Henrietta Who Part 2

"Yes," said Hepple, "you would."

"Besides which," said Henrietta, heavy-eyed, "I can't say that I slept much last night anyway."

"No, miss," the policeman was sympathetic, "I don't suppose you did."

"And this couldn't have been done quietly."

"So," said Hepple practically, "that means that this was done before you got back yesterday evening, which was Wednesday, and after your mother left home for the last time-which was presumably some time on Tuesday."

"That's right," agreed Henrietta. "If she'd had to do it, she'd have told me in a letter-and if she'd found it done I'm sure she would have told the police."

"Can't understand it at all, sir." Police Constable Hepple rang his headquarters at Berebury Police Station as soon as he left Boundary Cottage. He was put onto the Criminal Investigation Department. "Mind you, we don't know what's gone from the bureau-if anything. The young lady isn't familiar with its contents. Her mother always kept it locked."

"Did she indeed?" said Detective-Inspector Sloan.

"And there's no sign of forced entry anywhere."

"Except the bureau."

"That's right, sir." Hepple paused significantly. "I shouldn't have said myself it was the sort of place worm a burglary."

"Really?" Sloan always listened to opinions of this sort.

"It's just one of Mr. Hibbs's old cottages. Mind you, they keep it very nice. Always have done."

"Who do?"

"Mrs. Jenkins and Henrietta-that's the daughter. Of course, coming on top of the accident like this I thought I'd better report it special."

"Quite right, Constable."

"Seems a funny thing to happen."

"It is," said Sloan briefly. "How far have they got with the accident?"

"Usual procedure with a fatal, sir. Traffic Division have asked all their cars to keep a look-out for a damaged vehicle, and all garages to report anything coming in for accident repair. I've got a decent cast of a nearside front tyre..."

"Size?"

"590X14.".

"Big," said Sloan, just as Bill Thorpe had done.

"Yes, sir. They're asking for witnesses but they can't be sure of their timing until after the post-mortem. The local doctor put the time of death between six and nine o'clock on Tuesday evening, but I understand the pathologist is doing a post-mortem this morning."

"We'll know a bit more after that," agreed Sloan.

Wherein he was speaking more truthfully than he realised.

"Yes, sir," said Hepple. "They'll be able to fix an inquest date after that. I've warned the girl about it. But as to this other matter, sir..."

"The bureau?"

"It doesn't make sense to me. That house was all locked up when I went 'round it at twelve yesterday. I could swear no one broke in before then."

Sloan twiddled a pencil. "She could have gone out on Tuesday and forgotten to shut the door properly."

"Ye-es," said Hepple uneasily, "but I don't think so. Caresort of woman, I'd have said. Very."

"When did she go out on Tuesday? Do we know that? And where had she been?"

"We don't know where she'd been, sir. No one seems to know that. Her daughter certainly doesn't. As to when, she caught the first bus into Berebury and came back on the last."

"Not much help. She could have gone anywhere."

"Yes, sir. And it meant the house was empty all day."

"And all night."

"All night?"

"She was lying in the road all night."

"So she was," said Hepple. "I was forgetting. In fact, you could say the house was empty from first thing Tuesday morning until they brought the daughter from Berebury on Wednesday evening."

"I wonder what was in the bureau?"

"I couldn't say, sir. She didn't keep money in there, nor jewellery. Nothing like that. Just papers, her daughter said."

Detective Constable Crosby was young and brash and conrepresented the new element in the police force. The younger generation. He didn't usually volunteer to do anything. Which was why when Detective-Inspector Sloan heard him offering to take a set of papers back to Traffic Division he sat up and took notice.

"Nothing to do with us, sir," the constable said virtuously. "Road Traffic Accident. Come to the C.I.D. by mistake, I reckon."

"Then," said Sloan pleasantly, "you can reckon again."

Crosby stared at the report. "Woman, name of Grace Jenkins, run down by a car on a bad bend far end of Larking village."

"That's right."

"But Larking's miles away."

"In the country," agreed Sloan. "Let's hope the natives are friendly."

