The Case Has Altered (39 page)

“You know the accused”—Stant turned toward the witness box—“Jennifer Kennington?”

Mrs. Suggins nodded. “Only by way of her being a guest, sir.”

“And did you see her on that night of the first of February?”

“No, sir. I mean not except for a glimpse or two of the table when Dorcas was going in and out.”

“By Dorcas, you mean the Owens' kitchen-helper and sometime maid, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Stant turned then to the death of Dorcas Reese. Annie Suggins was in the process of lending a little shape, a little color to the image of the dead girl. “Moonin' an' moanin' about like a sick calf.”

Oliver Stant smiled. “I like your description, Mrs. Suggins.” He had already complimented her on her hat, which had really gone down a treat with her. It was new. “Did she tell you the source of this moan of hers?”

With an expression of one who thought her questioner a bit simple, she said, “Well, for heaven's sakes, thought 'erself in love, I expect. Don't they always, these girls?”

“I see what you mean. When it comes to that sort of thing, you know, men aren't as perceptive as women in—”

Pete Apted, used to Oliver Stant, was on his feet. “Your Honor, try as I will, I fail to perceive a question.”

The judge agreed and once again gently reprimanded Stant who, once again, apologized and went his merry way.

“What I was trying to ask, Mrs. Suggins, is whether Dorcas ever confided in you.”

The cook looked upward, as if the courtroom's vaulted ceiling might lend her inspiration. “Now, ‘confide' might be too strong a word, sir. She told me things, it's true, you know, like as she just met some feller or t'other, and weren't he the cutest lad ever? Well that's all the lass thought about—men.”

Stant said, “I know what you mean. I've a daughter myself.” This earned him an indulgent smile from Annie Suggins, and severe glance from the judge. “My daughter seems to talk more to our cook than to us.” Another look of displeasure came down from the bench, but Stant pretended not to notice.

“If counsel could confine his remarks to the matter at hand?”

Stant bowed slightly, mumbled his apology.

“Sometimes she did tell me things—mostly made-up, I'd think,” said Annie, “but if you're talking about her being preggers and all, no she didn't tell me about that.”

“We'll come back to that. But she'd not mentioned any man in particular.”

“No, sir. One day it'd be that boy from Spalding she'd be going with; the next day it'd be—someone else. Ever so flighty was Dorcas. Got 'erself into this spot, and from all I could tell, she was expecting 'im to marry 'er. She warn't a comely girl, not in face nor figure. Nowt eyes, nor skin, nor teeth, nor hair had she a gift of.”

Melrose found this unexpected little poetical turn rather endearing.

Having established that Dorcas was a mercurial, perhaps scatterbrained young woman, Stant asked the witness if there was anything in her behavior just prior to her death that the cook found different.

“Yes, sir, I'd certainly say so. For a while there—oh, maybe a couple of months before, she was happy as a lark.
That
must have been when some man walked in. Then, a week or more before she—got herself murdered, like, well, she'd turned round completely, she was morose and bad-natured. That's when I'd bet the man walked out. Same old story, been told dozens of times.”

“Indeed it has. Mrs. Suggins, she had told a friend and an aunt that she was nearly three months pregnant. Have you any idea why she'd make up such a story?”

Annie shifted her weight in the witness box and looked grim. “Who says she made it up? There warn't much about the girl to make a person respect her, but I'd never known her to spread such a story. So I'll bet she thought she was.” Annie drew herself up and in and seemed about to float up to the vaulted ceiling with her knowledge of this. “I must say, sir, I was that shocked, I was. But then there was all that time she spent at the pub, and lord knows what mischief she was getting up to. So much time, I thought she just might have an extra job at night. Starlighting, like.”

Even the judge smiled at that one. Melrose wrote it down for future reference.

“And you discovered that she did, indeed, have an extra job?”

“Yes, but only a few hours a week. Not a proper job. But that don't account for all the time she spent there. I'd say it was more to hang around the men. There's nowt agin
them
, though, if Dorcas got herself full of ideas. There must've been some young chap or other she'd set sights on.”

