The Case Has Altered (27 page)

The greenish glow was coming from several computer screens, left on, ready for action. Inside, the van was blue with smoke. Bannen liked cigars. He was sitting alone punching up data on his screen.

“Ah. I had an idea I'd see you again, soon.”

It was a smile that Jury couldn't read, not before, and not now. Bannen would have made a superior poker player; he always seemed to have something in the hole.

Here, Jury bet Bannen had plenty. Perhaps not; perhaps it was just a Bannen bluff. Jury nodded, smiled slightly, pulled over one of the folding chairs. “Sam Lasko tells me you're about to make an arrest.”

“That's not precisely what I told him, however—” Bannen took the cigar from his mouth, scrutinized the end, relit it, looked at Jury.

“ ‘Not precisely?' I wonder what that means.” Jury got the impression from Bannen's direct gaze that he could have wondered till he was blue in the face and he wouldn't find out. He leaned his chair back on two legs, tried not to sound agitated, and said, “You'll have to forgive my prying”—he should not engage in childish sarcasm with this Lincs policeman, he knew—“but she's a friend.”

“Yes, you told me. It now sounds as if she's a very good friend.” The word seemed to relegate any judgment of Jury's to a dustheap of poor deduction.

“Very good. But friend or no friend, you have sod-all to hold her.”

Bannen sighed. “Well, we'll just have to leave that up to the Crown Prosecution Service.” Bannen moved his hand across several files and papers on his desk as if his magician's fingers would turn them all into visible proof of what he had to hold Jenny Kennington. “Mr. Jury.” He cleared his throat. “Her motive was very strong; her opportunity—her ‘window of opportunity' as it is currently described—excellent. She had access to the rifle that was used. To top it all, she lied. About several things. As I'm sure you've by now discovered. I hope you've found her a good lawyer.”

Jury wondered about the “several” lies. He knew of only one. “Tell me: Why would Lady Kennington kill the Dunn woman now? Fifteen or so years after she'd last seen her. Fifteen years after the injury was done—injuries, I should say. Verna Dunn apparently inflicted a good many, and not only on Jenny Kennington.”

Bannen's voice was mild. “Who says it was for an injury done fifteen years ago?”

The legs of Jury's chair hit the floor, hard. “What recent damage had she done?”

Bannen wasn't about to answer Jury's questions. He shrugged. “If there were nothing, no motivation, then why didn't Jennifer Kennington admit that she knew her all of those years ago? That they were, indeed, related?”

“That isn't so important—”

“It isn't? I wonder what Oedipus would say to that.”

“Why didn't Jack Price say he'd known Lady Kennington? I'm merely pointing out there could be perfectly innocent reasons for not announcing that you knew someone in the past.”

“Hmm. But then Jack Price didn't kill Verna Dunn.” Bannen smiled a quick, false smile. “There seem to be a number of people Lady Kennington didn't want to acknowledge knowing.”

Jury ignored the circular reasoning Bannen had used with relation to Jack Price. Bannen knew he was doing it. “Two. Not ‘a number.' ”

Bannen shook his head, implying disbelief that the superintendent could really be as thick as two planks. He ran his hand back over his thinning hair. “If Jennifer Kennington had gone back into the house and, say, bolted up to her room because she was angry or whatever, I'd say that was understandable behavior. Instead, she leaves the Dunn woman standing in the wood and, leaving her host and his guests, sets off for the local, some distance away. Then, after walking for ten or fifteen minutes, realizes that the Case would have already called for last orders and would be closing. She turns and retraces her steps to Fengate.” Bannen sat back in his swivel chair. “Now, does that sound like plausible behavior—for an innocent person, I mean?”

“Then why haven't you charged her?”

Bannen rocked in his chair a bit, undisturbed by the question. “I'm showing remarkable restraint. I'm making allowances.”

Jury shook his head. “I doubt it.” Jury inclined his head to one side, gesturing in the direction of the boardwalk and canals. “What about Dorcas Reese? Are you saying Jenny did that too?”

