The Case Has Altered (12 page)

“Couple of weeks ago, it was. A weekend party. One of the guests was
found dead—shot—lying out on the Wash, you know, the coast, which isn't very far from here. Local cops questioned all of us pretty thoroughly.”

“They discovered who did it?” Melrose hoped he hit the right note of surprised interest.

“Not yet they haven't. The victim was Max's ex-wife.”

Price was draining his glass pursuant to its being refilled once again. He held up two fingers, then set his glass on the bar, empty but for a swallow. Price had the manner of the long-standing drinker, one who could drink for hours and never show it. He tapped Melrose's nearly full glass. “You'll have another?”

“Better not, or they'll have to cart me in the house stretched over the table.” Ex-wife. It was genuinely astonishing to Melrose that a man would have either the interest or the energy to marry more than once. For he himself, who had never been married, to discover one had made a mistake once would be a bitter experience. He simply could not think how anyone could repeat it. Horribly old-fashioned of him, he supposed.

Price volunteered that victim's name. “Verna Dunn. Frankly, I can understand Max's getting rid of her. Pretty insufferable.”

Getting rid of her
did not strike Melrose as the aptest way of putting it in the circumstances. He said, frowning, “The name's familiar.” Only through Jury, it was.

“Uh-huh. An actress. That is, she used to be. Faded a bit these days, but still better-looking than a lot of younger women you see. She was never a very good actress; I've watched a couple of her films.” He studied the end of his cigar. “It must have been goddamned provoking for Grace to have to entertain an ex-wife for the weekend. Especially
that
ex-wife.” Jack Price made a sound that could have been an aborted laugh, could have been disgust.

Melrose made a mental note of that. And also of Jack Price's face when he said it. A flush had spread from his neck upward, which could, of course, be put down to more than three beers. He'd clearly been drinking before Melrose got here.

Jack Price started tapping his pockets for matches. His cigar had gone out. Melrose produced his lighter. Price smiled. “A trusty old Zippo. I've always liked them.”

Once again Melrose noticed his hands. “Are you a painter, by any chance?”

“No. I'm a sculptor.”

“Is that so? And is your studio there? At Fengate?”

“Um-hm.” He turned the cigar in his mouth. “Got the old barn converted. It's quite nice. The Owens are generous people.”

Well, if he was on to the positive side of his benefactors, Melrose doubted he'd hear much of value. “This has been enjoyable. But someone at Fengate is expecting this table and I'm later than I meant to be anyway. Care for a lift?”

Price shook his head. “Thanks, no. I always walk the footpath.”

That, thought Melrose, was a fact worth noting.

T
he first person Melrose saw after he reached Fengate was an elderly man in rolled-up shirtsleeves and floppy wide-brimmed hat, with a shotgun broken over his arm. Another Momaday, perhaps? Behind him was a small wood, one of the few gatherings of desiduous trees he had seen in his whole long ride across the fens. Upon seeing the van, clearly marked
TRUEBLOOD'S ANTIQUES
in elegant black letters, this wildflower, whoever he was, appeared to be about to tell Melrose deliveries were in the rear.
(“Take the van round back to where the kitchen it. Cook will give you something to eat
.”) Then the gardener's glance moved from the van to its driver (who had alighted), and apparently thought better of sending him to the back door.

Well
, thought Melrose,
quality shows. It's in the bones as well as the blood
. . . .

But not enough, apparently. The gardener descended upon him with that look a doorman wears when a tradesperson pulls up. Cheerily, Melrose called: “I've a delivery for Mr. Owen.”

