“If,” said Sloan, “you would think any better away from the wheel, I will take it.”
“That’s all right, sir, thank you. I don’t have to think about my driving.”
“I noticed,” said Sloan sweetly.
There was another silence while they ate up the miles at a speed which was specifically forbidden at the police motoring school.
Crosby was observed to be frowning.
“Well?” said Sloan hopefully.
“It’s in the past somewhere, sir.”
“I know that.”
“I mean what I remember.”
Sloan did not attempt to sort this out. He was now too busy wishing he had led a better life—time for reform having obviously run out.
The car swerved dangerously. “I’ve got it, sir.”
“Have you?” muttered Sloan between clenched teeth. “Then slow down.” He started to breathe again as the fields stopped flashing by quite so quickly. “Now tell me.”
“I can’t tell you anything, sir,” said Crosby helpfully, “except that I remember the name.”
“Where?”
“The past.”
“I wish,” said Sloan, made irritable by fear, “that you would stop saying that.”
“I mean, sir”—Crosby was never good at explanations—“when I was trying to learn about the past.”
“Light is beginning to dawn, Crosby. Go on.”
“It all started when I didn’t know who George Smith was, sir.”
“I’m not sure that I do either.”
“He drowned his wives,” said Crosby reproachfully. “All of them.”
“Oh, him.”
“Yes, sir, but I didn’t know at the time and they pulled my leg a bit at the station.”
“I’ll bet they did.”
“Every time anyone mentioned the word ‘bath.’ So Sergeant Gelven—he said if I was ever going to get anywhere, I’d better read up famous cases.”
“The Tichborne Claimant,” remembered Sloan suddenly. “That’s how you knew about that …”
“Yes, sir.”
“But,” puzzled, “how does Mantriot come in?”
“It’s not a famous case, sir, I do know that.”
“Not yet it isn’t,” retorted Sloan, “but I shouldn’t count on it staying that way.”
“So it must be a local one. After I’d done the others, sir, I went back through the Calleshire records. That’s where I’ve seen the name, I’m sure.” Crosby spotted a rival county’s radar trap and slowed down. “But I don’t remember when or where.”
“We’ll soon find out,” said Sloan pleasantly. “You can go through them again until you find it.”
Superintendent Leeyes’s afternoon cups of tea were rather like American television shows which went from the late show to the late, late show to the late, late, late show thence merging imperceptibly into the early, early, early show, the early, early show and naturally enough the early show. His tea went on the same principle—the after lunch cup, the early afternoon cup, the middle of the afternoon one and so forth. It was impossible for Sloan and Crosby to guess which one he was at when they arrived back in Berebury.
“We’ve got him,” announced Leeyes triumphantly.
Sloan shook his head. “I should say that gift lets Hibbs out.”
“And I should say,” retorted Leeyes robustly, “that it lets him in.”
“I’ll go down there at once, sir, and see.”
“There’s one other thing, Sloan.”
“Sir?”
“This girl—I think she’s starting to imagine things now.”
“I should very much doubt that.”
“You sent her away from home last night.”
“I tried to. I don’t know if she went but I told P.C. Hepple he was to keep an eye on her if she didn’t.”
“She did. To the rectory. But she and the Thorpe boy went back to Boundary Cottage after lunch.”
“Yes?” said Sloan alertly.
“He rang up about an hour ago to say the girl swears someone’s been in the cottage overnight.”
Sloan expired audibly. “I thought they might. That’s why …”
“Someone’s got a key,” snapped Leeyes. “We’ve known that all along. Why didn’t you have the lock changed?”
“I wanted them to show their hand,” said Sloan simply. “And they have.”
Sunday was Sunday as far as James Hibbs and his wife were concerned. It was late afternoon when Sloan and Crosby arrived at The Hall. This time, being Sunday, they were shown into the drawing room. Tea at The Hall on Sundays would always be in the drawing room. Tea this afternoon had been eaten but not cleared away. A beautiful Georgian silver teapot graced the tea tray, some sandwiches and a jar of Gentleman’s Relish stood beside it. Sloan hankered after the sandwiches but not the tea. He had had some tea from a teapot like that once before—pale, straw-colored stuff with a sinister taste. He had not been at all surprised to learn that it had come from China.
The two policemen were invited to sit on the large sofa in front of the fire. Their combined weights sank into it. Constable Crosby was the heavier of the two which gave Sloan’s sitting position an odd list to starboard. No one could have described it as an advantageous situation from which to conduct an interview in what Sloan now knew to be a double murder case.
His tone was sharper than it had been earlier.
“You said before, sir, that you had never seen Mrs. Grace Jenkins until she came to Larking.”
“Actually,” said Hibbs mildly, “I don’t think I saw her until quite a while afterwards. I was away myself, you know, at the time. I told you, if you remember, my old agent fixed up the tenancy.”
“Yes, sir, you did. You showed me a letter.”
“Ah, yes.”
“You showed me a letter,” said Sloan accusingly, “but I don’t think you told me the whole story.”
“No, Inspector? What else was it you wanted to know?”
“Why you sent money to be given to Henrietta at the university?” Sloan asked the question of James Hibbs but he was looking at Mrs. Hibbs’s face while he spoke.
