Henrietta Who Part 4

"No," Henrietta shook her head. "To Mr. Hibbs at The Hall. It's the last of the cottages on his estate. That's why it's called Boundary Cottage."

"Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to break in here?"

She shook her head again. "I don't think she kept anything valuable there. That's why I can't understand anyone wanting to go through it. There wasn't anything to steal..."

"It doesn't look," he said cautiously, "as if, in fact, anything has been stolen."

She reached over and pointed out a little drawer. "If you would just look inside that, Inspector... thank you. Ah, they're all right. My father's medals."

It was the opening Sloan was looking for.

"I'll need a note of his full name, miss, for the inquest."

"Sergeant Cyril Edgar Jenkins."

"And your mother's maiden name?"

"Wright," said Henrietta unhesitatingly.

"Thank you. That's his photograph, I take it?"

"It is." Henrietta handed it down from the mantelpiece and gave it to Sloan. "He was in the East Calles.h.i.+res."

"That's unusual, isn't it, miss? I mean, they're mostly West Calles.h.i.+res in these parts."

"He came from East Calles.h.i.+re," she said.

"I see." Sloan studied the picture of a fair-haired man in soldier's uniform and glanced back at Henrietta's darker colouring.

"I was more like my mother to look at," she said, correctly interpreting his glance. "The same colour hair..."

But Mrs. Jenkins was not her mother. Dr. Dabbe had said so.

"Really, miss?" said Sloan aloud. "Now, you wouldn't have a photograph of her by any chance?"

"In my bedroom. I'll fetch it."

"A pretty kettle of fish," observed Sloan morbidly to Crosby the minute she was out of-earshot.

"Someone's been through that bureau with a toothcomb, sir," said Crosby. "Glove prints everywhere."

"Wonder what they wanted?"

"Search me." Crosby ran his fingers in behind pigeonholes, pressing here and pulling there. "Nothing to suggest a secret drawer."

"That's something to be thankful for anyway... Ah, there you are, miss, thank you."

Henrietta handed him a snapshot in a leather frame-quite a different matter from the studio portrait that had stood on the mantelpiece.

"It's not a very good one but it's the only one I've got."

Sloan held the snap in front of him. It was of an ordinary middle-aged woman, taken standing outside the back door of the cottage. She had on a simple cotton frock and had obviously been prevailed upon to come out of the kitchen to be photographed. She was smiling in a protesting sort of way at the camera.

"I was lucky to have one of her to show you," said Henrietta. The sight of the picture had brought a quaver into her voice which she strove to conceal from the two policemen. "She didn't like having her photograph taken."

"Didn't she indeed?"

"But I had a college friend to stay for a few days the sumbefore last and she had a camera with her."

"Do you mean to say, miss, that this is the only photograph of your mother extant?"

She frowned. "I think so. Angela-that was her name- sent it to us when she got home."

Inspector Sloan stood the two photographs side by side, the formal silver-framed studio study and the quick amateur snapshot.

"On my left, a sergeant in the East Calles.h.i.+re Regiment called Cyril Edgar Jenkins..."

"My father," said Henrietta.

"Aged about-what would you say?"

"He was thirty-one," supplied Henrietta. "Is it important?"

"And on my right a middle-aged woman called Grace Edith Jenkins..."

"My mother," said Henrietta.

There was a short silence. Henrietta looked first at one policeman and then at the other.

Sloan avoided her clear gaze and said, "Can you remember anything before Larking?"

"No, I can't." She looked at him curiously but she answered his question. "I've lived here ever since I can remember. In Boundary Cottage. With my mother."

"And you don't remember your father at all?"

"No. He was killed soon after I was born."

"What do you know about him?"

"Him?"

"Yes, miss. I'll explain in a minute."

She hesitated. She had an image of her father in her mind, always had had and it was compounded of many things: the words of her mother, the photograph in the drawing room, the conception of any soldier, of all soldiers, killed in battle-but it wasn't something easily put into words.

"He wasn't afraid," she said awkwardly.

"I realize that." They didn't award medals for cowardice.

"But what do you know about him as a person? What was his occupation, for instance?"

"He worked on a farm."

"Did he own it?" Property owners as a cla.s.s of person were easy to trace, popular with the police.

