“Very funny. I was looking for clues as to her whereabouts.”
“Suit yourself. ’Bye, Sammy.” Jury hung up, smiling over his doodles, decided he shouldn’t quit police work to go to art school. He sighed, tore up the paper. Slapped open an old file.
“It’s good you’ve got her lawyered up, sir. A good move.”
“Got her what?”
“Lawyered up. It’s how they say it in the States.”
“Sounds like something they would. Me, I’m completely Racered-up. Soho, again.”
Wiggins was irate. “He hasn’t got you back on that, has he? That Dan Wu business? You know that’s a case for Drugs, not us.”
“Well, Mr. Wu has recently branched out into dumping bodies in the Thames. Pardon me, allegedly dumping bodies in the Thames.” Jury slapped the file shut, tidied up the photographs, and dropped them in another file. He sat there staring at the gray rain-streaked window. Where had the sun gone? Where the sun always goes, he imagined.
Wiggins said, “You did everything you could, sir.”
“No, I didn’t. I’m missing something. And Bannen knows what the something is.”
25
I’ve told Theo Wrenn Browne that if he persists in this harebrained scheme to close down Ada’s shop, he can look forward to a life of persecution that will make the Spanish Inquisition look like a weekend in Brighton.” Marshall Trueblood pursed his lips and reconsidered. “I’ll tell him he’ll wind up in some dank little cellar by the sea selling old copies of Playboy and French postcards, wearing vests with holes in them and brown cardigans.”
“I get the picture,” said Melrose. They were sitting in the window embrasure of the Jack and Hammer. “Except isn’t it really Agatha’s scheme? She’s the one bringing the complaint before the magistrate.”
“Browne’s behind it all; she’s merely his puppet. It’s him wants to get hold of that secondhand furniture shop so he can expand his bookshop. Let’s have another.” Trueblood rose and gathered in their pints.
A shadow fell across the window-table and Melrose looked round to see his aunt outside the pub, tap tap tapping her ringed finger against the leaded glass pane. Blocked by the tight fit of the leaded seams (or a sympathetic God), whatever she was saying out there on the pavement couldn’t penetrate, became sounds even more impenetrable by the mechanical Jack above her, out on the end of the beam, bonging—or pretending to—the hour. Melrose enjoyed her fruitless talk and started in mouthing words of his own. He found it restful, lips moving without the companion-sounds issuing from the larynx. Talk without the responsibility for it, which was just his aunt’s line of country. It was rather like clicking the “mute” button on the telly’s remote and watching the butterfly movements of lips without having to hear the idiotic dialogue. She walked away, crossed the street.
“I see the bandage is off,” Melrose said to Trueblood, back with refills. “Does that mean the ankle isn’t even broken? I thought there were X-rays. For God’s sake, has she found a doctor who can’t read an X-ray? Where’s her case, then? I still can’t understand why this Pink fellow would entertain such a case for a moment. The man must be mad.” It irritated Melrose nearly to death that such a blatantly spurious case could even be argued.
“Pink-Bryce or Bryce-Pink,” said Trueblood, plucking an emerald green Sobranie from the black box. He offered the box to Melrose, who declined and took out his own case. Expertly, Trueblood struck up a kitchen match by rubbing it against his thumbnail. He had lately taught himself this trick and was fond of doing it. He inhaled deeply and exhaled a series of little smoke rings. “You know, you’re disturbingly idealistic. You appear to believe that the Law and the Truth have some tenuous connection.”
“Admittedly, I do.” He saw Agatha now across the street talking to Theo Wrenn Browne. “Cooking things up,” he was sure; getting their infernal stories straight.
“Now, that’s where you’re wrong, old sweat. A trial has nothing to do with Truth and everything to do with Argument. Had Socrates been a barrister, he’d have won every single case:
“ ‘You, therefore think, Alcibiades, that because the tires of Euthyphro’s Jaguar convertible exactly match the tread marks on the victim’s back, that the Jaguar ran him down?’
“ ‘I do, Socrates.’
“ ‘And that the defendant—the driver of the Jaguar convertible—had been guilty of robbing the victim, raping his wife, destroying his reputation, and blowing up his yacht?’
