The Case Has Altered (44 page)

“I just wanted to get back here, that's all. Out of Lincoln. Surely, you can understand that.”

Putting him on the defensive that was, making him appear a callous brute if he could make his own claim on her outstrip her own needs. And this was the problem, wasn't it? That his needs were not hers. She seemed
honestly not to know why he—or Plant or Charly or anyone—would find it strange that she hadn't waited until she'd seen them. More than that, and perhaps worse, she apparently hadn't needed to see them. “There are some of us who were and are interested in your reactions to the trial.” That was certainly pompous and stiff enough, he supposed.

“I'm sorry.” She looked at her brandy snifter.

Did she fancy he'd driven from Lincoln to exact an apology? His hands were still cold, barely warmed by the cup or the glass. “We wanted to know how you felt.
I
wanted to know.”

“It doesn't mean it's over,” she answered with some trepidation.

“It's most unlikely the prosecution will bring further committal proceedings,” he said, echoing Charly Moss's words, though perhaps not her certainty. For an instant, and against his bidding, a smile materialized on his face and quickly fled. It was the memory of Melrose and Charly out on the pavement, staggering along, still singing. He knew that image would stay with him for a long, long time. And that it would always make him smile. And he thought, further, about that unfortunate meeting of the three of them at Stonington, when Jury had come upon Jenny and Melrose by accident. Innocent as it all was, Melrose Plant had assessed Jury's state of mind in a heartbeat. No, more than that: he had
felt
Jury's feelings. He had simply known, in a way that Jenny hadn't.

“You're amused. Why?”

“What? Oh, just something about Melrose Plant.” He asked, “Didn't you think Pete Apted did a remarkable job?” Was he criticizing her for not being grateful enough? Yes, he supposed he was.

“He's remarkable. It's just that I was hoping I'd be—” She moved her shoulders in a small shrug, bent her head over the glass.

“That you'd be acquitted, I know. Who can blame you? Short of that, though, a dismissal was the best thing that could have happened. I don't see how you could have been cleared in the absence of any other suspects.”

She did not answer immediately; she gave him a speculative look.

“If I'd come up with anything, I'd certainly have passed it along to Bannen.” He hated this feeling that he'd failed her.

Again, she was silent. Then she said, “I think I should go away from
this place.” A silly-looking shawl hung over the arm of her chair; she picked it up and wrapped it around her.

Jury felt the chill again. “I don't understand.”

“I think it might do me good simply to leave here.”

“Go away from here, well, possibly. Turn up, though,
where?
That's the problem. At least for me, it is.”

Jenny pulled the shawl so tightly about her, it might have been a second skin. She seemed to want it to be, as if the first one were not enough to protect her. A log sparked, crumbled, collapsed, throwing embers on the hearth, which she shoved back with the toe of her shoe.

Jury felt a similar collapse of his resolve. Or, rather, of its strength to sway her. Behind her gentle, almost quiescent manner, she had great determination. He could sense, could feel her withdrawing in the same way he felt it years ago in Littlebourne churchyard where they were separated by the length of a grave. He was afraid they were still separated by a grave. He waited for her to return to the subject of the trial, but she didn't. They sat with their coffee and cognac on either side of the fireplace, she gazing into it; he, watching her. He wondered how she could so seal herself off from people.

And he counted back and realized he had actually seen her a mere handful of times in the ten or more years he had known her. He knew, really, little about her. It was with a kind of cold clarity he realized that this silence of theirs now was not the comfortable silence of old friends who had no need to speak in order to feel close to one another. He felt their separation acutely; the silence stretched between them filled with unspoken words—of blame, or hope, or desolation—like white noise.

But if these unspoken words bothered her, there was no way of knowing it. That was just the trouble. He was apparently not attuned to her feelings, when feelings were what he was very good at decoding. Had it always been like this? Probably, but obscured by his own willingness to talk about himself. There had never been from Jenny such a monologue as he himself had spoken just a few weeks before, about his childhood, his parents' deaths. It came with a small shock, the realization that he knew nothing about her that hadn't been immediately evident: that is, the death
of her husband, the move from Stonington, the taking up of quarters here in Stratford-upon-Avon.

Jury drank off his cognac and sat looking at her, and if she knew he was looking, she gave no sign. She seemed totally immersed in whatever pictures the flames were casting up. Discomfort turned to desperation; he could feel whatever had been there slipping away, and he was at a loss to account for this and knew that if asked, she would look at him in dumb surprise. He could not rely on their long and close association, for it hadn't been long even though it had covered a number of years, and now he was forced to admit to himself that it hadn't been close. It was probably this desperation that got him out of his chair and in a step across to hers. He held out his hand and with a smile that was truly inscrutable, she let him pull her up and more than let him kiss her—more than “let”—then she sighed, reached her arms even more tightly around him, and laid her head against his shoulder. He had the strangest sense of her insubstantiality, as if she were not flesh and blood, but a figure in a Magritte painting, walking away through cloud banks.

