you’ve all decided I killed Simon. In cases like this it’s usually the wife or the husband, isn’t it?”
Jury closed the car door and leaned against it. “You know, you and your grandmother are putting guilt up for grabs. Are you competing for prime suspect, or something?”
She turned to look down the drive. “Who else would have done it? Who else had a motive?”
Jury laughed. “My God, you think we work fast, don’t you? It’s early in the day to be answering that question. But I can certainly toss out one or two possibilities: the women he knew. Or someone who had it in for both your husband and Marshall Trueblood. Or someone we know nothing about as yet. But go back to the women. The summerhouse is accessible to anyone, isn’t it? A disappointed lover — a disappointed anyone — could have come along that path without being seen.”
“But if he was in London —”
If he was . Jury looked at her. According to the doctor, death probably occurred between nine-thirty and twelve. That would not have given Simon Lean time for a returntrip to the East End. Yet with all the factors that could affect the time span, there was some uncertainty even here.
And there were other considerations: that the last person to have driven the Jaguar was short, a woman, possibly.
She had been watching him carefully as these thoughts ran through his mind. “You’re thinking perhaps he wasn’t? In London, I mean? Simon kept a record . . . at least I think he did —”
“Oh, yes. The car had been driven the same mileage as before. On his other trips. The lab would know if the odometer had been messed with, or if any entry had been forged.”
They had been standing there, before the fountain, sun-drenched from the light reflecting from marble and Italian tiles. Her face lost all of that tint, went pale again, and she said, “Forged. You surely can’t believe that’s possible?”
Jury hated the anxiety on her face so much, he looked away, up toward the facade of the house, wine-gold in the late afternoon. A curtain dropped. Crick, he supposed, having little else to do, watched from windows, narrowed himself into corners, stood as if about to knock outside of doors. He saw nothing sinister in any of this, only sadness.
How could anyone, he wondered, have thought Hannah Lean marble-cold? He answered her question: “I don’t think it’s likely, no. The entries all looked to be in the same handwriting.”
He would have thought she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
“It’s still me, isn’t it? I would have wanted police to think Simon had gone to London.”
For a moment, he was puzzled. “It wouldn’t have been an alibi, not one at least that could have saved you. If you killed him, Mrs. Lean, you could have done it when he returned.”
When she looked up at him, her complexion had regainedits translucence. Her smile was slight, but Jury felt its impact. “I think it’s very funny to talk to a possible murderess and call her ‘Mrs. Lean.’ I’d think such a dreadful suspicion would at least come on a first-name basis. My name’s Hannah; I don’t know what yours is.”
As she left him, as her small heels hit the tiles beneath in her hurry, Jury saw the curtain fall again.
The dry fountain, the elaborate loggia crusted with sun, the flowery walks and wind chimes, so many flowers they might have fallen from the sky.
And yet an inexpressibly lonely place. Jury drove away.
Eleven
L OOKING MORE draped than dressed, Diane Demorney opened her front door.
The former owner, Lorraine Bicester-Strachan, had fit the doorway in much the same way as Diane Demorney fit it now. Both the past and the present mistress had much in common: dark hair, good bones, a haughty tilt to the head, and an equally wolfish desire to get Jury inside. That was certainly the impression he was getting, as she held the door wider even before he’d got out his warrant card.
The house had been completely revamped (as was its
Jury closed the car door and leaned against it. “You know, you and your grandmother are putting guilt up for grabs. Are you competing for prime suspect, or something?”
She turned to look down the drive. “Who else would have done it? Who else had a motive?”
Jury laughed. “My God, you think we work fast, don’t you? It’s early in the day to be answering that question. But I can certainly toss out one or two possibilities: the women he knew. Or someone who had it in for both your husband and Marshall Trueblood. Or someone we know nothing about as yet. But go back to the women. The summerhouse is accessible to anyone, isn’t it? A disappointed lover — a disappointed anyone — could have come along that path without being seen.”
“But if he was in London —”
If he was . Jury looked at her. According to the doctor, death probably occurred between nine-thirty and twelve. That would not have given Simon Lean time for a returntrip to the East End. Yet with all the factors that could affect the time span, there was some uncertainty even here.
And there were other considerations: that the last person to have driven the Jaguar was short, a woman, possibly.
She had been watching him carefully as these thoughts ran through his mind. “You’re thinking perhaps he wasn’t? In London, I mean? Simon kept a record . . . at least I think he did —”
“Oh, yes. The car had been driven the same mileage as before. On his other trips. The lab would know if the odometer had been messed with, or if any entry had been forged.”
They had been standing there, before the fountain, sun-drenched from the light reflecting from marble and Italian tiles. Her face lost all of that tint, went pale again, and she said, “Forged. You surely can’t believe that’s possible?”
Jury hated the anxiety on her face so much, he looked away, up toward the facade of the house, wine-gold in the late afternoon. A curtain dropped. Crick, he supposed, having little else to do, watched from windows, narrowed himself into corners, stood as if about to knock outside of doors. He saw nothing sinister in any of this, only sadness.
How could anyone, he wondered, have thought Hannah Lean marble-cold? He answered her question: “I don’t think it’s likely, no. The entries all looked to be in the same handwriting.”
He would have thought she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
“It’s still me, isn’t it? I would have wanted police to think Simon had gone to London.”
For a moment, he was puzzled. “It wouldn’t have been an alibi, not one at least that could have saved you. If you killed him, Mrs. Lean, you could have done it when he returned.”
When she looked up at him, her complexion had regainedits translucence. Her smile was slight, but Jury felt its impact. “I think it’s very funny to talk to a possible murderess and call her ‘Mrs. Lean.’ I’d think such a dreadful suspicion would at least come on a first-name basis. My name’s Hannah; I don’t know what yours is.”
As she left him, as her small heels hit the tiles beneath in her hurry, Jury saw the curtain fall again.
The dry fountain, the elaborate loggia crusted with sun, the flowery walks and wind chimes, so many flowers they might have fallen from the sky.
And yet an inexpressibly lonely place. Jury drove away.
Eleven
L OOKING MORE draped than dressed, Diane Demorney opened her front door.
The former owner, Lorraine Bicester-Strachan, had fit the doorway in much the same way as Diane Demorney fit it now. Both the past and the present mistress had much in common: dark hair, good bones, a haughty tilt to the head, and an equally wolfish desire to get Jury inside. That was certainly the impression he was getting, as she held the door wider even before he’d got out his warrant card.
The house had been completely revamped (as was its
Similar Books
