The Case Has Altered

by Martha Grimes

  “No. I expect I don’t.”

  That truly stung. “What happened to what they call autrefois convict? Double jeopardy, isn’t it? I feel I’m being tried again.”

  He was sitting now on a little slipper chair, a shoe dangling from his fingers. Sadly, he shook his head. “No. You should know the difference, Jenny”.

  “Between what and what?”

  “Between love and the law.” He smiled a little, unsure of what he meant by that. Amour, adieu, fini. His throat constricted, felt crammed with unspoken words. He shut his eyes, tightly.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She pulled the tie of her robe tighter as if she’d cut herself in two. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  That did it. Jury burst out laughing. The British way of coping with love routed, with loss, with blackspot on the roses.

  There’ll always be an England, he thought.

  Part IV

  Helluva Deal!

  37

  Permission to treat as hostile, Your Worship,” entreated Mr. Bryce-Pink, solicitor for the plaintiff.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, thought Melrose, just because he’d stonewalled old Bryce-Pink about his, Melrose’s, questionable vision. And who wouldn’t be hostile when it came to Agatha, except for that snake Theo Wrenn Browne? But then he had something to gain from all of this foot-in-the-chamber-pot business.

  Melrose cast his eyes about the room. The court was in Sidbury. He saw most of Long Piddleton had turned out in flowery regalia as if the Ardry vs. Crisp case were ushering in the flower show. Melrose wriggled the well-shod foot that rested on his other knee and waited to be treated as hostile.

  The magistrate, Major Eustace-Hobson, raised his drooping eyelids, waved his small, white hand at Bryce-Pink, giving that permission.

  “Let me ask you again, Lord Ardry, as you were standing on the opposite pavement in direct view of Lady Ardry, who stood herself in front of the defendant’s shop, with the dog theretofore seated on a chair taking the sun—”

  Melrose turned to the magistrate. “Question! May I ask for the question, Your Worship?” Watching Pete Apted in action had taught him things.

  Eustace-Hobson had been sitting with his head resting on his fist, eyes half-closed against the glare of injustice (Melrose liked to think), and nor did he change that position as he said, “Lord Ardry, try to remember you are not here as counsel, but as witness. However, as counsel for the defense sees fit to let any irregularity pass him by, yes, I judge it prudent at the moment to allow—”

  What was the matter with these people? Couldn’t they make a point within the time it would take to get to the Inns of Court and back?

  “—you to ask for the question.”

  Marshall Trueblood was sitting beside Ada Crisp and looking absolutely spectacular in a three-piece pinstripe suit of fine wool silk by some Italian designer, not, for a change, Armani. Armani (Trueblood had told him) was too comfortable-looking. His shirt was actually white—Melrose didn’t know he owned a plain white shirt—and he wore a gray tie of some exquisite silk dashed here and there with watery color. Trueblood had not risen once to object, not even when that asp Theo Wrenn Browne had sworn up and down he had seen numerous mishaps caused by the “rubbish” outside of Ada Crisp’s shop and the dog barking day in and day out, snapping at passersby. “A disgrace, a danger to us who use the pavement, a danger to life—”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Trueblood had let the maligning of the poor dog sail right by. The dog wasn’t on trial, was it?

  “. . . and only twenty feet away, Lord Ardry?”

  “Huh?” Melrose jerked himself back to never-never land. “Oh, you mean a clear and unobstructed view straight across the street?”

  Bryce-Pink was wary. “Uh . . . indeed.”

  “Yes, well you must remember that this is the main street we’re talking about and there are cars whizzing up and down it—”

  “Poppycock!” exclaimed Agatha, half rising from her chair.

  “Madam!” said the magistrate, with a bang of his gavel, “kindly refrain from these outbursts!” It wasn’t the first time Agatha had shouted her objections.

  “But he’s just trying to muddy things,” she said now. “He’s just messing us about, don’t you see—?”

  “Lady Ardry, sit down.” This was accompanied by some gavel-banging. “Bryce-Pink, please control your client.”

  She was as red as a beetroot, Melrose was happy to see. He said, “I was merely attempting to answer the question, Your Worship, as honestly as I could—”

  Eustace-Hobson was not unimpressed with a title, even though Melrose had left his in the dust over a decade ago. But the “Lady” Agatha had adopted was, the magistrate knew, completely spurious. Melrose’s uncle had been an “Honorable” but that was all. Eustace-Hobson nodded at Melrose to proceed.

