The Case Has Altered (36 page)

“It doesn't provide for an eyewitness.”

“Roughly, what percentage of your murder cases
do
involve an eyewitness?”

Bannen gave this some thought and said, “Seventy percent perhaps.”

This wasn't the answer Stant wanted, or expected. Here was a classic example of what might happen if you didn't know the answer to a question you'd asked. “But, of course, not all seventy percent of those cases are comparable to the case to hand?”

“That's correct, as most murders are not planned out. You've got your armed robberies in which the perpetrators planned the robbery, but not the murder of some bystander; you've got your crimes of passion; you've got your domestic violence cases. All of these make up most of the murders I have to deal with. They're witnessed, or if not that, the perpetrator is still on the scene—husband, say, who's just finished off the argument with his wife by means of a bullet or a knife. He's there, sobbing his heart out. But the premeditated, planned killing is, by comparison, relatively rare. I'm omitting, obviously, terrorism and political murder.”

“Let me rephrase this, if you don't mind, just so that we all understand: this particular murder is not characteristic of that large percentage of murder cases you've been involved in.”

“That's right.”

Stant then asked a number of incidental questions to prepare the ground for Jenny's having withheld the fact of her early painful relationship with Verna Dunn. This was perhaps as incriminating as the establishment of opportunity and motive (neither of which was entirely certain).
In the course of this questioning, Jenny's telling Jury about the relationship came up. “Didn't you feel that Superintendent Jury was withholding evidence?”

“No. Mr. Jury wasn't officially on this case. He was under no—”

Quickly, Stant interrupted, not wanting Bannen's lack of professional jealousy (which Stant was hoping for) to make a point with the jury. “Yes, of course. In time, though, you did discover the relationship between the defendant and the deceased, Verna Dunn?”

“Well, it wasn't at all difficult. A simple inquiry into Lady Kennington's background turned up the fact they were cousins.”

Here a rash of whispers broke out in the courtroom. The judge demanded silence.

“Were you surprised to discover this, Chief Inspector?”

“Why, naturally. She'd made no mention of it. To anyone, apparently, except later, to Mr. Jury.”

“Then Max Owen, when he was married to Verna Dunn, didn't know of her relationship to Jennifer Kennington—”

Apted was on his feet again. “Objection, Your Honor. There is no way the witness can know what Max Owen knew.”

The judge agreed.

Stant said, “I'm trying to get at the fact that the defendant made no mention of the relationship, nor even of knowing Ms. Dunn, even though this was the first occasion for their meeting in a dozen years.”

Although Apted gave the impression of lazily rising, he was up in a second. “Is there a question buried in this somewhere?”

The judge instructed Oliver Stant to get to it.

“Wasn't there a long history of enmity—?” Again he was interrupted by Apted's calling “Hearsay.”

The point, however, was made: Jenny had kept the relationship, acrimonious at least, a deep secret.

“This enmity you took to make up a large part of her motive? Fired perhaps by the argument that night—”

From his seat, Apted said, “I prefer that the conclusion be reached by the chief inspector himself, Your Honor, rather than the prosecution.”

The judge turned to Oliver Stant. “Mr. Stant, if you wish to ask a
question, ask it. If you wish to hear the witness's conclusion, don't give it yourself. That at least I should think a rather obvious point.” The judge shook his head and returned to his note-taking. Wayward boys. No sense at all.

“Would you kindly tell the court what you concluded from the defendant's secretiveness?”

“I took all of this to mean that the defendant had a motive.”

“A motive for murder?”

Bannen did not answer immediately. When he did, Stant was less than happy. “For something, certainly.”

To cover his disappointment in the weakening of his point, Stant said, “It's quite all right for you to reach a conclusion by yourself, Chief Inspector.” He smiled widely to indicate that was the only reason for the answer.

Bannen wanted to say something: “But I—”

“Chief Inspector, we greatly appreciate the honesty and fairness of your testimony. That will be all, and thank you very much.”

Pleased with his recovery of the point about motive, Stant sat down, laced his hands behind his head.

