Henrietta Who? (21 page)

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.”

“What's going to happen?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said truthfully, “but we're dealing with a confirmed murderer.”

“Inspector …” Henrietta found it easier to talk in the dark. She had the feeling that she was alone with Sloan though she knew Constable Crosby was in the next room and P.C. Hepple in the kitchen and heaven knew who outside. “Inspector, do you know now who I am?”

“Yes, miss, I think so. We'll have to check with Somerset House in the morning but …”

“Who?” she asked directly.

“Henrietta Mantriot.”

“Mantriot.” She tested out the sound, tentative as a bride with a new surname. “Henrietta Eleanor Leslie Mantriot.”

“Your mother …” began Sloan.

“Yes?” There was a sudden constriction in her voice.

“We think she was called Eleanor Leslie. The spelling of Leslie ought to have given us a clue.”

“I've often wondered,” she remarked, “where those names came from.”

“She's been dead a long time,” volunteered Sloan.

This did not seem to disturb the girl. “I knew she must have been,” she said, “otherwise Grace Jenkins wouldn't have …”

“No.”

“And my father, Inspector?”

“Your father, miss, we think was a certain Captain Hugo Mantriot.”

“Master Hugo!” she cried.

“Shhhhhsh, miss. We must be very quiet now.”

“I'm sorry,” she said contritely. “I was always hearing about Master Hugo. I never dreamt that …”

“Now you know why, miss.” Sloan heard Crosby's whisper before Henrietta did and he was on his feet and out in the hall in a flash.

“Someone coming down the Belling road, sir.”

“Upstairs,” commanded Sloan. “Quickly. You too, miss.”

In the end he went up with her and stood at the landing window. Together they watched someone approach the cottage on foot, slide open the gate and disappear behind some bushes in the garden.

“He's not coming in,” whispered Henrietta.

“Not yet,” murmured Sloan. “Give him time. He's waiting to see if the coast's clear.” He withdrew from the window and passed the word down to Crosby and Hepple to be very quiet now.

It was quite still inside Boundary Cottage.

The next move was a complete surprise to everyone.

Constable Crosby's hoarse whisper reached Sloan and Henrietta on the front upstairs landing.

“There's someone else, sir.”

“Where?”

“Coming down the Belling road.”

The visitor did not pause in the garden. He came straight up to the front door.

“Inspector,” said Henrietta. “Look! The man in the garden. He's following the other one in.”

Sloan did not stay to reply. He moved back to the head of the stairs and waited there, watching the front door open.

“He's got a key,” breathed Henrietta, hearing it being inserted into the lock.

“Sssshhhhh,” cautioned Sloan. “Don't speak now.”

The front door opened soundlessly and someone came in. Whoever it was moved forward and then turned to shut the door behind him.

Only it wouldn't shut.

And it wouldn't shut for a time-honored reason. There was someone else's foot in it.

Someone pushed from the inside and someone else pushed from the outside. The outside pusher must have been the stronger of the two for in the end the door opened wide enough to admit him.

Henrietta recognized the silhouette dimly outlined against the night sky and framed by the doorway. She clutched the banister rail for support. No wonder he had got the door opened in spite of the other man. Bill Thorpe was the strongest man she knew.

Bill Thorpe was apparently not content with having got the door open. He now advanced upon the other man, flinging himself against him. There was a surprised grunt, followed by a muffled oath. Then a different sound, the sudden ripping of cloth. In the darkness it sounded like a pistol shot.