The Case Has Altered (29 page)

They laughed, and while they were enjoying this ebullient mood, Jury returned to the matter of guns. “Would anyone else have access to your guns, Peter?”

“Same thing that Lincs copper asked. Answer is, yes, probably. We don't keep this cottage locked tight as a drum. The thing is, though, I expect he might've wound up with too many possibles rather than too few. That lab the police have would find it hard going to narrow anything down.”

Not if it's a rifle
, Jury thought. “You mean whether the gun had recently been fired?”

“That's right. I don't know how many the coppers took in for testing—well, they must've found a shell casing or something where she got shot. But probably every rifle they looked at had been fired recently. Old Suggins, he gets in his cups and starts clearing out squirrels— Tea ready, Zel?”

Zel had come in with the tea tray.

Peter went on. “I don't think the police are going to be able to narrow much down when it comes to the people concerned, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just about everybody round can use a shotgun or hunting rifle. Even the ladies. I gave Grace Owen lessons when first she came here,
even. Major Parker, obviously. Max, he can handle one though he's not all that good.” He paused, accepted a cup from Zel, sipped his tea. Peter shook his head. “Good tea, gurl,” he said to Zel. “Did you bring any biscuits?”

Zel heaved a sigh. “I'll get them.”

When she'd run off, Peter leaned toward Jury. “I'll tell you what I think. I think that detective inspector's got it wrong, got it backwards. If anyone could set something like this up, it was Verna Dunn. Just her style. And she could shoot, mind you. She was a good shot, better than Max or Parker. I can just see her hiding a rifle somewhere round there and luring whoever out there.”

Jury thought it was, at least, a fresh notion. “And the ‘whoever'?”

Emery shook his head. “Verna—”

Zel was back with a plate of biscuits, which she passed to Jury. And a little glass dish—a very little dish—holding about two teaspoons of ice cream.

Jury took it. “Dessert for a mouse, is it?”

Zel looked put out. “I only brought enough to taste. You probably won't like it.” Anxiously, she watched him sample it. When Jury said it was good, but he'd rather have chocolate, Zel looked enormously relieved. “I told you so.” She set the dish back on the tray and handed him a mug of tea. Her uncle told her to go along and find Bob, and with many a dark look, she left.

“I was a fair shot myself, years back. Until this.” He gestured toward his eyes. “People just aren't careful enough with guns; it's no wonder it's so hard to get a license.”

“Yes. What happened?”

“ 'Twas years ago—seven, eight—and I had the punt out, into one of those narrow channels other side of Windy Fen, probably too close to Windy Fen—” He opened a small drawer in the table beside the sofa, searched it with his fingers, withdrew his hand, sighed. “Kept some fags in there, but Zel must've found 'em. Anyway, that shooting morning, oh, it was grand, one of those misty dawns, the sky silvery, and everything hushed-like, and I was going to one of my favorite places for partridge. Gliding through that river fog was like moving through a haunted world,
and all your senses are heightened. Willows and hedges like wraiths and shadows, everything unreal. It's hard to describe, a morning like that.” Peter shook his head, as if finding himself wanting. “Anyway, I settled down in the punt, lying there listening to birdwhistle and wind stirring, scraping through the reeds. I lay there watching a butterfly, a Dark Green Fritillary it was, and they're rare; it was sitting on a long bit of grass, swaying. And then off to my right, I heard someone call, and then there must have been two hundred birds—mallards and teal and widgeon—flaring; I stood up in the punt—stupid thing to do—brought my gun around to shoot, at the same time I heard the crack of at least two other shots, and I felt something hot as a razor slice my head, and that was all, everything went black.” He kept his face turned toward the fire. “Funny, but what I remember most clearly isn't the birds but that butterfly, swaying on that marsh grass.” He leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched out. “The one who did it never knew because I didn't make any noise and my boat was so well-screened. . . . ” Peter shrugged. “I expect I should be glad the only thing the bullet took with it was the optical nerve and not my brain.” He smiled with astonishing cheerfulness, as if he'd had all the luck.