 • • • 

L
et me ask you this, Chief Inspector,” said Pete Apted. “In the two weeks following the first murder, Jennifer Kennington was in Stratford. Isn't that so?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why was it that you didn't simply arrest her following the Verna Dunn murder? Why did you permit her to go home?”

“We couldn't detain her for more than twenty-four hours.”

“But you did indeed detain her for forty-eight hours, didn't you?”

“Yes. We got the magistrate's permission to do that.”

“Then why not for longer than that? Another twenty-four hours.”

“We couldn't get permission for that.”

“Why?”

Bannen hesitated. He had no choice but to say it: “Lack of evidence.”

“You had nothing with which to charge her, isn't that right?”

“Subsequently, we—”

“Thank you, Chief Inspector.”

 • • • 

G
race Owen was asked few questions by Oliver Stant, who relied on her only to confirm his previous point about Jenny Kennington's “secretiveness.” Grace had not, she said, had any notion of their relationship. Oliver Stant handed her over to Pete Apted.

Apted rose and smiled. “Mrs. Owen, you were in the living room with the others on the night of February first?”

“Yes. I was.”

“You've told us that you and your guests left the table and went into the living room at about ten. In what order did your guests leave, after that?”

“Well, of course, the first ones were Jennifer Kennington and Verna Dunn. Then, at about ten-fifteen or twenty, Jack—Jack Price—who went out to his studio; after him, Major Parker at eleven.”

“Mr. Price went to his studio, you say?”

“Yes. It's really a converted barn; it's his living quarters, really. He needs a lot of room for—”

Apted did not precisely choke off her words with his upheld hand, but the gesture did stop what might have been more than he wanted to hear. “Thank you. And Major Parker left at eleven. Did anyone else leave?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You've said that the defendant and Verna Dunn, neither by words nor actions before or during dinner, suggested that they were having a dispute. By the same token did they do or say anything that would tell you of their former association?”

“No, no. Nothing.”

“You were then extremely surprised when you learned of it?”

“Very surprised, yes.”

“Mrs. Owen, didn't you resent your husband's first wife being present?”

“No. Actually, I was the one who suggested he invite Verna.”

“You
were?” Apted said it as if he hadn't heard of this invitation. “But—why?” He shrugged and looked round the room as if he were baffled.

“Because I thought it would be convenient for Max—for my husband—as he had business dealings with her and things to talk about. Verna lives—lived—in London, and Max has to go so often to London on business . . . ” Her voice trailed away as if she had started a statement she didn't know how to finish.

“What sort of business dealings did he have with Verna Dunn?”

She hesitated. “Verna was interested in a new play in which she was to appear. The producers needed financial backers. Max was interested in putting money in it. An investment.” Her tempo picked up; her fingers gripped the railing of the box. “You should understand that my husband and Verna Dunn had an amicable divorce.”

It sounded to Melrose as if the taste of pennies must have flooded her mouth with this remark.

Pete Apted's smile suggested he shared Melrose's belief. “Is there such a thing?”

Stant was on his feet before the question was out. “Is this question being put to the witness or to the world at large, Your Honor?”

The judge looked down over the tops of his narrow glasses. “Frankly, I fail to see where this is leading, Mr. Apted.”

“If you'll bear with me a moment longer,” said Apted. “Mr. Price was the next to leave, is that right?”

Grace said, “Yes. He said he was going to bed.”

“I believe you testified that you saw him taking the path at the rear that leads to this studio.” When she said yes to this, Apted asked, “But there are no windows in the living room that face out over the rear garden. So, how did you see him?”

She hesitated, looked surprised. “It must have been out of the upstairs window, then, in my room.”

“So you yourself
also
left, did you not?”

“But—well, yes. But it was only for a moment. And I didn't really
leave
, not in that sense—”

Apted said cheerily, “In what sense, then, did you ‘leave'?”

“I only meant—I didn't leave the house. I dashed upstairs to find a wrap. It was chilly in the living room.”