“ ‘That, Socrates, has been proved.’
“ ‘And that therefore these acts constitute motive on the part of the driver of the Jaguar convertible—?’ ”
“For heaven’s sakes,” said Melrose, “you don’t have to keep saying ‘convertible.’ ”
“Yes, I do. Socrates was nothing if not absolutely precise: ‘And you think that these acts,’ blah-blah-blah-what I said before—‘constitute motive?’
“ ‘It would appear so, Socrates.’
“ ‘And you further think that the results of the DNA testing which exactly matches the blood on the topcoat of the driver of the Jaguar convertible with the blood of the victim—you think that this constitutes indisputable proof of the guilt of the driver—’ ”
“—‘of the Jaguar convertible—’ This is beginning to sound like ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ ”
Trueblood held up his hand, asking for silence. He continued:
“ ‘So, Alcibiades, you think that the tire tread marks, the DNA—’
“That’s the trouble with Socrates, he’s always summing up. Every other statement is a summing up as if Alcibiades couldn’t remember the argument from one second to another.”
Trueblood sighed. “Be quiet, will you? ‘—the tread marks, the DNA, the windscreen—’ ”
Melrose stopped making wet circles with his glass. “Windscreen? Where did this ‘windscreen’ come from?”
Impatiently, Trueblood said, “I’m not giving you Socrates’ entire argument or we’d be here all day.”
“I feel like we’ve been here all day as it is.”
“ ‘—treads DNA windscreen—’ ” Trueblood repeated with bulletlike velocity, “ ‘—you seem to think that these results place the driver of the Jaguar convertible and the victim at that particular corner of Greek Street at the same time?’ ”
“ ‘Greek Street?’ How did Greek Street get into this narrative—oh, never mind.”
“ ‘I can’t see how it would be otherwise, Socrates,’ said Alcibiades.
“ ‘Ah, Alcibiades, you are deceived.’
“ ‘In what way, Socrates?’
“ ‘Alcibiades, you think that the physical evidence together with the proximity of defendant and the driver of the Jaguar convertible—for these reasons you think that the latter is guilty?’
“ ‘I do, Socrates.’
“ ‘Think again.’ ”
Melrose’s head came up quick as a whippet’s. “What? ‘Think again’? That’s an argument?” He watched Trueblood fire up another kitchen match.
Around his shocking pink Sobranie, Trueblood said, “Well, you seemed to be getting so impatient, I thought I’d stop.” He tossed the match in the metal ashtray. “Anyway, I’m not Socrates.” He blew some more smoke rings.
Melrose gritted his teeth. He felt like hitting him. Or hitting something, anything. For a moment he fumed and then remembered that fuming did nothing to Marshall Trueblood. He asked, “But what about Ada Crisp? Who’s her lawyer?”
“Not got one, far as I know. I don’t think the poor woman can afford one.”
“Hell’s bells, I’ll find her one.”
“That’s decent of you, Melrose. But Ada wouldn’t let you pay for it. For such a timid little woman, Ada has a spine of steel. She won’t bend her principles.”
“That’s not principle; that’s legal suicide. Agatha and Pinkeye will demolish her. You saw what Agatha did to Jurvis the Butcher a few years ago! And the Crisp case is every bit as silly.”
“What’s so funny?”
Trueblood said, “I realized that, as you said, the prosecution’s case is perfectly silly. Trouble with us is, we’ve been talking about Truth and Argument, we’ve also been assuming Law and Reason are necessarily bed partners. Actually, it’s all entrapment.”
Melrose frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll defend Ada Crisp.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
Trueblood looked at Melrose through narrowed eyes. “You think, Melrose, that I couldn’t do it?”
“Damned straight, I do!” Melrose pounded his glass on the table.
For a moment, Trueblood studied the coal end of his cigarette. “You think I couldn’t do it because my past schemes have not met with the greatest success?”
“Hear, hear!” cried Melrose, almost happily.