  Melrose found he was getting just like the rest of them; he forgot what his point had been, and so blamed the losing of it on Agatha’s solicitor. “Please put your question again, Mr. Bryce-Pink.”

  Leveling a knifelike glance at Melrose, Bryce-Pink said they’d been talking about the witness’s having a clear view of Miss Crisp’s shop, and consequently of the “accident.” And did he understand the punishment for perjuring himself?

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  Bryce-Pink looked at him warily, again. “Continue, please.”

  “With what?”

  The solicitor bared his teeth, reminding Melrose of the dog Bob.

  “Your position in the High Street with relation to your aunt’s. And don’t”—now he was whining—“try to convince us that this was a dangerous intersection.”

  “Very well, only I’ve often thought there should be a zebra crossing right there. It would be a great help to the elderly and”—he smiled at Agatha, whose color was not improving—“baby prams.”

  Bryce-Pink, who had been keeping his distance from the witness, now got up quite close to Melrose. “Lord Ardry, I ask you again and, I hope, for the last time: did you or did you not see Lady Ardry stumble over a wooden chair left on the pavement by the defendant, stumble, and get her foot caught in a chamber pot?”

  “Ummmm . . . Something like that, yes.”

  Bryce-Pink shut his eyes tight. “No, not ‘something like that,’ but exactly like that!”

  Why wasn’t Trueblood objecting, for God’s sake? He’d hardly said Boo! since Bryce-Pink had started in. Trueblood just sat there beside Miss Ada Crisp, smoothing his tie. Melrose took it upon himself to say, “Your Worship, I must protest at counsel’s trying to put words in my mouth. Isn’t that ‘leading the witness’?”

  “Kindly allow the witness to answer, Mr. Bryce-Pink.”

  Bryce-Pink groveled a bit, then said: “Perhaps, Lord Ardry, you will be good enough to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ That’s all. A simple answer will do. Now, did you see this accident to Lady Ardry occur?”

  Melrose screwed up his eyes, as if thinking furiously. “Well, yeeee-yes, if you put it that way.”

  “Well, you either did or you didn’t, so your ‘yes’ I shall take to mean you did. Again, a simple answer will do: you did see this lady”—he turned to indicate Agatha—“stumble, and her foot go into the chamber pot.”

  “True, but—”

  “That will be all, Lord Ardry.”

  Melrose stepped down, but not before he leveled a black look at Marshall Trueblood.

  • • •

  Dr. Lambert Leach took the stand, pushed his thick spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and squinted out over the room. Dr. Leach was called upon by the villagers only if they were in extremis.

  “Dr. Leach, you attended Lady Ardry, the plaintiff, shortly after this unfortunate accident, did you not?”

  “I did.” Dr. Leach looked out from glasses so thick they magnified his own eyes. He made a long scrutiny of his alleged patient. “Terrible shape she was in. Good thing they got to me when they did, even if it caught me square in the middle of my boiled
egg; good thing, for I doubt she’d have lasted the ni—”

  Realizing Dr. Leach had got his cases confused, Bryce-Pink rushed in to trample his words. “Quite so, quite so. Now, Dr. Leach, please describe Lady Ardry’s condition. I mean the condition of her ankle.”

  Dr. Leach looked across at Agatha, probably trying to remember. Then he said, “Awful, it was. Terrible.”

  “Sprain, you mean?”

  Trueblood, object!

  Enlightened, Dr. Leach nodded vigorously. “Worst I ever did see. Worst.”

  “And what did you have to do in addition to bandaging it?”

  “Give her pain pills. Oh, yes, she was awful bad. I told her to keep off her feet, put that foot up.”

  “For how long was she thus incapacitated, Dr. Leach?”

  “Days.” Dr. Leach bethought himself. “Weeks—” Before he could change that to “months,” Bryce-Pink quickly excused him. “Your witness, Mr. Trueblood.”

  Trueblood rose, cool as a cucumber. “No questions at this time.” He sat down.

  Melrose was getting ready to throttle Trueblood. Good God! You call that medical testimony? Ask about the X-rays, at least!