The man muttered something inscrutable and preceded Melrose along the paved path to the door (while beckoning for him to come on, come on). This done, he wandered away into another part of the house, leaving Melrose to inspect his soles for wayward mud. Was it simply a generic admonishment—
Wipe your feet
—to those in trade, who were always thought to have muddy shoes from walking through bogs and marshes and dung? Where was he to go? At the moment he stood in the foyer with a black and white patterned marble floor that contained what might have been an overflow of Max Owen's collection. In a number of niches
sat bronze and marble busts, and the walls were covered with paintings, prints, and reproductions, a highly eclectic collection, he thought. A Matisse hung next to a Landseer, a painter Melrose could never understand. The Landseer was a depiction of a family scene incorporating the young Victoria, a gentleman Melrose assumed was her dear Albert, a lot of dogs and dead birds. One of the youngsters seemed to be about to pluck one up. Melrose shook his head. He supposed there were no limits as to what the Victorians chose to toss together. The painting hung above a credenza with a bloated front, its top holding a number of Dresden or Limoges figurines. He knew a little about porcelain, only because he had plenty of it at Ardry End.

A double-door to his right stood slightly open. He gave it a tentative push, stepped inside, and had to adjust his eyes to the relative darkness of the interior, largely the result of velvet curtains drawn almost, but not altogether, closed. Knives of light cut through the narrow openings.

The room was narrow but long, and a number of life-size, marble statues were positioned at points down its length. They were all women—or, rather, all female—for a couple of the figures were quite young girls. Near the door was one in a bonnet and a ruched bodice, the only one fully clothed to a Victorian nicety. Her hands stretched up in a gesture of feeding birds. Most of them were done in a classical vein, thinly draped, garlanded, and ageless. They were not set in alcoves, either, like the busts in the foyer. They stood in no particular relation to one another; if he were to walk the length of this gallery (which is what it appeared to be) he would have had, at some points, to navigate around them. He thought he detected on the one in the middle, nearest the slant of light, the wink of a gold or silver chain. When he went to inspect it more closely, he saw he was right. Someone had put a thin silver chain round her neck. Now he looked at the ones nearest him more closely; and saw they were similarly adorned with flowers or silver necklaces or bracelets on outstretched arms. The one nearest his end of the room wore a thin velvet band, ivory, round her neck. Melrose smiled, wanting to meet the fey person who had adorned them. Jury hadn't mentioned any Owen children.

The statues—eight or nine of them—were not alone in gracing this gallery. There were more paintings, perhaps better ones, in addition to a
great deal of furniture, some delicate, some gaudy. Sideboards, armoires, credenzas, a Louis Quatorze commode, tables of Japanese lacquer, lavishly decorated in patterns of birds and flowers. A lovely Queen Anne settee was placed beside another bulbous credenza, perhaps the twin of the one in the foyer. There were a number of portraits, possibly of Owen forebears, more likely bought at auction. A beam of light struck one of these, a painting of two little girls in a garden who were fixing up some Japanese lanterns. Moving closer, Melrose made out the name of the artist. It was a John Singer Sargent, a copy, but a very fine one. Melrose had seen the original in the Tate Gallery.

The whole collection was surprising. Its eclecticism spoke more of the enthusiast than it did of the expert, so perhaps he wouldn't have as much trouble as he'd thought. There was a collection of glassware in a glass-fronted case. He thought he recognized a goblet similar to one Trueblood had shown him in the shop. The case wasn't locked so he opened it and took out the glass. It was handsomely engraved, depicting around its edge a sylvan scene of a girl and a boy and a few animals all chasing one another (as they were wont to do on old glass and urns). Then he heard a throat clear.

(“Ahem!”)

For a split second when he turned around he thought one of the statues had moved. No, a flesh and blood woman stood at the other end of the room. It was almost as if the little cough she'd given was to warn him that if he intended to steal that goblet, he'd better do it later, for she was watching.

“Mr. Plant? I'm terribly sorry to keep you waiting. I was on the telephone with the police. You know how they are. I'm Grace Owen. We had a murder here. Two murders, actually.” Two seemed to discomfit her, as if she might be thought to be bragging.

She expected him to be startled, and seemed relieved when he wasn't. He told her he had been given this news already. “The regulars at the pub yonder”—Melrose inclined his head—“told me.” He did not mention Jack Price, and did not know why he didn't. “I expect you know it? It's called the Case Has Altered.”

“Oh, my, yes.” She smiled and then stopped quickly, as if to smile in such circumstances was unfeeling. “Then you probably know it was my
husband's ex-wife. And one of our staff, a young woman. That was only a few days ago.”

