The Case Has Altered (42 page)

“Well, it doesn't have to be ‘many'; one would suffice.”

Melrose smiled at that. He looked at Jenny, then at Jury, who had returned from Algarkirk late last night and was now sitting beside him, unsmiling.

“Yes, of course,” said Bannen. “But the witnesses we questioned—family, friends—were simply astonished to find the Reese girl was pregnant. The only one who suspected Dorcas might ‘have a bun in the oven,' as she put it, was another young lady who worked at the same pub. Reese had told her aunt, Madeline Reese. And her friend, Ivy—”

“Ivy Enoch, the young woman who testified yesterday that she had no idea ‘who the chap was'?”

“But that's not to say—”

Apted cut him off. The last thing he wanted was a freewheeling witness. Especially one as intelligent as the chief inspector. “You would not be inclined, then, to set down as a motive either frustrated love or a demand on Dorcas's part to marry.”

“No, I wouldn't. I can't be sure, though.”

“You're a fair man, Mr. Bannen. So we have a young woman who worked at Fengate strangled and dumped in a drain on National Trust property just two weeks following the murder of a well-known and glamorous woman, divorced wife and sometime actress, a name occasionally found in the tabloids. The second victim, Dorcas Reese, had for three days been given the task of taking tea or morning coffee to members of the household—the Owens, Lady Kennington, Verna Dunn. Now, put this together with Dorcas's strange words, uttered in the hearing of the cook, Annie Suggins: ‘I shouldn't have done it; I ought not to have listened.' And Annie Suggins describes Dorcas as an overly curious, ‘nosy' young woman. What do you make of all this?”

“I'd conclude that Dorcas Reese overheard something in the course of
waiting upon Verna Dunn that was extremely dangerous. And that some third person caught her—Dorcas—at it, or found out in some way that Dorcas had overheard him or her. Understand, though, this is merely
one
scenario. There are others. Blackmail is always a possibility.”

“Of course, except a person set on blackmail doesn't chastise herself because she's got the means to it. A blackmailer would hardly say, ‘I shouldn't have done it.' Leave that for a moment. I believe you'd say that two things are still probably in any scenario: one, that Dorcas overheard something and, two, that she was murdered because she had this knowledge.”

Bannen nodded. “It seems a reasonable assumption.”

“Take the first point, Mr. Bannen. Your interpretation of ‘I shouldn't have listened,' is that Dorcas overheard, in some way—perhaps standing with her tea tray outside Verna Dunn's door—she overheard a conversation.”

Bannen nodded, but looked puzzled.

“Why?”

“ ‘Why?' I'm afraid I don't—”

“Well, I merely wondered why you didn't interpret ‘I shouldn't have listened' as meaning Dorcas thought she herself shouldn't have listened to a person speaking to her, giving her advice, possibly, and in taking the advice she wound up in trouble for it.”

Bannen cleared his throat. “I see what you mean, yes. Well, of course that's quite possible.”

“So Dorcas may not have heard anything at all related to Verna Dunn?”

“That's true. Yes.”

“The second point—which, I admit, is not dependent upon Dorcas's having overheard Verna Dunn or anyone—the second point is that Dorcas was murdered because she knew something. She got in the way and had to be disposed of.”

“I honestly think that's the most viable motive, yes.”

“Again, why?”

Bannen was silent this time. And then with a cold smile said, “You tell me, Mr. Apted.”

Pete Apted smiled. “Are you familiar with the hamlet of Cowbit?”

Bannen frowned, looked from the judge to Stant, who was also frowning and, Melrose supposed, would be on his feet in a moment. “Yes, but I don't see—”

“There's a cottage there with the name ‘The Red Last.' A pub stood there once of that name—'The Red Last.' Now it's a private dwelling. What do you suppose that means, ‘The Red Last'?”

Oliver Stant was up like a shot. “Your Honor, I can't see where this is leading.”

The judge agreed. “Mr. Apted, is there a relevant question buried in your pub lore?”