It did not change.
“Come, now,” Hibbs smiled disarmingly. “You surely can’t expect me to have told you a thing like that.”
Mrs. Hibbs nodded in agreement with her husband and said in her pleasant deep voice: “It was a private benefaction, Inspector. Nothing to do with anyone but ourselves.”
“At the moment, madam, everything to do with Henrietta is to do with us.”
“We could see a need,” said Hibbs, embarrassed, “that’s all.”
“So you set about filling it?”
“That’s right, Inspector. I don’t hold with all these national appeals. I’d rather give on my own.”
“Charity beginning at home, sir?”
Hibbs flushed. “If you care to put it like that.”
“I see, sir.” Sloan started to heave himself out of the sofa. “I asked you earlier if the name Hocklington-Garwell conveyed anything to you and you said no.”
“I did.”
“I’m asking you now if you have ever heard the name of Mantriot before.”
“Hugo, you mean?”
“Perhaps. Or Michael. Michael was killed early on. Dunkirk.”
James Hibbs said very soberly, “Yes, Inspector, of course I have.”
“Of course?”
“He was in the East Callies and I was in the West but … Good Lord, I never thought!”
“You never thought what, sir?”
“Of Henrietta being Hugo’s.” Hibbs frowned into the distance. “I must say, Inspector, in all the years I’ve been here it’s never crossed my mind for an instant.”
“What hasn’t, sir?”
“Inspector, are you trying to tell us that Henrietta Jenkins is the Mantriot baby?”
“I don’t know, sir. Suppose you tell me.”
“You won’t remember, of course.”
“No, sir.”
“It was all pretty ghastly,” said Hibbs. “It was in the war, you know. Towards the end. Hugo had had a bad war one way and another.”
That, thought Sloan with mounting excitement, would explain the D.S.O. and the M.C.
“But he got home for a spot of leave just after the baby was born. Everyone was delighted, naturally, but something went very wrong.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” Hibbs shrugged his well-tailored shoulders. “They said afterwards that his mind must have been turned. Common enough thing to happen at the time, of course. He must have been through some rotten experiences before the end. Could have happened to any of us, I suppose.”
“What could, sir?” very quietly.
“Didn’t you know, Inspector?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
“One day he killed his wife and then he shot himself.” Hibbs shook his head sadly. “It’s all a long time ago now, of course. Some nanny took the baby.”
“Grace Jenkins!” cried Mrs. Hibbs suddenly.
“Bless my soul,” said Hibbs.
Sloan started to move towards the door when Hibbs burst out laughing.
“It’s a funny world, Inspector. Here’s my wife and I sending money to Eleanor Leslie’s daughter.”
“What’s so odd about that, sir?”
Hibbs stopped laughing and said solemnly, “Because Eleanor Leslie—that’s who Hugo Mantriot married—was a great deal wealthier than you or I shall ever be. She was old Bruce Leslie’s only daughter. You know—the shipping people.”
EIGHTEEN
The next two hours were the busiest young Constable Crosby had ever known. First of all he was put down in front of a pile of dusty old records and told to get on with it. This was particularly difficult as Superintendent Leeyes and Detective-Inspector Sloan were talking round him.
“So Hibbs realized you’d got onto the name and decided to play the surprised innocent,” said Leeyes triumphantly.
“I’m not sure, sir. If so, he did it very well.”
“He would,” snapped Leeyes. “He’s had plenty of time to get ready for it. Twenty-one years.”
“The important thing, of course,” said Sloan, “is obviously the girl’s twenty-first birthday. That’ll be the day when she’ll come into her mother’s money for sure.”
“I should like to be quite certain that the young man at the farm didn’t know that,” said Leeyes. “His—er—wooing was a bit brisk.”
“But not until after Grace Jenkins died,” pointed out Sloan. “He’d agreed to stay in the background until Henrietta finished at Boleyn College.”
“Then,” said Leeyes pouncing, “he kills Grace Jenkins and goes ahead with Henrietta.”
Sloan shook his head. “What I would like to know, sir, is where Cyril Jenkins comes in.”
“I think he committed just the one mistake,” said Leeyes shrewdly. “He knew who Henrietta was and he was probably the last person alive who did.”
“Bar one,” agreed Sloan ominously.
“Bar one,” agreed Leeyes. “And what do you propose to do about it, Sloan?”
“Set a trap,” said that policeman, “so deep that there’ll be no getting out of it.”
It was half an hour later when Crosby gave a loud cry.
“Found something interesting, Constable?”
“A report of a road accident, sir.”
“When?”
Crosby glanced up to the top of the newspaper page. “Almost six months ago.”
Sloan stepped over and read it.
“Do you believe in coincidence, Crosby?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither do I.”
“There’s something I do believe in, sir.”
“What’s that?”
“Practice making perfect.”
“You can say that again,” said Sloan warmly, “we’ve just found this.”
Crosby read out the faded cutting which Inspector Sloan handed him. “This bit, sir? ‘Deceased had apparently shot himself whilst sitting down. The weapon had fallen on to the table in front of him.’” Crosby looked up. “Just like Cyril Jenkins, sir.”