  But Eustace-Hobson decided they were all ready for their lunch, banged his gavel briefly, and looked with infinite kindness upon Trueblood, who, at this point, probably could have won by default.

  • • •

  You didn’t even call old Leach, for God’s sake,” exclaimed Melrose. The Jack and Hammer being out of the question in this instance, as were any of the Sidbury pubs, he and Trueblood were sitting in the Blue Parrot, chosen because no one else—in his right mind, Trueblood had added—would see them here. They were sitting as far from Trevor Sly as they could get. At the moment, he was back in the kitchen preparing their lunch.

  Melrose went on, seeing he hadn’t dented Trueblood’s equanimity. “The man’s memory has atrophied. At first, he wasn’t even talking about Agatha; he was onto some case he’d probably had fifty years ago. His last case, no doubt—no, this is his—” Melrose said as Trevor Sly had put down their plates. Of something. Melrose shoved the Kibbi-Bi Saniyyi—the alleged Arabian dish—in front of Trueblood.

  “Careful, hot plates!” Dangling his potholder from delicate fingers, Sly went humming off.

  “You could have made mincemeat of him!” Melrose protested, pushing his fork toward Trueblood’s plate. “You could have made Kibbi-Bi-blah blah stuff of him.”

  “Anyone could have,” said Trueblood, ignoring his food and lighting up a turquoise Sobranie. “That’s the point, old sweat. Why should I lower myself?” He inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke away from Melrose.

  “Lower yourself? Lower yourself?” Melrose dropped his cutlery and raised his hands to heaven. “That’s absolutely insane! You’re Ada’s legal representative!”

  Trueblood flicked a bit of ash from his waistcoat. “It made me look the humanitarian, not driving questions into old Leach’s heart like nails, don’t you see? I mean, if I’d needed to tear his testimony to shreds, of course, I would have. But I didn’t.”

  Melrose took a tentative bite of his lunch. Supposed to be a kind of lamb curry, it was instead, as he’d suspected, beef mince. “You’re not cross-examining anybody! You’re just sitting there! I need some ketchup.”

  Trueblood shoved over the plastic condiment bottle, shaped like a little Sphinx. “You haven’t even heard my side of things, old bean-o; wait till this afternoon. I simply wanted to see how many irons old Bryce-Pink had in the fire. None, it would appear.”

  “None? He’s got me! You can bet he’ll bring me back!”

  “Oh, don’t get out of sorts. Have a Cairo Flame. Mr. Sly!”

  38

  The next morning Jury was sitting on a bench in Lincoln Headquarters, waiting for Chief Inspector Bannen to get off the telephone and summon him to his office. To his desk and assorted chairs, really, rather than “office.” Finally, he hung up and waved Jury over.

  “Mr. Jury. I’m surprised that you’re still around.”

  “Why? It’s the same old problem, but with a different spin.”

  Bannen smiled. “Perhaps different. After all, Mr. Apted could be dead wrong.” He said this without any trace of irony or of anger.

  “You’re in a good mood, considering.”

  “Considering what? That I lost, you mean?”

  “Not exactly. More an investigation going on for six weeks that you must have been glad to be shut of.”

  Bannen scratched the back of his neck with an index finger, more from habit than from discomfort. It was a mannerism he engaged in when he grew thoughtful. He didn’t speak for some moments, and then said, “I shouldn’t’ve allowed it to go to trial so soon. I was precipitate.”

  “You shouldn’t have? It wasn’t your decision; it was the court docket.”

  “Hmm. Yes, except prosecution would have considered a delay if I’d so indicated.”

  “Now what?”

  “Well, of course, I keep on, don’t I? It’s a matter of realigning the facts.”

  “Do you still think Jenny Kennington is guilty?”

  “Do you?” Bannen gave Jury one of his ironic little smiles. His eyes seemed opaque, impossible to read. They gave nothing away.

  “You talked to the Reese girl’s parents—?”

  “Yes, initially, of course. They didn’t inspire me with their testimony.”

  “Do you mind if I talk to them?”

  “Not at all, just so long as you keep me apprised of anything interesting they might have to say. But I rather doubt it.”

