Henrietta Who? (20 page)

Sloan cleared his throat. It had suddenly seemed to go very dry.

“What was that, madam?” She looked the sort of person who could tell a good reason from a bad one. If she thought it a very good reason …

“She wasn't who she thought she was.”

“No. We have established that, madam, in Calleshire, but I should dearly like to know how you …”

“For entry to Boleyn College, Inspector, we require a sight of the candidate's birth certificate.”

“Of course!” Sloan brought his hand down on the arm of the chintz-covered chair with a mighty slap. “We should have thought of that before.”

“Not, you understand, in order to confirm family details. We are not concerned”—here academic scruple raised its head—“with the father's occupation but with the age of the candidate.”

“Quite so,” said Sloan, who was concerned about something quite different still. “How very stupid we have been, madam. This would have saved us a great deal—might even have saved a life.”

As before, the principal waited until he was quite finished before she continued. “Naturally this also applied in the case of Henrietta Jenkins.”

“Yes …” eagerly.

“With her birth certificate came a letter from the woman whom she believed to be her mother.”

“Grace Jenkins.”

The principal inclined her head. “This letter, which was addressed to me personally, explained that the girl did not know the name of her real parents and was not to be told it until she was twenty-one.”

“Yes?” even more eagerly.

“This I felt was a most unwise procedure and one I would have counseled against most strongly. However …”

Sloan was sitting on the very edge of his chair. “Yes?”

“However, her—er—guardian … is that who she was?”

“In a way,” said Sloan grimly.

“Her guardian's wishes were entitled to be respected.”

“And?”

“The birth certificate was returned to Mrs. Jenkins and I have not mentioned the fact to anyone until today.”

“The name,” said Sloan. “What was the name?”

The Principal paused. “I don't think I can be absolutely certain …”

“Henrietta who?” said Sloan urgently.

“I am left with the impression that it was Mantriot.”

Bill Thorpe walked down from Shire Oak Farm about half past two and called for Henrietta at the rectory. She went with him as much because the Meytons were obviously used to a postprandial snooze on Sunday afternoons as for any other reason.

“I told you I'd seen Cyril Jenkins yesterday,” she said by way of greeting. Her feelings towards Bill Thorpe were decidedly ambivalent.

“You did,” agreed Thorpe.

“What price him being my father?”

“Perhaps,” diplomatically.

“Or do you still think it doesn't matter?”

Bill Thorpe grinned. “A gooseberry bush would still do for me.”

“Well!” exploded Henrietta crossly, “I think you're the …”

“Or a carpet bag. At Victoria Station.” He took a couple of paces back and raised an arm to ward off an imaginary blow. “The Brighton line, of course.”

“The police,” said Henrietta, ignoring this, “probably won't believe me, but …”

“The police,” declared Bill, “are trained not to believe anybody. It is the secret of their success.”

They had passed the entrance gates to The Hall now and were walking down the road to Boundary Cottage.

“I've just thought of something,” said Henrietta suddenly.

“What's that?”

“If I'm not who I thought I was …”

“Yes?”

“I don't have to be an only child.”

“No,” agreed Bill Thorpe.

“I thought you were going to say that didn't matter either,” she said, a little deflated.

“But it does.” Bill Thorpe pushed open the gate of Boundary Cottage and stood back to let her go in first. “Very much.”

“Very much?”

“Just in the one set of circumstances.” He turned to shut the gate behind him, farmer through and through. “Unlikely, I know, but …”

“But what?”

“We must make absolutely sure,” he said gravely, “that you and I are not brother and sister. I have every intention of marrying you and that's the only thing which could stop me.”

She laughed at last. “Not allowed outside ancient Egypt?”

“The word is, I believe, taboo.”

Henrietta led the way up to the front door, still laughing.

She stopped as soon as she opened it.

“Whatever's the matter?” enquired Bill quickly. “You've gone quite white.”

She stood stockstill on the doorstep.

“Someone's been in here,” she said, “since I left last night.”

SEVENTEEN

There was no question of either of them having a meal. It was offered by the Principal of Boleyn College and seconded by the bursar. Even in the ordinary way Inspector Sloan (if not Detective Constable Crosby) would have refused an invitation to sit down with three hundred young ladies of academic bent. Today was not ordinary. Their one aim was to get back to Calleshire with all possible speed. They hurried away from the dreaming spires without so much as a backward glance and got out on the open road.

“Hibbs,” said Crosby glumly.

“Mantriot,” countered Sloan.

Crosby executed a driving maneuver between two lorries and an articulated trailer which he had not learnt at the police motoring school.

“It isn't going to help our investigations, constable,” said Sloan testily, “if we none of us live to find out Mantriot.”

“No, sir.” Crosby lifted his foot off the accelerator a fraction. “I think I know something already.”

“You what?”

“The name, sir, it rings a bell.”

“In what way?”

“I don't know.”

“Then think.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a short silence in the police car while Constable Crosby thought. This did not preclude him overtaking a sports car at a speed Sloan did not relish.

“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.”