Jury set his teacup on the table. “I don't think you need to feel glad. I wouldn't have half your spirit.” Jury stood up. “Thanks for the tea. I'll see you again, perhaps.”

 • • • 

I
'm sorry I can't be of more help,” said Max Owen. He'd just returned from London and he and Jury were having a drink in the living room. “It's true that it was Grace who invited Verna. Grace seems to like her—liked her, I mean. I know Jennifer Kennington's a good friend of yours. She's a fine person; it all seems so utterly unbelievable. All of it.” He looked down into his whiskey, swirled the contents, shook his head.

Jury nodded. “As far as I'm concerned, it's very decent of you to bother talking to me at all. You and your wife must be sick of coppers running amok all over your house.”

Max laughed. “A slight exaggeration. Can you picture Chief Inspector Bannen ‘running amok'? I can't.”

“Nor I. You've known Jenny for some years, is that right?”

Max studied a small black-lacquered box he'd drawn from his pocket. Part of his auction-spoils today. “It was really her husband, James, that I knew. Jennifer I've only run into, oh, five or six times over the years. The longest I was ever around her was years ago when I went out hunting with James. Jennifer came too on that one occasion. They lived in Hertfordshire, a place called Stonington. Do you know it?” Max was looking now at a small ivory carving he'd taken out of his other pocket. More spoils.

“Yes,” said Jury. “I know it. You said Jenny went out too, hunting. You mean she can use a shotgun? Or a rifle?”

“Oh, yes; quite adept.” Max looked up, suddenly, grimaced. “Sorry I put it that way. Mr. Bannen asked me the same question. I did
not
say ‘adept.' ” He sighed. “For all the good it did.” Max rose, drank off his whiskey. “I've got to go up and scrub some of this London filth off.” He dropped the ivory piece back in his pocket, left the box on the table, and looked around, as if he just now missed her. “Has Grace gone to the kitchen? Listen, stay for dinner, won't you?”

“It's very kind of you, but I've got to get back to London. I've an appointment tomorrow morning. I should say
we've
got to get back. I mean my sergeant. Do you happen to know where he is?”

“I think you'll find him in the kitchen, too.”

Jury smiled. “Why am I not surprised?”

 • • • 

H
e didn't see her until he was nearly through the room. It was the change from dark to light near the window that caught his eye, and he looked into the shadows to see if one of the Cold Ladies had moved.

“Grace?” The first name was out before he could shift to
Mrs. Owen
, and he realized it seemed much more natural. He took a step away from the kitchen door. “Grace?”

She was standing before the window, having just pulled back the curtains, and rubbing her arms as if she'd left a chill. The room was cold; Jury thought it must always be cold, the kind of cold that deepens with darkness. There was a sadness in this, that Grace Owen preferred this room over others, this particular window.

From which she turned, now, and he had the fleeting impression that she was expecting him to ask her questions. All she said was “Oh, hello.”

Jury moved over to the window to stand beside her. The deep blue dusk gathered in the wood and then, as easily as turning a page, night fell and he saw the moon floating high in the sky. Its light grazed the water nymph in the driveway's fountain. After a few moments of silence, Jury asked, “Was it out there that Toby's accident happened?”

“Yes.” She didn't turn. “It was out there.”

“I've been wondering. Was Verna Dunn here when it happened?”

She appeared to be giving some thought to her answer. “Yes. She was here.” And now there was a longer pause before she asked, “Why?”

The question had such a weight to it that Jury felt at a loss to answer. “She seems—seemed—to bring bad luck with her.”

“Ah.” Grace said this in a way that implied something had finally been explained to her. “But I don't think luck had anything to do with her.”

“How well did you know her, then?”

She paused, rubbed her upper arms again. “As well as I ever wanted to.”

 • • • 

S
o much, thought Jury, moving toward the kitchen, for Max Owen's remark that his wife “seemed to like” Verna Dunn.