Melrose nodded. She seemed so guileless, so—clear. Her voice, her expression. The clarity of crystal, like this goblet. He looked from her to the goblet, said, “Sorry,” and returned it to its proper place on the shelf.

She smiled. “That's one of Max's favorites.”

Hell's bells, thought Melrose. First time out and he was all at sea. Jury hadn't listed any goblet. Why hadn't he paid more attention when Trueblood was lecturing him on glassware? He wondered what other surprises he'd have in store for his unexpert eyes.

“Mr. Trueblood was very complimentary about the incredible range of your knowledge. And aren't you also a friend of that Scotland Yard policeman who was here?”

He swallowed. Of course, Jury had told her he knew a very good appraiser. There was nothing to do but acknowledge this. It just seemed to make his impersonation so damned untenable. Melrose kept a stupid smile plastered on his face and hoped she wouldn't revert to the origins or antiquity of the goblet.

“You'll need a wide range of knowledge. Max seems to like, well—” She spread her arms. “—everything.”

He didn't know whether that made Max a man of generous spirit or an undiscerning one. Or perhaps it was just that he had an embarrassment of doubtful riches.

She was still standing a distance away from him, and in the gloom it was difficult to see her face clearly, but he could tell it was a pretty one.

“He calls this the ‘Sculpture Hall,' which I think might be overstating its dignity.” Here she draped her arm around the waist of the lady with the velvet choker, who looked uncannily like Grace Owen; she might have sat for this statue. Or stood. She went on: “The ‘cold ladies,' I call them. Poor things.” She patted the cold lady's shoulder. “This is Gwendolyn.” She patted the statue's arm. “I've named them all. Their personalities are quite different. My husband thinks I'm crazy.” This didn't seem to faze her one bit. “Incidentally, he's in London. I should have told you straightaway. But of course he knows you're coming, so he'll be back very soon, at least in time for dinner. He's quite eager to talk with you. Now, how long will
you be staying? I only ask because my cook will nag me until she finds out. You're welcome, of course, for as long as you want.” She was untying the velvet ribbon from Gwendolyn's neck.

“You mean—here?”

“Of course ‘here.' That's understood.” And she dropped the ribbon into the pocket of her gray dress. “It's
so
nice to have somebody new.” She had moved over to the long window nearest her and was pulling the cord to close the curtains. “Max is afraid the light will fade his paintings and this old wallpaper; I believe it's William Morris.” She went to the next window and closed it, and the next, proceeding down the room to the window nearest him. When she stood briefly in what light there was coming through the gathering dusk, the light fell on her face, across her cheekbones, her pale hair, her amber eyes. She seemed to have no trouble at all in simply speaking her thoughts. He was reminded of Miss Fludd.

Although he still had no clear picture of Max Owen, he had decided nonetheless that a man who would be parsimonious with light, when he had such a woman to stand in its rays, would probably cheat at cards.

“Let's go in another room, shall we? This hall is too cold.” She closed the curtain, leaving only the bare inch of daylight to seep through. Only then, as she did so, did he notice that the statues, despite their position farther away or nearer, were turned in the same direction, blind-eyed, toward the light.

He felt a great sadness.

 • • • 

T
he rug in the room to which she led him was Turkestan and probably worth a fortune. At least he thought it was a Turkestan. Rugs were incredibly confusing, not made less so by his reading. This one must have been twelve by twenty feet of deep, swirling colors. Probably it added as much warmth to the room as the crackling fireplace. He supposed it was a library: it was smaller, brighter, warmer. Warmth was supplied not only by the fire and the rug but by the many books that lined the walls.

In the center of the room was a grand piano, the top closed and covered with photos and snapshots in silver and wood frames. He looked carefully at the one in front. The young man in it, holding a bridle, and
with a horse blanket over his shoulder, looked so much like Grace Owen it would be impossible to miss the resemblance. He had her open, amiable expression. It must have been a relation of hers.

Grace Owen saw him studying the photo. “That's my son, Toby. He's dead.”

“I'm . . . so sorry.” Jury hadn't told him this; perhaps Jury didn't know.