Sarcasm was wasted on Crosby. He continued reading aloud. "Found by H. Ford, postman, believed to have been dead between ten and twelve hours, injuries consistent with vehicular impact?"

"That's the case. Read on. Especially P. C. Hepple's report of this morning."

"Bureau in deceased's front room broken open. No signs of forced entry to the house." Crosby sounded disappointed. "That's not even breaking and entering, sir."

"True."

"I still don't see," objected Crosby, "what it's got to do with her being knocked down and killed."

"Frankly, Crosby, neither do I." Sloan put out his hand for the file. "In fact there may be no connection whatsoever. In which case some of your valuable time will have been wasted."

"Yes, sir." Woodenly.

"That is," he added gravely, "a risk we shall have to take."

Detective-Inspector Sloan read the accident report again and thanked his lucky stars-not for the first time-that he didn't work in Traffic Division.

"Of all the nasty messes," he mused aloud, "I think a hit-and-run driver leaves the worst behind. No medical attention. No ambulance. No insurance."

"And no prosecution," said Crosby mordantly. He pointed to the report. "Perhaps this character who hit her was drunk."

"Perhaps." Sloan got up from his desk. "Though it was a bit early in the evening for that."

"Perhaps she was drunk then," suggested Crosby, undaunted.

Sloan shook his head. "Hepple didn't suggest she was that sort of woman-quite the reverse in fact... A car, please, Crosby, and we shall venture into the outback at once."

They didn't go quite straight away because the telephone on Sloan's desk started to ring.

"Berebury Hospital," said a girl's voice. Can Inspector Sloan take a call from the Pathologist's Department, please?"

Crosby handed the receiver over to Sloan, who said, "Speaking."

"Dabbe here," boomed a voice.

"Good morning, Doctor," said Sloan cautiously.

"I've been trying to talk to your Traffic Division about a woman I'm doing a p.m. on."

"Yes?"

"They say she's your case now and you've got all the papers..."

"In a way," agreed Sloan guardedly. He'd sort that out with Traffic afterwards.

"I've got her down," said the pathologist, "as Grace Edith Jenkins."

"That's right. We're treating it as an R.T.A., Doctor."

"Road Traffic Accident she may be," said the pathologist equably. "I'll tell you about that later. That's not what I'm ringing about. The notes that came in with her say she was identified by her daughter."

"That's right."

"No, it isn't."

Sloan picked up the file. "Miss Henrietta Eleanor Leslie Jenkins said it was her mother."

"Any doubt about the identification?"

"None that I've heard about, Doctor."

The pathologist grunted. "She wasn't disfigured at all-there were no facial injuries to speak of."

"No? Is it important, sir?"

"Either, Inspector, this girl..."

"Miss Jenkins."

"Miss Jenkins has identified the wrong woman..."

"I don't think so," objected Sloan, glancing swiftly through the notes in the file. "The village postman and a neighbouring fanner's son called Thorpe put us on to her-to say nothing of Constable Hepple. They all said it was Mrs. Jenkins well before we got hold of the daughter."

"That's just it," said the pathologist.

"What is, sir?"

"She wasn't the daughter."

"But..."

"This woman you've sent me may be Mrs. Grace Edith Jenkins," said Dabbe.

"She is."

"I don't know about that," went on the pathologist, "but I can tell you one thing for certain and that's that she's never ever had any children."

"Her daughter, Doctor, said..."

"Not her daughter..."

Sloan paused and said carefully, "Someone who told us she was Miss Henrietta Eleanor Leslie Jenkins then..."

"Ah," said Dabbe, "that's different."

"She said she was prepared to swear in a Coroner's Court that this was the body of her mother, Mrs. Grace Edith Jenkins, widow of Sergeant Cyril Jenkins of the East Cal-les.h.i.+res."

The pathologist sounded quite unimpressed.

"Very possibly," he said. "That's not really my concern but..."

"Yes?"

"You might take a note, Inspector, to the effect that I shall have to go to the same Coroner's Court and swear that, in my opinion, she-whoever she is-had certainly never had any children and had very probably never been married either."