Wiggins was sitting at the big kitchen table, the staff table, flanked by the Sugginses, who were enjoying his company. When Jury came to the door, they had suspended eating in order to laugh heartily at whatever Wiggins was talking about. He was saying, “. . . so I says to her, ‘Nurse, if you do that once more, I'm afraid I shall have to charge you with breaking and entering.' ” He waved his fork as his two dinner companions laughed uproariously. Suggins slapped the table several times with the palm of his hand, jumping the dishes—

Jury smiled and shook his head. Sergeant Alfred Wiggins, raconteur. He stood just inside the kitchen door, almost hating to break up the party. He thought that for Wiggins, eternity should be spent round a table just like this one. Then he moved into the room and greeted Suggins and his wife, Annie.

Wiggins rose quickly, pulling away the snowy napkin tucked under his chin. “Sir!” He all but saluted.

“Never mind, at ease, as you were, parade rest, Sergeant. I just wanted to let you know we'll be leaving for London”—he nodded toward some pots steaming on the cooker—“when you've finished.”

Annie Suggins said, her napkin pressed to her bosom, “We generally have our own supper after the others, but tonight, seeing as how Sergeant Wiggins here was so famished . . . not had a bite all day.”

So soon does one forget the Happy Eater's beans on toast, Jury thought, looking at the untroubled Wiggins. Jury kept a straight face. “A policeman's life is full of grief, Mrs. Suggins.”

“Me and Mr. Suggins, we both decided to take our supper now, too.”

Wiggins was already sitting back down, stuffing himself with what looked like golden Yorkshire pudding.

“But wouldn't you like a cup of tea, sir?” Annie was already pouring from the fat pot on the table.

For once, Jury was willing to believe that a cup of tea would fix anything. “Thanks, I believe I will. I wonder if I could have a word with you, Mrs. Suggins?” Far from appearing distraught that Scotland Yard might have business with her, Annie looked pleasantly surprised. “And you, Sergeant Wiggins, perhaps you could have a word with Mr. Suggins?”

“About what? . . . Oh, yes, of course. Just what I was doing when you came in.”

“Uh-huh.” Tea in hand, Jury followed Annie to a chair by the fire. Kitchen fireplaces offered a special kind of comfort. He had always felt they made people want to take their shoes off, unbutton, let their hair down. “Annie, help me out here, will you? So far, I've got nowhere with the little information I've collected.”

Arms folded firmly over her bosom, Annie rocked and turned her mind to Jury's problem. “One does hear things, sir. That was Dorcas's trouble, the silly girl:
She
heard too much, to my way of thinking.”

Jury frowned. “Such as what?”

“I can't say ‘what' exactly. It's just that she was that nosy I told her it'd get her into trouble one fine day. Many's the time I seen Dorcas with her ear against a door.”

“Did she have anything to do with Lady Kennington or Verna Dunn?”

“She did, certainly. It was her that took up their morning tea and fetched anything they might want. Not having any upstairs help”—here Annie's scandalized expression told Jury just what she thought of
that
arrangement—“Dorcas had to double as a maid-like. Not that there was any real work in it, and I know that Miss Dunn would have given Dorcas quite a tidy sum when she left. She was generous, I'll say that for her.”

Jury smiled, sipped his tea. “What
won't
you say for her? You knew her when she was Mrs. Owen, didn't you?”

“Indeed I did. I've been cook for him since he was a young man. Him and Mr. Price.”

There was something in the way she said it that made Jury ask, “What about Mr. Price?”

“Oh, nothing about
him
, sir. No, Mr. Owen and Mr. Price get along like brothers, always have. No, it was
her.”

Jury had the feeling Annie thought he should be able to sort this out, but he felt merely baffled. “Her? Verna Dunn, you mean, caused trouble there?”

Annie sighed, got up to poke the fire, then sighed herself back into her chair. “I'd say so, yes, though I'm not a person to pass along gossip, and I wouldn't want to say anything Mr. Owen might take umbrage about. At that time, he was only really using this house on the weekends. Spent most of his time in London. Mr. Jack was here
all
of the time; he loves it for his work.” She paused, smoothed her apron over her lap.

“And so was Verna Owen. Is that what you mean?”

“I wouldn't be telling a lie if I said so, no, sir.”

“You think they were . . . having a relationship?” The brief nod of her head answered the question, and Jury thought about that for a moment. “Mr. Price apparently knew Lady Kennington, too.”