“Just like Cyril Jenkins,” agreed Sloan.
Later still.
“I’ve been a fool, Crosby.”
Crosby, no diplomat but still a career man, said guardedly, “How come, sir?”
“We agreed a long long time ago,” (it was Wednesday actually) “that where Grace Jenkins had gone in her Sunday best on Tuesday was relevant.”
“Yes, sir. Bound to have been. Someone who knew she would arrive at Berebury bus station too late to catch the five fifteen.”
“So she was bound to catch the seven five,” Sloan pointed to Crosby’s notebook. “She helped an old lady who fell getting off the bus, didn’t she?”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t see what …”
“The bus company will have the old lady’s name and address. You can bet your sweet life on that. It’ll be a rule of the house in case of an injury claim afterwards. Ten to one she came off the same bus.”
“Do you think so, sir?”
“It’s worth a try.”
It was still Sunday.
That, to Henrietta, was the funniest part. It didn’t seem like Sunday at all.
She was trying to explain to Inspector Sloan how it was she knew someone had been into the house during the night, but it didn’t seem as if he wanted to know.
“That’s all right, miss. I rather thought they might.”
“Inspector, were they looking for me?”
“I think so, miss.”
“You mean I’m in someone’s way?”
“Let’s say you’re the stumbling block, miss.”
“What to?” Bewildered.
“A pretty penny, miss, though I’d say most of it’s gone now.” He raised a hand to stem any more questions. “Now that we know someone was here, would you mind just not mentioning it to anyone at all please.”
“Bill knows already. He was here.”
“To anyone else besides—er—Bill.”
“All right.” She didn’t really care very much now whom she spoke to, still less what she said. “The blood, Inspector, did it tell?”
“Yes, miss.” He paused. “You’re not Cyril Jenkins’s daughter after all.”
“No.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“No.” She hesitated. “I think I would have felt it more.”
“Very probably, miss.”
“Affinity. That’s the word, isn’t it? I didn’t feel that when I saw him. He was just a photograph, you see. Not like her.”
Sloan heard the warmth come flooding back into her voice and said as impersonally as he could, “She really cared for you, miss. I expect that’s what makes the difference, more than blood relationship.”
“Yes,” she turned her head away. “Inspector, what about tonight? Do I go back to the rectory?”
“Ah,” said Sloan. “Tonight. Now listen very carefully. This is important.”
“No,” said Superintendent Leeyes flatly.
“But, sir …”
“Too risky. Suppose the girl gets hurt.”
“She won’t be there to be hurt.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“I can’t think of a better way of making him show his hand.”
There was a long pause. It became evident that the superintendent couldn’t either.
Henrietta was standing in the telephone kiosk outside the post office. It was nearly ten o’clock in the evening.
The fact that the pile of small change feeding the coin box came from Inspector Sloan’s pocket was highly significant.
“Is that you, Mr. Hibbs? This is Henrietta Jenkins speaking.”
Sloan could hear his deep voice crackling over the line.
“It is.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you but I’d like some advice.”
“What’s the trouble?�
� James Augustus Heber Hibbs, secular adviser to the village, did not sound particularly surprised. Just attentive.
“I was just going to bed,” said Henrietta, “and I thought I’d like something to read. I … I haven’t been sleeping all that well since …”
“Quite.”
“Well, I was getting a book out of the bookcase—one of my favorites actually—and I came across my mother’s will. It’s in an envelope—all sealed up. I just wondered what I should do.”
“Put it somewhere safe,” advised Hibbs sensibly, “and ring your solicitor first thing in the morning.”
She had exactly the same conversation a few minutes later with Felix Arbican.
“Grace Jenkins’s Will?” echoed the solicitor. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” said Henrietta mendaciously. “You said it would be a help.”
“It will,” said Arbican. “I think you’d better bring it over to me first thing in the morning—just as you found it. In the meantime …”
“Yes?” said Henrietta meekly.
“Put it in the bureau.”
“But the lock’s gone.”
“I don’t suppose anyone would think to go back there a second time.”
Bill Thorpe might have been in when Henrietta rang the farm. He didn’t say. He listened to her tale and said firmly, “Before you leave the call box I should ring the police. Let them decide what to do. And then I should go straight back to the rectory.”
“I’m not going back there tonight,” she said. “I’ll be all right on my own.”
“Now, listen to me, Henrietta Jenkins …”
“Not Jenkins,” said Henrietta sedately.
“Henrietta whoever you are, I won’t have you …”
But Henrietta had rung off.
“I meant that,” she said to Sloan.
“What, miss?”
“That bit about not going back to the rectory.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
Henrietta smiled sweetly. “Oh, no, I’m not, Inspector. What’s more, you can’t make me. I’m coming back to the cottage with you.”
For a long time nothing happened.
Henrietta switched lights on and off according to Sloan’s bidding—kitchen first, then hall, ten minutes later the bathroom, and finally the bedroom one. Then, fully dressed, she crept downstairs again.
“Please, miss,” pleaded Sloan, “won’t you go and lie down in the spare room? If anything happens to you I shall be in for the high jump.”
Henrietta Who? Page 16