“Because I haven’t yet, say, sorted out Vivian and Count Dracula? Or haven’t yet discovered how many Week End People we have? Because you don’t see me as very quick? Quick enough to think on my feet? Is that what you think, Melrose?”
“That’s ex-act-ly what I think!”
Through the upward spiraling smoke, Trueblood smiled. “Think again.”
26
The Ides of March were no kinder to Melrose than they had been to Caesar.
It was weeks later, and the rain, unstinting, which should have kept his aunt by her own fireside, had instead driven her to Melrose’s.
Agatha’s assault upon the legal system was about to result in a trial in four days’ time, which was going to overlap with the trial of Jenny Kennington at Lincoln’s Crown Court. He had been served a subpoena by Agatha’s solicitor’s office. Absurd as the case was, he supposed he’d have to comply. Well, he didn’t have to appear in court for several days, so he could at least go to Lincoln tomorrow. Damn her and her chamber pot, anyway!
At least, it might supply some small measure of entertainment. Marshall Trueblood had indeed offered to defend Ada Crisp, and Melrose was surprised that Ada Crisp had accepted, making the inscrutable comment that it was always best “to keep these things in the family.” He did not know which of them was the crazier, but he supposed he’d find out in four days’ time.
Yet, Trueblood-for-the-defense had had at least one salutary effect: Theo Wrenn Browne was noticeably worried. He apparently thought that an amateur would not be acting as counsel unless that amateur knew something Theo Wren Browne didn’t. He’d been exhausting himself trying to discover what this evidence was that Trueblood had turned up. As far as Melrose knew, Trueblood had “turned up” exactly nothing. Still, Melrose had to admit Marshall Trueblood had thrown himself into his job. He was forever in the Northampton library and had gone twice to London to the British Museum and the London library. He’d even taken Melrose’s copy of Helluva Deal! and hadn’t given it back.
Bryce-Pink, Agatha’s solicitor, was to argue the case (there being no Pete Apteds to deal with local civil matters) before that sleepy old magistrate Major Eustace-Hobson, the same magistrate who’d listened (during his waking moments) to the case of Lady Ardry vs. Jurvis the Butcher in the matter of the plaster pig.
• • •
So,” Marshall Trueblood said, “I can’t use the pig as precedent, since your aunt actually won that case. Unbelievably. For it’s much the same thing, isn’t it? The plaster pig allegedly attacked her on the pavement, and in this case it’s the chamber pot. I can’t think of two things more alike.”
It amazed Melrose that Trueblood was so deep into law he could make statements like this without laughing. But on the other hand that was what too much law did to one. “What I fail to understand,” Melrose said, “is why Pinkeye would agree to represent Agatha. It’s not as if she had money.”
“No, but she’s probably convinced him she’ll be coming into a fortune. Yours.”
“Well, she won’t. Anyway, I have to die for that to happen.”
“She’s probably convinced him you will.”
This conversation had taken place earlier that day, when he and Trueblood had gone for a walk. A stroll, rather. Trueblood claimed a stroll was more contemplative. You don’t stop talking long enough to contemplate anything, Melrose had said. They had taken in the post office, the pond with its ducks, the churchyard, and had been standing then in front of Betty Ball’s bakery, examining the window of delicious-looking scones and cakes and buns.
“I will say, though, it’s quite admirable all this reading up on the law and going to the British Museum and so forth.”
“Law? Good lord, I haven’t been reading law, old sweat. No sense in confusing the issue. Agatha said she’d been doing her shopping the day of the alleged accident.” Trueblood tapped the window. “Hot cross buns.”
“Then what have you been studying up on?”
“Antiques.”
“What? But you know about antiques!”
“Not everything, old chap. Though I’m sure it appears so at times.”
Melrose asked, “When are you going to give me back my book? I’d like it back, please. Helluva Deal! What good can it do you? The Nuttings only hang out with scam-artists.”
“That’s right. It will go so well with the Law. I quite enjoy being on the defense, for that means Pinkeye has to tell me everything he’s got, but I need tell him nothing, not one morsel. It’s the rule of discovery. I fancy a hot cross bun, how about you?”
“It’s just as well, since you’ve nothing to disclose.”