“I see. Tell me, Mrs. Owen, when did they discuss this play?”

“Wha—?”

“Your husband and Verna Dunn.”

She looked perfectly blank.

“When did they have these talks?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said you invited the deceased because it would enable your husband to talk with her so that he wouldn't have to go up to London, although he made frequent trips there. I just wondered when all of this talk took place.”

“I—”

Melrose saw that she was clearly flustered and he wondered why.

“Yes, Mrs. Owen?” Apted prompted, smiling.

“I don't know.”

“There'd have been little opportunity for them to talk, as they were, either one or the other of them, entirely in your company, or others'. If that was the only reason for asking her to Fengate, why did no opportunity arise?”

Again, Grace said nothing, and into this silence Apted asked, “Could you have had another reason for inviting Verna Dunn?”

Grace looked completely bewildered. Her confused denial made no difference; the question itself was enough to plant doubt in the jurors' minds about the investigation.

“Mrs. Owen, I'd like to go back some years to another incident and I apologize in advance for bringing up this painful subject—”

She flinched. She already knew what the subject was.

“—of your son's death. Would you be kind enough to tell the court what happened at Fengate on that particular day?”

Oliver Stant was on his feet. “Objection: I see no relevance—”

“Your Honor, it
is
relevant insofar as concerns motive.” The judge allowed him a little leeway, and Apted turned again to Grace.

Obviously, she did not want to talk about Toby. Melrose felt a great sympathy for her as she haltingly described the accident that had occurred. “Toby—that's my son—liked to ride, and he was riding on a bridle path not far from our home. He'd promised me not to try anything foolish—hazardous, I mean—like galloping the horse on uncertain
ground—the thing was, Toby was a hemophiliac, and he had to be very careful. Well . . . he wasn't careful enough that day; the horse stumbled and threw him. It wasn't the sort of accident that would be serious for others, but for Toby—” She looked down at the hands gripping the ledge of the witness box. She didn't finish the sentence.

“How old was he at the time of this accident?”

“Twenty,” she said in a voice that was barely audible.

“I'm very sorry.” Apted sounded as if he truly were. “Could you tell us who else was present in the house besides you when this happened?”

“My husband and Jack Price, and . . . I don't mean, you know, that they actually saw what happened—and Mr. Parker and—”

“Yes, go on.”

“Verna Dunn.”

Her movement when she said the name was scarcely more than a flinch, a flicker of eyelids, a trembling of the mouth—tiny signals of distress. Such was the power of sorrow that the years following the event had done nothing to loosen its grip.

“Thank you, Mrs. Owen.” Pete Apted excused her, turned away. Leaving her high and dry in the witness box. As if she'd had to relive that whole dreadful experience, Grace Owen stood rooted to the spot. Tears tracked down her face. When she didn't move, the judge asked the clerk of the court to help her.

It was a moving close to this day's testimony.

J
ury spent barely fifteen minutes on the witness stand that morning, recounting what Jenny Kennington had told him in Stratford-upon-Avon. For him it was fifteen minutes too long.

Oliver Stant was winding up. “The defendant lied about her relationship with Verna Dunn.”

“I wouldn't say that, exactly. Perhaps it was the sin of omission.” That sounded weak.

The smile on Stant's face showed he agreed. He did not even bother to take it up. “But the defendant's hatred of her cousin was quite clear?”

Jury paused a beat. “Yes. But—”

Oliver Stant did not want to hear any qualifications; he cut into Jury's disclaimers. “Thank you, Superintendent Jury. I have no more questions.”

 • • • 

J
ury and Charly were sitting in a dark booth at the back of a pub crowded with the same people who'd been crowding the Castle nearby. It was as if they'd all removed themselves to the Lion and Snake by mutual consent, in packs, like wolves. The air was thick with the fumes from cigarettes, pipes, cigars—the no-smoking section was a joke—and Jury wondered how long it would be before he no longer wanted to claw the Marlboros and Silk Cuts out of the mouths of the people smoking them.