Bannen's smile was maddeningly enigmatic. “Yes.”

Jury felt a real chill. He had expected uncertainty here. “But why? What possible motive—”

Bannen sighed. “Dorcas Reese presented a danger to her.”

“Listen to me: yesterday I talked to Jenny Kennington. In Stratford. She said something strange: that she wondered if Verna Dunn was nearby when Grace Owen's son met with his accident.”

Bannen frowned at his computer screen, as if it had failed to bring up an explanation of this sudden switching of subjects. “If you're suggesting that Grace Owen held Verna Dunn responsible for her son's death”—Bannen rolled the cigar in his mouth—“why on earth would she choose an occasion to shoot her when others, strangers, were present? It would surely be more sensible to go to London, to go to Verna Dunn's house, than wait for her to come to Fengate. That just doesn't make sense.”

“Of course, it doesn't. Not if the murder was premeditated. Grace Owen might only have just found out that weekend. How many occasions were there, after all, when she was in the presence of the ex-Mrs. Owen?”

There was a silence. Then Bannen said, “Lady Kennington's comment about the son was merely speculation.”

“It would certainly be simple enough to find out.” Jury rose. “I have a feeling you know more about this than I do.”

Bannen laughed. “I certainly hope so, Mr. Jury. Because you know—to use your own words—sod-all.”

J
ury looked for some moments at the house a short distance away on a rise of ground. “Toad Hall” Plant had said Parker called it. A whimsical man. Jury wondered if Linus Parker felt an affinity for animal-things, child-things. And how he'd react to an unannounced and unofficial visit from Scotland Yard. Given what Melrose Plant had said, probably with grace.

It was no member of the staff who opened the door, that was clear. In spite of the white apron that fell nearly to the ground (Parker, he knew, loved to cook), this tall man with the mustache and thinning hair would never be taken for anything other than one of the upper class. Something in the bearing, in the barely perceptible cocksureness of the way he held his head.

“Mr. Parker? Major Parker?”

Parker nodded and with a smile slightly ironic, said, “Believe me, ‘Mr.' will do, and plain ‘Parker' is better. That's what people call me. You the Scotland Yard chap?”

Jury stopped in the act of getting out his small wallet that held his ID. Surprised, he said, “How did you—”

“Know? Ah, news travels like lightning in these parts. Come on in.” Parker stepped back from the door and gestured for Jury to pass through it. Parker removed his apron, tossed it over a bronze bust, and then took Jury's coat. With more care he deposited the coat over the arm of a rather ostentatious chair, Louis Quinze, perhaps, which was the only Louis Jury could remember. “This way, Mr.—ah, I wasn't told your name, however.”

“Richard Jury. I'm with the CID.”

They arrived in a large yet cozy room, its hominess owing no doubt to a big, wild fire raging in an enormous fireplace. The fire and the crammed-in furniture. Jury had never seen such an eclectic mix—Art Nouveau jostling Chinese lacquer; worthy American-looking pine and oak in tables and trestles; several periods of one Louis or another—it was quite overwhelming, more so than Fengate, overflowing with objets d'art, many of which looked to be of museum quality, but none of which seemed to go together. Yet all were well cared for—no table, no silver or copper unpolished. Paintings, mostly unhung, were scattered about, leaning against mahogany sideboards and blanket chests; two weathervanes, horse and stag, tilted against the far wall; urns and cast-iron animals sat about; commodes inlaid with mother-of-pearl sat beside a marquetry table; a jade head and an ivory horse graced the mantel of the fireplace together with a number of small bronze pieces.

Jury and Parker sat on facing faded velvet love seats with a cobbler's bench that served as coffee table between them. A cut-glass tumbler with a finger of whiskey in it sat there beside the book, which was open and face down.

Jury said, “I interrupted you. I hope you don't mind.”

