychological damages when they got through with the physical ones. She had come to Ardry End today with her zimmer frame, which she had shed quick enough in making her way to Melrose’s tea table. The aluminum walker had four little wheels on it, so the poor invalid could move more swiftly. Wasn’t it something of an oxymoron to couple wheels and a zimmer frame?

  “Poor Ada. Just when is this case scheduled to be tried?”

  “Not for weeks. There’s quite a backlog of cases.” She looked at him. “And why ‘poor Ada’? I should think you’d save your sympathy for your own family. Well, when she loses, she’ll have to pay costs.”

  “You’re so certain she’ll lose?”

  Agatha looked at him as if he were witless. “Of course. Why not?”

  Melrose was about to answer the question, rhetorical or not, when Ruthven appeared (thank heaven!) to summon him to the telephone.

  “Who is it, Ruthven?” Melrose asked, as he walked to the door.

  “It’s . . . the butcher, My Lord.” Ruthven’s smile was sly.

  “Jurvis? Why on earth is he calling me?”

  Ruthven’s answer was lost in the wake of Agatha’s shout: “See that Jurvis defats that lamb! Martha never does a proper job.”

  With Agatha’s voice finally sinking behind him like a depth-charge, Melrose yanked up the receiver and said, “Hullo, Mr. Jurvis. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s Mr. Jury, actually.”

  “Richard!”

  “I’d like you to come to London tomorrow.”

  “Well, I could do, though you’d be tearing me away from my aunt, you understand. But why?”

  “You can go to the solicitor’s with me.”

  “Solicitor?”

  “Pete Apted’s brief. His name’s—where’s that scrap of paper?”—rustles, crackles coming down the wire—“Moss is his name. Charly Moss.”

  Melrose asked, rather tentatively, “Have you talked to, ah, Lady Kennington, then?” He still found it difficult to mention her. She stood like a shadow between them.

  “Why so formal? Yes, I saw Jenny. I’m glad I did before Lasko got there.”

  “You mean she’s really been arrested?”

  “ ’Fraid so. We were expecting it, anyway.” Jury sighed.

  Melrose’s legs felt rubbery; he dragged over a chair. “What was the charge?”

  “Murder.”

  “Hell,” breathed Melrose. “In both cases?” When Jury said yes, he asked, “What could he possibly have found to link her with Dorcas Reese?”

  “I don’t know. Unless Dorcas knew something, and the implication is that she did. I’m surprised Bannen waited this long to charge her. It makes me wonder if he was waiting for something more—some bit of physical evidence, some report or other, and now he’s got it. I saw Pete Apted, remember him?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “He who demolished my illusions,” said Jury, trying to make his tone jokey.

  “He didn’t demolish your illusions; he confirmed your suspicions.”

  Jury was silent. Then he said, “I expect you’re right. Anyway, he’s taking her case. That’s why I’m—we’re—seeing this solicitor. If Apted uses him as instructing solicitor, he must be good. I saw Apted yesterday morning, early. He’s in his office at seven eating apples. Just as intense as ever, just as uncompromising. So can you meet me tomorrow in Lincoln’s Inn, say, at ten?” Jury gave him the address, without waiting for an answer. “Sorry to drag you away from Agatha.”

  “I’ll never forgive you. See you tomorrow, ten o’clock.”

  20

  Jury kept his eyes on the road, straight as a runway and running parallel to a wide drainage ditch. On the other side, across the blank fields of dry stubble, there must have been a dike or weir densely populated by waterfowl. As he watched, a skein of geese took flight, the stillness on all sides making their beating wings audible.

  To show just how relaxed he was, Wiggins yawned and stretched one arm. The other hand was manning the steering wheel. “I think it’s that generally speaking I’m a bit more settled in myself; I take things comme ci, comme ça—like, and don’t let them bother me,” he said, and looked out of his window. “Except this landscape,” he added, darkly. The flight of geese had disappeared, taking with them life and movement. “The only sign of life we’ve had for miles was those geese. It’s eerie; it’s empty. Doesn’t surprise me people get murdered here.” He shivered.


  Jury, who Wiggins had noticed was not in the best of moods, merely grunted.

  Wiggins went on. “The setting for this murder seems awful peculiar to me. The Wash isn’t exactly a place where I’d expect two people to rendezvous, much less someone like Verna Dunn. Why does everyone seem to think Lady Kennington was the one who drove to the Wash with her?”

  “Everyone doesn’t,” said Jury.

  Wiggins went on: “Strange. The way Lady Kennington tells it, after this quarrel with Verna Dunn, she walks the footpath to the pub, but halfway there she realizes it’s so near to the pub’s closing time she just turns and walks back the way she came. He or she’d be depending upon Lady Kennington’s absence from the house until the whole thing was finished. It all sounds very unlikely to me.”

  Jury said, “I don’t think the killer was depending on Jenny Kennington doing anything; that she went for a walk on the footpath was pure coincidence. It’s too bad Jenny didn’t get to the pub; there would be people to corroborate her story.”

  “But why’d the killer pick the Wash?”

  “Perhaps so that her body wouldn’t have been discovered for a while. Desolate place. Bannen thinks it’s to do with the tides and the shifting sands. Cover the body, at least; take it out to sea, at best. Only thing is—Be careful, there’s a horse and cart ahead.”

  Wiggins sighed. “Yes, I can see, sir.”

  For the next few miles, they drove in silence past dark furrowed fields. Against a skyline that looked as hard and gray as a band of steel, the isolated house or barn sprang up like a mirage. Jury’s eyelids felt like lead. It was true that he’d had very little sleep in the last few days; nonetheless, this gray singularity of land struck him as hypnotic. In that far field, an abandoned plowshare could as easily have been an artifact, some ancient instrument heaved up from mere or bog. He was inclined to agree with Wiggins; it wasn’t a place he’d care to live in. It lay too heavily upon the soul. It would take a greater subtlety of mind than his to appreciate it, the nuances of light and shadow, wind and weather. He laid his head back against the leather seat and wished he had a cigarette.