The Case Has Altered Read Online Free PDF Page B

it’s sad always having to stand in shadow.” She proceeded down the wall, opening each curtain in turn. Until she stopped in front of him. “I’m Grace Owen.” She held out her hand.
    Grace Owen could only improve with light and proximity. “Richard Jury.” He took her hand, cool as marble. Then he removed his identification and held it out. “Scotland Yard CID.”
    Her smile disappeared and it made him feel oddly sad. “You mean Scotland Yard’s investigating Verna’s death?”
    Jury shook his head. “I’m here only at the sufferance of Chief Inspector Bannen. It’s not my case. I just happen to be a good friend of one of your guests—your guest when it happened, I mean. Lady Kennington?”
    â€œJennifer Kennington. Oh, yes. This awful business about Verna has been—hard on her, I’m afraid.” Speculatively, she regarded Jury, as if wondering whose side he was on. “But she’s back in Stratford-upon-Avon. It’s been two weeks since—” She pulled a tissue from her skirt pocket and was rubbing at a spot on the statue’s arm. “The inspector talked to everyone; what else is there to discover?”
    â€œWhat happened.”
    Again, her look seemed to be assessing the situation. “Didn’t Jennifer tell you?”
    Jury almost started himself to rub at a place on the statue’s other arm. “We’ve not—I haven’t seen her actually, I mean—well, police work. You know.”
    No—he thought her look said—she didn’t. That this detective friend hadn’t gone to the trouble of at least asking Jenny what had happened . . . Jury imagined this particular guilt-trip to be one of his own devising.
    But Grace Owen made no comment; she dampened the tissue with her tongue and rubbed at the arm again. It was strangely erotic. “I can tell you what I know, if you like.” She pocketed the tissue and walked over to the window. “They’d both gone outside, to that little wood—” She stopped. “Isn’t that him? The chief inspector from Lincoln police?”
    Jury joined her at the window. Bannen was standing at the edge of the trees, talking to the gardener.
    â€œWhy is he here, anyway?” she asked.
    Jury suddenly realized that he hadn’t told her about Dorcas Reese. “He’s here because he has some bad news, I’m afraid.” Having said that, he felt he could hardly refuse to tell her. “One of your staff, a woman named Dorcas Reese, was found in one of the canals on that National Trust property. Wyndham Fen, I think the name is. She’s dead.”
    â€œWhat?” Her hands flew to her face. “That poor girl. But how? What happened?”
    Jury hesitated. It wasn’t his place to supply details. “We’re not sure. The pathologist isn’t finished. Chief Inspector Bannen came to talk to you and your husband.”
    â€œI expect he wants to ask me more questions.”
    Jury nodded, relieved that “more questions” didn’t appear to cause her any anxiety.
    She said, “Well, I expect I must go and talk to him.”
    As they started for the door, Jury looked again at the bonheur-du-jour. He smiled a little, thinking. “Are the other pieces as nice as this? That your husband wants valued?”
    â€œWhat?” Muddled, she brought herself back from the death of her servant and said, “Oh, yes. I don’t know all of what he says he wants to sell—he won’t sell them, of course—it’s all a kind of ritual he goes through when he gets bored.” They were at the door and she pointed at an escritoire. “Here’s another. Do you like antiques, then? Old rugs and things? There’s an Ispahan carpet in the living room that’s apparently ‘of doubtful provenance,’ as my husband would say.”
    â€œDon’t know a thing about