"I don't think so. He was the farm bailiff for someone."She frowned. "His father had a small farm, though. It wasn't really big for my father to work as well that's why he worked for someone else."

"Whereabouts?"

"Somewhere on the other side of Calles.h.i.+re. I'm not sure exactly where."

"So that is where your mother came from to Larking?"

"From that direction somewhere, I suppose. I don't know exactly. She said he my father, that is, - had moved about a bit getting experience. He would have had to run his father's farm one day on his own and needed to learn."

"I see." He gave her a quick grin. "So on Sat.u.r.day nights, miss, you-er-support the East Callies?"

She responded with a faint smile. The regimental rivalry between the East and West Calles.h.i.+re was famous. "They get on very well without my help. The West Callies have lost their mascot twice already this year."

"Have they indeed? Vulnerable things, mascots. Now this farm of your-er-grandfather's-do you know where that was?"

"It was called Holly Tree Farm, I know,"said Henrietta promptly, "because I remember my mother telling me there was a very old holly tree there that my grandfather wouldn't have cut down even though it was just in front of the house and made the rooms very dark. He used to say you can't have a Holly Tree Farm without a holly tree."

"A very proper att.i.tude,"agreed Sloan stoutly. "Did you ever go there?"

"Not that I can remember. I think he died when I was quite young."

"But your mother used to talk about the farm?"

"Oh, yes, a lot. She grew up near there too."

"And so she had known your father all her life?"

Henrietta nodded. "Ceratinly since they were children. She used to tell me a lot about him when he was a little boy. But, Inspector, I don't see what this has got to do with my mother's death."

"No, miss, I don't suppose you do,"Sloan paused judiciously.

"It's not easy to say this, miss, and if it weren't a matter of you having to give formal evidence of identification at the inquest it might not even be something we need to take cognizance of."

"What might not be?" Henrietta looked quite mystified.

"This Cyril Jenkins..."

"My father?"

"Had he been married twice by any chance?"

"Not that I know of. Why?"

"Or Grace Jenkins? Had she been married to anyone else besides Cyril Jenkins?"

A slow flush mounted Henrietta's cheeks. "No, Inspector, not to my knowledge."

Like a cat picking its way over a wet path Sloan said delicately, "There is a possibility that your name may not be Jenkins."

"Not Jenkins?"

"Not Jenkins."

"I may be being very stupid," said Henrietta, "but I don't see why not."

"It was Dr. Dabbe."

"Dr. Dabbe?"

"The pathologist, miss, from the hospital. He conducted a post-mortem examination on the body of the woman who was knocked down."

"That's right." She nodded. "My mother."

"No, miss."

Henrietta sat down suddenly. "I came into the Police Station on Wednesday-yesterday, that was-when I got back. They asked me to look at her. I signed something. There was a sergeant there-he'll tell you." She screwed up her face at the recollection. 'There wasn't any doubt. I wish there had been. It was her. Her face, her clothes, her handbag. I've never seen anyone dead before but I was absolutely certain..."

Sloan put up a hand to stem the memory. "It's not quite that, miss..." He couldn't tell if she knew nothing at all or if she knew a great deal more than he did. It was impossible to know.

She pushed a strand of hair away from her face and said very quietly, "Well, what exactly is it, then?"

"This woman who you identified yesterday as Mrs. Grace Edith Jenkins..."

"Yes?"

Sloan didn't hurry to go on. He felt oddly embarra.s.sed.

This wasn't the sort of subject you discussed with young girls. He didn't often wish work onto the women members of the Force but perhaps this might have been one of the times when...

"I'm sorry to have to tell you, miss, that the pathologist says she's never had any children."

A blush flamed up Henrietta's pale face. She tried to speak but for a moment no sound came. Then she managed a shaky little laugh. "I'm afraid there must have been some terrible mistake, Inspector..."

Sloan shook his head.

"A mix-up at the hospital, perhaps," she went on, heedless of his denial. "It happens with babies sometimes, doesn't it? Perhaps it's the same sometimes in-in other places..."

"No, miss..."

She took a deep breath. "That was my mother I saw yesterday. Beyond any doubt."

The doubt in Sloan's mind, because he was a policeman paid to doubt, was whether the girl was party to this knowledge about Grace Jenkins. He didn't let it alter his behaviour.