Henrietta Who? iscm-2 Page 16

  "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 Supercouldn'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 favourites 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 Henon 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.

  "Shssshhhhh," 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-honoured 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 recognised 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.

  It was enough for Detective Inspector Sloan.

  He switched on the lights.

  "The police!" cried a somewhat dishevelled Felix Arbican. "Thank God for that. I caught this young man breaking into…"

  "Felix Forrest Arbican," said Sloan lawfully from half way up the stairs, "I arrest you for the murder of Cyril Edgar Jenkins and must warn you that anything you say may be…"

  "Thank you," retorted the solicitor coldly, "I am aware of the formula."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "I thought it would be the solicitor," said Superintendent Leeyes unfairly. "Bound to be when you came to think about it."

  "Yes, sir." Sloan was sitting in the Superintendent's office the next morning, turning in his report.

  "What put you on to him in the beginning, Sloan?"

  "It was the very first time we saw him, sir. I asked him if he knew of a client called Mrs. G. E. Jenkins and he said no."

  "And?"

  "And in the same interview he referred to her as Grace Jenkins though neither Crosby nor I had mentioned her Christian name, so I reckoned he knew her all right."

  Leeyes grunted. "Stroke of bad luck that Hibbs fellow keeping his letter all those years."

  "Yes and no, sir. He'd written it a bit ambiguously at the time—it could indicate a settlement like he said if you cared to look at it that way, so it could have been said to have served his case as well." He paused. "I think he would know that an agent would file it, too. Besides…"

  "Besides what?"

  "It was a sort of insurance, sir. If we should get hold of it, it would bring him into the picture and keep him in touch in a rather privileged way, wouldn't it?"

  Leeyes grunted again.

  "That's why I told the girl about him early on," said Sloan temerariously.

  "You did what?"

  "Sort of hinted that he was her motherts solicitor and so…" Sloan waved a hand and left the sentence unfinished.

  "Suppose," suggested Leeyes heavily, "we go back to the very beginning."

  "The last war," said Sloan promptly. "A promising young officer in the East Calleshires called Hugo Mantriot of Great Rooden Manor…"

  "Where's that?"

  "Just south of Calleford." Sloan resumed his narrative. "This Hugo Mantriot marries the only daughter of the late Bruce Leslie…"

  "Who's he?"

  "The shipping magnate."

  "Money?"

  "Lots."

  Leeyes nodded, satisfied.

  "They have a baby girl," went on Sloan.

  "Henrietta?"

  "Henrietta Eleanor Leslie Mantriot." Sloan paused. "When she's about six weeks old her father comes home on leave to Great Rooden and there's a terrible—er—incident."

  "What?" bluntly.

  "According to the reports at the time Captain Hugo Mantriot went completely out of his mind, shot his wife and then himself. The Coroner was very kind—said some soothing sentences about the man's mind being turned by his wartime experiences and so forth. The whole thing played down as much as possible, of course."

  Leeyes grunted.

  "Twenty-four people had been killed by a flying bomb in Calleford the same week—the police had more than enough to do—the Coroner hinted that the Mantriots were really casualties of war in very much the same way as the flying bomb victims…"

  "Arbican kill them both?" suggested Leeyes briefly.

  "I shouldn't wonder, sir, at all, though we're not likely to find out at this stage." Sloan turned over a new page in his notebook. "Mrs. Mantriot had made a new will when the baby was born. I've had someone turn it up for me in Somerset House this morning and read it out. She created a trust for the baby should anything happen to either parent…"

  "She being at risk as much as he was in those days," put in Leeyes, who could remember them.

  "Exactly, sir. Those were the days when things did happen to people, besides which her husband was on active service and there was a fair bit of money involved. So she created this trust with the trustees as…"

  "Don't tell me," groaned Leeyes.

  "That's right, sir. Waind, Arbican & Waind. After all, of course, it's only guesswork on my part…"

  "Well?"

  "I reckon Grace Jenkins was already in the employment of the Mantriots as the baby's nanny. She was a daughter of Jenkins at Holly Tree Farm in Rooden Parva which isn't all that far away…"

  "So?"

  "I think Arbican suggested to her that she look after the baby. Probably put it into her mind that the infant shouldn't be told about the murder and suicide of her parents—that would seem a pretty disgraceful thing to a simple country girl like her."