“Yes, Your Honor; I just asked it. It's very relevant. If Your Honor could bear with me for a moment?” Without waiting to see whether the judge could or not, he returned to Bannen. “What does it mean?”

Bannen scratched his forehead with his thumb, smiling slightly. “Well, I expect it's something to do with shoes, Mr. Apted. The ‘last' of a shoe. I don't know why the ‘red,' though.”

“Seeing the phrase out of context, that's a very understandable interpretation. It's what I said too, when I first heard it. But what if the word ‘last' here means ‘end' or ‘the final one'? Say, in a game of chess, one might say ‘The black goes first, the red last'?”

“Mister
Apted, when you're finished . . . ”

“I do apologize, Your Honor, but the matter of interpretation strikes me as all-important in this case. I merely wanted to demonstrate how things can get turned around. I'll proceed with the question—”

“We'd be much obliged,” mumbled the judge.

“Chief Inspector, the question is: Why do you assume that the primary object of this double-murder was Verna Dunn? Couldn't it have been the other way round? That Verna Dunn was murdered because
she
knew something about Dorcas Reese, or Dorcas and another person; that it was Verna Dunn who ‘got in the way'?”

“Yes, of course, that
could
be the case,” said Bannen. His reluctance was evident in both his voice and in his posture. It was as if he couldn't comfortably arrange himself in the witness box.

“But you seem to have some doubt, Chief Inspector. Would it be fair
to say this could just as
easily
be the case as the other? As the one you've so diligently put together?”

Bannen frowned. There was certainly more in that statement than he'd want to accede to—mainly that his entire investigation had got off on the wrong footing and it could easily walk off altogether. “Yes. I'd have to say that it could be either.”

Apted smiled, standing squarely on his feet, arms akimbo, fists planted at his waist. Not precisely combative, not with that smile. “That rather alters things, wouldn't you say?”

Bannen's whole manner tightened, as if he'd subtly drawn himself in. For the first time, Melrose thought he saw the man repressing extreme anger. His control must be invaluable in his work, but was probably playing hell with his blood pressure. “If you're suggesting that I ignored evidence in the investigation of Dorcas Reese's death, I assure you, I did not.”

“That was the farthest thing from my mind, Chief Inspector. I'm sure that your investigation into both of these women's deaths was thorough, that you in no way ignored other evidence that would have had you acting differently.”

Bannen relaxed a bit, gave the court a rather cool smile. “Then I don't see it. I don't see that Dorcas Reese's being the primary target alters anything, really.”

Yes, you do
, thought Melrose.

“No?” asked Apted, feigning surprise. “What's altered, and
significantly
altered in the case before us, is the angle at which you viewed these events. What's altered is the conclusion you came to. The conclusion changes because now the defendant, Jennifer Kennington—” and here he paused rather dramatically as he looked at Jenny “—
has no motive
, at least insofar as this court has demonstrated. Jennifer Kennington had no reason to shoot Verna Dunn. If Verna Dunn had simply ‘got in the way of the killer, then she clearly was
not
murdered because of some alleged longstanding grudge or any fresh argument she might have been having with the defendant on the night she died. Perhaps Verna Dunn was murdered because of something she'd learned about Dorcas Reese.

“Further. If the defendant has no motive, then my learned colleague has no case. Your Honor”—quickly, Apted had turned his attention from the jury to the judge—“a question of law has arisen, which would best be heard in the absence of the jury.”

The judge frowned, but gave directions to the court usher, who then led the jury from the courtroom. “Now, would counsel like to tell the court what's going on here?” His tone was acerbic and his smile icy.

Pete Apted returned a far friendlier smile. “Your Honor, I submit that there is no case to answer and that this case be dismissed for lack of evidence.”

There was total silence as if the scene had been freeze-framed. Oliver Stant just stared at Apted, blinking. Even Charly Moss sat with her mouth open, astonished.
Dismiss?

Impossible to say just how Pete Apted had done it, had broadsided them all, had pushed the chess piece to take out a rook and a knight and check the king. Oliver Stant seemed to have nothing to say.