  • • •

  Spalding, which lay some ten miles south of the Owens’ house, was at the center of this tulip-growing industry; otherwise, it was much like any other largish town. Shops and businesses around a central square or at least a green piece of land, a complement of pubs and caffs, a post office, a hospital. The Welland, which coursed through part of the town, divided the traffic going to and from, and with its green banks leant to the scene the look of an esplanade, the sort one sees in spa towns, Harrogate or Leamington, where people go to immerse their weary limbs in healing waters.

  The Reeses’ house was semidetached with a high-pitched roof, the bottom part of which nearly covered the eyebrow windows. It was like the others on this side of the street, except for the goblins in the garden. Jury wondered what mind-set one must have to hanker after plastic gnomes and pink flamingoes, especially near beds of bulbs that would, this time next month, be a fiery glow of apricot, orange, and flame-red tulips.

  He was met at the door by Mrs. Reese, with whom he’d talked that morning. She was a plain-faced, stout woman who could only have been the mother of Dorcas, so much did they resemble one another. She was one of those rigid housekeepers with rules to follow. She asked him to use the bootscraper and finish off with the doormat before he entered. He might be a Scotland Yard superintendent, but the same mud clung to his shoes as to other people’s.

  Jury had seen a hundred Colleen Reeses in the course of his investigations. Women with an inquiring eye, but not blessed with much intelligence; a combative or contentious spirit; red hands that had seen too many dishes and had always kept the house too clean for enjoyment. He looked around the parlor, feeling he had seen it all many times over: the faded flowered slipcovers, the shelves of painted china, the fringed lampshades, the flowered curtains, the imitation coals aglow in the clean, cold fireplace, probably turned on just before his arrival to save on the electric. The room was cold.

  Once she’d told him where to sit, he did so and accepted a cup of tea and a biscuit though he was dying for strong black coffee. It was the house of a smoker, too, worse luck, for there were ashtrays on every surface. Given Mrs. Reese’s inclination toward cleanliness, that surprised him. Or perhaps this room was the smoking-zone. Framed photos depicted Dorcas at various stages of her life, and Jury was once again brought up short by the transience of that life. The moments captured by the camera’s lens were as insub
stantial as shadows and as fleeting as light.

  He had called the Reese home before he’d left Lincoln, and so she’d been waiting for him with the Sunday china and a tin of biscuits. He felt a little cowardly to be relieved that over a month had passed since the girl’s death, and the worst of Colleen Reese’s tears had been shed. Yet, she struck him anyway as a woman who wouldn’t let emotions get the best of her.

  She said she had told everything she knew about Dorcas “to that Lincolnshire lot” (the Spalding and Lincoln police), but that he—Jury—might be better able to make something of it, “you being Scotland Yard.” This was a much more generous view of Scotland Yard than he was used to.

  Sentiment far outweighs honesty in talking about a dead child, and Dorcas’s mother was no exception. “She were a good girl, our Dorcas,” had been repeated several times while Jury sat drinking tea. “A good girl, Dorcas,” said Colleen, again. “Sorry I can’t say the same for our Violet.” Yet she smiled pertly when she said this, as if Violet had bested her sister in some way. Jury imagined that Dorcas’s goodness and the other girl’s lack of it had to do more with one being dead and the other living.

  With that sentiment expressed, she handed Jury one of the several silver-framed photos, this one of the girls together. Violet was prettier, he supposed, but vapidly so. “ ‘Dorcas shy, Violet sly,’ that’s what we all said.” She pointed out to him that it rhymed.

  Jury smiled and thought it might rhyme but it was hardly accurate. One thing Dorcas hadn’t been was “shy.” He carefully advanced on the subject of her daughter’s saying that she was pregnant. Mrs. Reese’s face went quite blank, scrubbed clean of emotion.

  “That weren’t like our Dorcas.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t. Probably it was just—” Just what? he asked himself. Just a one-night stand? Just an accident? Can the lost virginal world of childhood be “just” anything?

  “Fate,” he said.

  Colleen was fully cooperative again. “It’s what I told Trevor—that’s Mr. Reese—’twas meant to be and who knows but what her saying she was preggers warn’t the hand of Fate slapping sense into her. It’s the good’uns gets caught, but I expect you know that, being in your line of work. I never wanted her autopsied because I didn’t want it getting round that Dorcas—”