  Leeyes grunted.

  "From there," said Sloan, "it's a fairly easy step to getting her to pass the baby off as her own until the child was twenty-one. All done with the highest motives, of course."

  "Of course," agreed Leeyes. "And he keeps them both, I suppose?"

  "That's right. Sets Grace Jenkins up in a remote cottage, maintains the household at a distance and not very generously at that…"

  "Verisimilitude," said Leeyes.

  "Pardon, sir?"

  "You wouldn't expect a widow and child to have a lot of money."

  "No, sir, of course not. Grace Jenkins falls for it like a lamb. Takes along a photograph of her own brother to forestall questions, and Hugo Mantriot's medals, and puts her back into bringing up Master Hugo's baby as if it's her own."

  "Then what?"

  "Then nothing, sir, for nearly twenty-one years. During which time the Wainds in the firm die off, public memory dies down and Felix Arbican gets through a fair slice of what Bruce Leslie left his daughter."

  "The day of reckoning," said Leeyes slowly, "would be Henrietta's twenty-first birthday."

  "That's right. Grace Jenkins had no intention of carrying the pretence further than that. She was a loyal servant and an honest woman."

  "So?"

  "She had to go," said Sloan simply, "and before Henrietta came back from University."

  "He just overlooked the one thing," said Sloan.

  It was the afternoon now and Sloan and Crosby were sitting in the Rectory drawing room. In spite of all her protestations Henrietta had gone to the Rectory the previous night—or rather, in the early hours of the morning—after all. Bill Thorpe and P. C. Hepple had escorted her there to make—as Sloan said at the time—assurance doubly sure. Once there Mrs. Meyton had taken it upon herself to protect her from all comers and she had been allowed to sleep on through the morning.

  Now they were all foregathered in the Rectory again—bar the main consultant, so to speak. The case was nearly over, the Rectory china looked suitably unfragile and Mrs. Meyton's teapot as if it contained tea of a properly dark brown hue—so Sloan had consented to a cup.

  "Just one thing," he repeated.

  Nobody took a lot of notice. Henrietta and Bill Thorpe were looking at each other as if for the very first time. Mrs. Meyton was counting cups. Constable Crosby seemed preoccupied with a large bruise that
was coming up on his knuckle.

  "What was that?" asked Mrs. Meyton with Christian kindness.

  "That a routine post-mortem would establish the fact of Grace Jenkins's childlessness."

  "Otherwise?"

  "Otherwise I doubt if we would have looked further than a Road Traffic Accident. We wouldn't have had any reason to…"

  "Then what?" put in Bill Thorpe.

  "Then nothing very much," said Sloan. "Inspector Harpe would have added it to his list of unsolved hit-and-runs and that would have been that. Miss Mantriot would…"

  Henrietta looked quite startled. "No one's ever called me that before."

  Sloan smiled and continued. "Miss Mantriot would have gone back to university none the wiser. She's twenty-one next month. The only likely occasion for her to need a birth certificate after that would be for a passport."

  Bill Thorpe nodded. "And if it wasn't forthcoming, she wouldn't even know where to begin to look."

  "Exactly."

  "Hamstrung," said Bill Thorpe expressively.

  "But," said Henrietta, "what about her telling me she had been a Miss Wright before she married?"

  Sloan's expression relaxed a little. "I never met Grace Jenmiss, but I've—well—come to respect her quite a bit in the last week. I think she had what you might call an ironic sense of humour. This Wright business…"

  "Yes?"

  "I expect you've all heard the expression about Mr. Right coming along."

  Henrietta coloured. "Yes."

  "Me," said Bill Thorpe brightly.

  "Perhaps," said Sloan. "In her case I think when she had to choose a maiden name so to speak—she chose Wright in reverse."

  "Well done, Grace Jenkins," said Mr. Meyton.

  "That's what I think too, sir," said Sloan. "The same thing applies in a way with the Hocklington-Garwells who had us running round in circles for a bit."

  "What about it?"

  "When she had to choose the name of a family she'd worked for—you know the sort of questions children ask, and she couldn't very well say Mantriot—I think she put tothe names of two people involved in an old Calleshire scandal."

  "Hocklington and Garwell?"

  "That's right. I gather it was a pretty well-known affair in the county in the old days."