Not only that, Apted had timed it perfectly, for it was by now four-thirty, time to get the hell out. The judge invited both counsel for the defense and the prosecution into his chambers, excused the jury, told the viewers to go home, and rose.

All rose with him.

Pete Apted didn't have to. He was already standing.

 • • • 

J
ennifer Kennington was discharged.

When the judge had retired to his chambers, Jury and Plant had retired to the Lion and Snake. They stood around one of the pillar tables where Charly Moss had just finished telling them what Apted had told her. Apted himself had returned to London.

The dismissing of the charges against Jenny Kennington did not mean that Chief Inspector Bannen was wrong; it simply meant the prosecution's case had been too weak to proceed. Oliver Stant argued that, motive aside, opportunity was exceedingly strong in both cases and that there was still enough motive resulting from the violent argument the two
women had engaged in. Pete Apted had said the argument couldn't be characterized as “violent.” Oliver Stant had tried to refute this.

There the judge had interrupted: “
I would suggest, Mr. Stant, that you discover the nature of this argument. We don't even know
that.
And absent that knowledge, together with the lack of proper procedure in that search of the defendant's house—I think the charges should be dismissed
.” Charly was jubilant.

He had made it clear, though, that the case would be left on the court file; it could be reopened at such time as the prosecution would be justified in bringing further committal proceedings.

“Which means,” said Jury, “that it isn't over. It's not an acquittal.”

Charly took one of the cigarettes Melrose was offering and said, “I really think it's over for Jenny, Richard. ‘
Autrefois convict.'
What the Americans call ‘double jeopardy.' Theoretically, the case could be reopened, yes. But it just doesn't happen that often in practice,” she said, bending her head to the flame of Melrose's lighter. The fire suffused the hair she held back from her face. “Double jeopardy.”

Melrose said, “At least one thing's been settled: she won't be going to prison for the rest of her life. Come on, Richard. That must please you.”

Jury blushed. “Yes, of course it does.”

Even as the pub appeared full-to-bursting, others jammed through its door. Plant had found a tall stool for Charly, but there wasn't enough space to use it.

Melrose shook his head. “She can't have done it. Even if she was lying about not going back to Algarkirk—” He stopped abruptly.

“ ‘Going back'? Did I miss something yesterday?” Jury looked from one to the other.

“ ‘Miss?' ” said Charly, feigning wide-eyed innocence.

“Testimony. I have the feeling I missed something while I was at Fengate.”

There was a silence.

“What?” Jury prompted them.

Charly fell to moving her glass around in damp circles. “Well . . . ”

Melrose looked as if a memory suddenly struck him, unimportant as it might be. He snapped his fingers. “Oh, you mean that roadworks chap?”
And with a gesture, brushed the “roadworks chap” off the edge of the table.

“What ‘roadworks chap'?”

Melrose lit a cigarette and studied it. “It was just something about Jenny saying she'd taken a detour. . . . A lot of boring testimony.”

Jury looked at Charly. “Were you bored, too?”

Charly shook her head. Then she told him.

Jury said nothing for a while, then, “Pete Apted must have been mad as hell.”

“Yes.”

Why, he wondered, was he not really surprised? Because he'd suspected this after his talk with Jack Price. His friends both seemed to be waiting for him to explode, to do something. He only asked, “When will she be released?”

“She already has been.” Charly was surprised they didn't know. “She said she was going back to Stratford-upon-Avon. I simply assumed—”

Jury's expression was tight, his voice harsher than he'd meant it to be. “No. We haven't seen her.”

“I thought . . . ” Charly dropped her eyes, raised them again, looking especially at Melrose, the one who was footing the bills.

“How does she intend to get to Stratford?” asked Melrose. “I'd assumed she could travel with me. As has been made painfully clear, we go the same route.”

“I think she said something about the train.”

“What time? There can't be more than one or two that would get her somewhere to make a connection to Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“I don't know. She didn't say.”

Jury excused himself, saying he'd be back in a bit. He made for the door.