Parker laughed. “A welcome interruption, I assure you. Been getting maudlin, drinking and reading Swinburne. D'you like Swinburne?” Not waiting for an answer, he scooped up the book and read: “. . .
That no life lives forever,/That dead men rise up never,/That even the weariest river/Winds somewhere safe to sea.”
He snapped the book shut as if he'd just made a cosmic point. “One of my favorites. I take comfort in it.” He held up his glass. “Comfort in poetry and a good stiff drink.”

Jury said, “Doesn't sound very comforting. ‘The weariest river . . .' ”

“Oh, but the point is it flows to sea, it connects with something.”

Jury settled back on a sofa that was far more comfortable than it looked and felt that he was in the company of an old friend. How strange. They sat for a moment in silence as Jury let his gaze wander about the room.

Parker said, “Looks a little like a junk shop, doesn't it? I live rough.”

Jury said, “If you can call being surrounded by jade and ivory and these paintings ‘living rough,' I suppose you do.”

Parker relit his pipe and fanned out the match. “Max Owen can't breath in this room. Pretends to have an asthma attack every time he gets in here. But I expect it's just jealousy.” Parker looked about him. “Max has a better eye for arrangement than I do.”

So does the cat Cyril, Jury wanted to say, but smiled instead.

“It was my char.”

Jury didn't know what he was talking about. “Pardon?”

“Madeline, the woman who comes to char for me, she walked into the Case when you were there. It's how I knew who you were. She's every bit as good as a newspaper. What can I do for you? Or, better yet”—Parker rose and walked to a rosewood sideboard—“what can I get for you?” He unstoppered one of several hundred pounds' worth of cut- or pressed-glass decanters. “Whiskey? Cognac?”

“Whiskey, thanks.” Before the cut-glass tumbler was in his hand, Jury could taste it. The glass seemed to have trapped the amber light. Old whiskey from old glass. Jury took a drink. It went down his throat like burning silk, the heat of it relaxing his muscles, expanding his veins. Ah. Was alcoholism the next stop? He'd given up cigarettes (and was trying to keep his eye from roving toward that japanned box on the coffee table, just right for a pack); would whiskey be the next to go in his small repertoire of bad habits? “This is the smoothest whiskey I have ever drunk.”

“Umm. Good stuff, I agree. Forgotten which one it is.”

“I'd sooner forget my financée's face.”

Parker laughed and tossed his drink back in one gulp, quick and neat. He repositioned the pipe stem between his teeth, puffed a bit.

Jury regarded the pipe, watched the puffs of smoke winding a ribbony path upward. He asked, “Were you a cigarette smoker once and switched to a pipe?”

Parker frowned a bit, as if thinking this over, thinking back. “Not really.”

Not
really?
Good lord, could one
perhaps
in one's youth have smoked them and then forgotten?

“I take it you were?” Parker smiled through the sensuous smoke.

“Pack a day.” Actually, more like two. Pack-and-a-half, at least.

“Um. Don't you miss it?”

Jury stared, blinked. He shrugged. “I can pretty much take it or leave it, I can.” He rocked his hand.
“Comme ci, comme ça
, that's me.”

Parker smiled, looking as if he didn't believe a word of this, then said, “You know Mr. Plant don't you? He lunched with me.”

Jury smiled. “Don't I know it? He's still talking about it.” Too late, he recalled his knowledge of Mr. Plant was supposed to be “slight.”

But Parker was too taken with the compliment to notice. “Tell him he's welcome any time. Nice chap.” He was silent for a moment, and then prompted, “I assume you want to ask me about these two women?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Jury sat up, replaced his glass. Sadly.

The astute Parker rose, replenished both of their glasses. Jury sat back again, sipped. “Yes. You knew Verna Dunn pretty well?”

“I did. And didn't like her much.”

“That seems to be a majority opinion. She was Mrs. Owen when you knew her?”

Parker nodded. “Verna was an actress. All the time. She was adept at masking her true self. If indeed there was a ‘true' self. I'm inclined to believe she was a series of sham selves.”