Oliver Stant paused, as if hesitating over his next question. Then he
asked, “Did Dorcas ever speak of having particular feelings for anyone at Fengate?”

Annie Suggins reared back. “For Mr.
Owen?
Good lord.” Here she laughed, couldn't help herself, even wiped a tear away.

“I was thinking more of Mr. Price.”

Annie's brow furrowed, and she shook her head, slowly. “I'm afraid to say it, but, yes, I think she did. I told her straight out one morning when she was mooning about, talking on about how nice 'e was, I said, well, girl mebbe you're thinking o' '
im
but I assure you, Mr. Price ain't thinking o' you!”

This sent another titter of laughter through the courtroom; the judge simply looked his displeasure at the field of faces.

“And how do you know that, Mrs. Suggins? Did Mr. Price say anything to you about Dorcas?”

“No, ‘course not. If she'd gone and left tomorrow, I don't think Mr. Price'd notice. Don't get me wrong; I don't mean ‘e wasn't appalled by the poor girl's death, but not
personal-like
, you know what I mean.”

Oliver Stant smiled and nodded. “Did she always stay out so late? Eleven-thirty or so?”

“No. Most nights she'd be back around ten. Well, she ‘ad to get up early, di'n't she? Still, many's the morn I be dragging her outta bed by 'er feet. I complained once or twice to the missus, but Mrs. Owen, she'd never get rid of somebody just fer lyin' abed, or—”

Melrose noted the pause. Annie Suggins was no doubt thinking about her husband, whom Mrs. Owen had not seen fit to discharge, either.

“—personal habits. Long as it didn't interfere.”

“Were you surprised when Dorcas's body was found in Wyndham Fen?”

The question was so abrupt, she drew back. “What a question! O' course I was! Whatever that poor girl done, it's no call for 'er to go get-tin' 'erself murdered, no, she didn't deserve that! You think dead bodies turns up every day on Windy Fen?”

Annie Suggins spoke much more like a woman entertaining a visitor to tea in her kitchen than a woman in a witness box. But this, thought Melrose,
was simply testimony to Oliver Stant's ability to create the sort of atmosphere that turns a witness box into a kitchen chair.

His answer to the cook's question was, “I certainly hope not, Mrs. Suggins. And just before this, she was the same as always?”

“No, she warn't. That's what I told you. She was doin' more moanin' than was usual. Said, every once in a while, ‘I done wrong,' she says. “ ‘I ought not to've listened.' ”

There was a bit of a stir in the court, quickly quelled when the judge's head came up.

Oliver Stant, without moving from his place, seemed to draw nearer to her. “ ‘I ought not to have listened.' And ‘I done wrong.' Is that exactly what she said?”

Annie frowned. “Well, let me think a bit . . . ” She put her fingertips to her face, frowning in an effort to recall the words. “Now, what she said was, ‘I ought not to 'ave done it. I ought not to 'ave listened,' or, ‘I
shouldn't'
ve listened.' Yes, that's it.” Satisfied, Annie again squared her shoulders.

Stant repeated Dorcas's words, then asked, “Did you make anything of that?”

“Indeed I did, sir, but it's speaking ill of the dead and all.” Having put herself on record with that, she was willing enough to do it. “Dorcas was forever standing about doors, trying to hear what was going on t'other side. Many's the time I caught 'er with 'er ear stuck-like to a door.” Here, the cook leaned as if in confidence toward Stant and whispered, “Right nosy was Dorcas—”

It was the judge's turn to object. “Mrs. Suggins, you might feel you're sharing a secret with counsel”—he smiled thinly—“but we'd all like to share it, if you don't mind.”

Annie blushed furiously. “Sorry, sir. Forgot where I was.” She pulled down her bright blue jacket, and possibly the corset underneath, and straightened herself in a businesslike way. “Dreadful sorry.”

“That's quite understandable, madam. I can see how you might think you're having a good gossip in counsel's kitchen.” He glared at Stant, who bent his head to hide a smile.

“Did her demeanor suggest to you that she might have heard something to her disadvantage? Even something dangerous?”

Pete Apted's objection was routine: the witness was not a mind reader.