Saying to him: “But there's no reason, is there, we can't occupy ourselves while you're doing all of this thinking?”

Even though her face was buried on his shoulder, he could sense her smiling. “I can't think of one.”

Insubstantial as she might have been, still she led the way upstairs.

 • • • 

P
hysical love (he had told himself) would bridge the distance, but he hadn't believed it then and didn't now. On their backs they lay looking at the ceiling.

Not a word had been spoken except for a few endearments, and he wondered now if each of them was waiting for the other to speak. For the other to make something out of their being in bed together. To explain it. All he could think to say was “Don't go, Jenny.”

“I feel I have to, after all of this.”

There was no negotiating, no argument.

Yesterday, this morning even, he might have said,
Stay here and marry
me
, but not now. “I don't understand,” he said for the second time, and said it almost to himself as well as to her.

“I think you do.” Her head turned sideways, studying him.

“No.” He shook his head.

There was a long silence, and he again became aware of the problem: she had never, during the whole course of the trial, said she was innocent. He had never asked her. He thought it, but it was Jenny who said it.

“You'd never be sure about me; about my relationships to—other men. You'd never be certain that I didn't do it.”

“That's ridiculous.” He said this with great feeling, knowing he was lying.

“Then why don't you ask it?”

He paused. “I shouldn't have to.”

“You mean, I should have told you.”

Jury closed his eyes, letting the web of shadows on the ceiling go. “I mean, you shouldn't have to.”

There was more silence, finally broken by Jenny. “The argument with Verna? Do you want to hear what that was really about?”

“Of course.” He could not help the tinge of sarcasm. “I'd have liked to hear that the first time you told me.”

His tone did not daunt her. “It began with Jack Price, you see. That's where I was; I wasn't on the footpath. That's why Major Parker didn't see me.”

Hell
, thought Jury. Then, the cop got the better of him, and he asked, “Why in God's name didn't Price
say
so.”

“I didn't want him to. It had nothing to do with these murders, and it wouldn't have given me an alibi.”

“God, you
amateurs
who make your own rules! If Bannen had known that, he would have had a completely different—” Jury stopped, heaved a long sigh. What difference did it make now?

“I just didn't want anyone knowing. I have that right, haven't I?”

The question was rhetorical. “And Verna Dunn?”

“Told me they were having an affair, had been for some time. Well, I imagine she was lying, Jack certainly denied it—”

“When you got together on the Tuesday night?” His tone was bitter.

“Yes. We met in Sutterton. I felt . . . I felt I needed—I don't know. Comfort, reassurance—I don't know. I've known him for a long time.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I . . . don't know.”

Somehow, that made Jury angrier than a simple “yes.” He sat up, put out his hand instinctively for the cigarettes on the nightstand, realized it wasn't his nightstand and that there were no cigarettes. He sighed. How was he supposed to get through such moments without one? He put his head in his hands, stupidly unsure which was the greater need: a disclaimer from Jenny about Jack Price, or a cigarette. “How can you
not know
, Jenny?”

She didn't answer. There was no answer. Instead, she lifted her hand and waved the question away, as if she were clearing smoke.

Jury raised himself. “Why all of the secrecy? Why didn't you say you knew Verna Dunn even if you didn't want to admit knowing Price? I can see her not doing it simply because deception seemed to be her meat and drink. But
you
—it just doesn't make sense. You don't play mind games.”

“I wanted to find out what she was up to.”

He knew that wasn't so; she'd just made it up. “I don't believe that, Jenny.”

She sat up, threw an old chenille robe round her shoulders. There was a hard edge to her voice when she said, “You think I'm lying?”

“Yes.” Jury lay there, looking at her, at her angry face.

Jenny said nothing; she got out of the bed and thrust her arms into the robe, tied it in front. Then she said, “You don't know what the answer is, do you? Whether I'm innocent or guilty.”

“Listen, love: I don't
care
what the answer is. It's the fact you won't
give
me an answer—yes, that hurts.” Jury pulled his legs from the bed, sat on the edge. He picked up the wrinkled shirt and pants that had fallen in a heap from a side chair. He pulled on the trousers, then socks. “You must not trust me very much,” he said, feeling inexpressibly sad as he might do if he were about to lose something.

“Trust works both ways. You must not trust
me
,” she said, not looking at him.

“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.

P
ermission 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.