“Don’t be so sure. Let’s have a coffee.”
27
You can expect to be called as a witness for the prosecution,” said Pete Apted, reaching in a paper bag and bringing out an apple.
“Prosecution? But I’m your witness, a defense witness.”
Apted bit into the apple with a loud crack. “Apparently, the prosecution thinks you’re theirs. At least some of you. The part that Jennifer Kennington told her story to. Her relationship with Verna Dunn.”
“Bannen knows it.”
“But not the details. Anyway, it’s as much the manner of the telling as the matter. Highly emotional. You could gather from what she said that she hated the victim’s guts.”
“How would that be admissible? I mean, it would have me drawing conclusions about her state of mind.”
“Umm . . . maybe.”
A voice behind Jury said, “This is why we wanted to see you.” The voice belonged to Charly Moss, who had delegated herself a leather armchair set back and almost out of sight. She had said nothing until now other than a warm “hello” to Jury. Perhaps that’s what she supplied, warmth. He wondered at her being able to play a lesser role, a supporting player. Apted was certainly star material. Charly Moss didn’t appear to mind.
Apted was in shirtsleeves and braces. He’d polished the apple he was now eating on his sleeve. “I’m going to get personal.” He was leaning against the heavy velvet window curtain, which had exploded its cache of dust when he’d done so.
“Go ahead.”
“You and Jennifer Kennington.”
“We’re not lovers. I assume that’s what you mean.”
“You assume right.”
“Friends. Very good friends.”
Apted studied him. “A little less than love, but more than lust? That what you mean?”
“I doubt it,” said Jury wryly.
Apted smiled. It was a slow and rather disturbing smile. “Charly,” he said, nodding past Jury.
Charly Moss said, “Detective Inspector Lasko claims that you were desperate to find her when she ostensibly ‘disappeared’ for several days.”
Jury turned in his chair to look at her. “He’s right, but ‘desperate’ is Lasko’s word. I’m not sure I’d say—”
Charly held up her hand, cutting him off. “He would. His testimony
is ‘He must’ve called me half-a-dozen times to see if I’d had any luck finding her. He was distraught, he was.’ ”
Jury frowned. “Even so, I can’t see what difference it makes. Whatever my feelings for Jenny Kennington, I just don’t see the relevance. If I were her lover, even, does that mean I’d lie?”
Apted shook his head in feigned disbelief. “And you a detective superintendent. Expect the prosecution to say ‘yes’ to that.”
Jury was feeling defensive. “What I want to know is, why can’t you get this case dismissed in magistrate’s court on a bloody technicality? Police didn’t have a search warrant.” He felt low, saying this, given that “police” in this instance amounted to Sammy Lasko.
“Any evidence resulting from an illegal search is inadmissible, as you know. As you also know, but apparently wish you didn’t, it’s not enough to get us a dismissal. I don’t think that would help us much except as yet another example of police mishandling.”
Jury frowned. “What else have they done?”
“Nothing. One can but hope. But let me go on with some devil’s advocacy. Look at these facts: After dinner the night of February first, Jennifer Kennington and Verna Dunn leave the others in the living room to go outside and have a cigarette. A few minutes later, the people inside hear raised voices. Another ten minutes pass and they hear a car start up and drive off and assume it’s the two women gone for a ride. Nearly an hour after that, around eleven-fifteen, Jennifer Kennington returns from her walk, a walk that she decided to take because, according to her, she was so angry she needed to cool off. Needed a drink, too. She left Verna Dunn standing in the drive near the wood, smoking a cigarette. When she’s nearly to the Case Has Altered, she realizes that it’s just short of eleven and that the pub will already have called last orders. The pub and the Owens house are just under a mile apart; the public footpath is a convenient way to reach it, if one doesn’t mind a longish walk.
“The Owens have assumed that Verna Dunn and Jennifer Kennington went somewhere together, and Jennifer Kennington appears to be as surprised as they are to hear that Verna Dunn never returned to the house. Now the Owens assume that just Verna Dunn got in her car and drove away, possibly even to London. She’s a capricious woman, does what suits her at the moment.”
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