“Mrs. Suggins, how long was this before the poor girl's murder?” Oliver Stant was using his witness's words.

The cook had to think. “Right before, I'd say. I mean, a few days before, maybe a week. She was acting odd-like, I mean even for Dorcas—went about the kitchen mumbling. Kept sayin' she ‘ought not to 'ave listened,' like I told you, and when I asked her what she meant, well, all sparky she gets—'Niver you mind!' she says, as if it's me making 'er tell an' not 'erself mumbling it out, and I says, ‘There's all of us done wrong one way or another, so best forget about it and just carry on.' ”

“ ‘I ought not to have done it. I shouldn't have listened.' ” Stant repeated it for the third time. “Did you conclude, Annie, that the two were related?”

Apted rose wearily. “Your
Honor
 . . . ”

But it was Stant who answered the implied objection, not the judge. “Your Honor, is this the sort of ‘conclusion' that is objectionable? If my office boy came in scratching at a spot of jam on his shirt and saying, ‘Damn that jam donut,' would it be risky of me to conclude the two were related?”

The judge's mouth twitched, but he still upheld the objection of defending counsel.

However, Melrose was sure it made no difference whether or not the point was allowed. The point the jury had most certainly taken: that Dorcas Reese had discovered, had overheard, something that had placed her life in jeopardy.

Oliver Stant said, “If we could return to the night of the first murder, Mrs. Suggins. To your knowledge, did the defendant ever have cause to pass through the mudroom off the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir. She'd come through that way once or twice. I recall one time she said her shoes were filthy from the footpath, and she'd not wanted to track dirt through the drawing room.”

“And, again so far as you know, had she seen where the .22 rifle belonging to Max Owen was kept?”

Annie screwed up her face. “I expect I can't really say. But I do recall she was in the kitchen on the Saturday when Mr. Owen chided Burt—that's Mr. Suggins—for not keeping that rifle locked up in the case as he should 've done.”

“Where would your husband leave the rifle when he wasn't using it?”

“Well, it sounds awful careless o' Burt, and I expect it was, leaving that gun just standing in a corner. The thing was that Burt used it so much. He loves his gardens, see, both flower and vegetable, and there was always rabbits and squirrels and things about to eat up everything in sight.”

“I see. So anyone could have walked in, either through the kitchen or from outside through the mudroom door?”

Annie shrugged. “Yes, I'd have to say that's right.”

“Tell me, did Mr. Owen own a handgun?”

She reared back as if one were pointing at her now. “Goodness, I shouldn't think so, sir! I certainly never seen one, and nor never heard about one. Well, it's too hard to get a license for any gun, much less that kind.”

“So there were two guns in the house, a .22 and a shotgun—”

Apted made a display of getting wearily to his feet: “Your grace, we have a firearms expert. Mrs. Suggins can't testify as to what gun was, or was not, in the house beyond the ones she herself had seen or her husband had used.”

“My point,” said Oliver Stant, “is that the defendant had access to the .22 rifle.”

“Your point is taken,” said Apted. When Annie was turned over to him for questioning, Pete Apted said he had no questions at this time.

Annie Suggins was told to step down. She reacted as if someone were being rather rude, she'd not finished her tea yet, but suddenly recognizing just where she was, blushed and smiled at both Oliver Stant and the judge and removed herself from the box.

Then it was that Melrose remembered what Jury had said—indeed, what a number of people had said: “
Why do I keep forgetting Dorcas Reese
 . . . ?” It wasn't the answer that was important; it was the question.

He left the courtroom in the brief shuffle of barristers and witnesses. It was a crowded scene, a crush of people who had found it a rather jolly break in the boredom of daily life to take in a murder trial. Double-murder trial. He looked around him in the corridor, registered three people sitting on a bench outside the door, clearly strangers to one another as they neither spoke nor moved. Witnesses, perhaps? And then he was stopped by the lettering on a cap that the sturdy-looking man was twisting in his hands.

Roadworks. Melrose stared at him for a moment, but the fellow was so deep into his own thoughts that he didn't look in Melrose's direction. The guard by the door noticed and shook his head as Melrose took a step toward the bench. A witness?