Free Henrietta Who? by Catherine Aird Page B

could be important.”
    â€œTo me, Inspector.” Her voice had an ironic ring. “The key of the door perhaps. But not to anyone else.”
    â€œI shouldn’t be too sure about that, miss. Not just yet.”
    â€œAnd it rather looks,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him, “as if I’m not the only one to have a key to the front door of Boundary Cottage, doesn’t it?”
    â€œTrue.” He paused. “Yesterday you told me as much as you could remember being told about your father.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWhat all do you know about your … about Grace Jenkins?”
    It was pitifully little in terms of verifiable fact—if she was telling him the truth. Her mother had been a children’s nurse for a family called Hocklington-Garwell, somewhere over the other side of the county. Henrietta didn’t know the exact address but she had been brought up on stories of the Hocklington-Garwell children. There had been two of them—both boys. Master Hugo and Master Michael. Then Grace Wright had met Cyril Jenkins, and married him.
    â€œAfter that,” concluded Henrietta tightly, “I understood they had had me.”
    â€œI see,” said Sloan.
    â€œAnd that very soon afterwards my father had been killed.”
    â€œI see,” said Sloan again.
    â€œBut they didn’t have me,” observed Henrietta astringently.
    â€œShe didn’t,” agreed Sloan. “The chances of your being your father’s child—so to speak—are high.”
    â€œThank you,” she said gravely. “I’ll remember that.”
    â€œAnd the chances of her having come from East Calleshire are higher still.” He told her about Messrs. Waind, Arbican & Waind in Calleford. “So, miss, I think we can take it that the mystery originates that way somewhere.”
    He did not mention murder.
    â€œWhat I want to know,” said the superintendent testily, “is not who got which going but what you’re doing about it, Sloan.” The inspector was speaking from the call box in Larking village.
    â€œYes, sir. In the first instance we are looking for a car which hit a woman.”
    â€œAn unknown woman,” pointed out Leeyes.
    â€œA woman who may or may not be unknown,” agreed Sloan more moderately, “which hit her on a bad bend outside Larking village on Tuesday evening sometime between say six and nine o’clock.”
    â€œAnd have you got anywhere?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œThere’s an inquest coming along on Saturday morning,” said Leeyes very gently. “It’s the law, Sloan, and the first thing the coroner does is to take evidence of identification.”
    â€œYes, sir.” He hesitated. “We’ve no reason to suppose she isn’t Grace Jenkins.”
    Superintendent Leeyes gave an intimidating grunt.
    â€œBut,” went on Sloan hastily, “I’m going to make some enquiries about her pension now, and see the two people who came back on the bus with her on Tuesday night. And I’ve got a man checking up now on the marriage register in Somerset House.”
    â€œWhat’s that going to prove?”
    â€œWhether or not this Grace Edith Wright did, in fact, marry one Cyril Edgar Jenkins. That should give us a lead.”
    â€œOne way or the other,” said Leeyes pointedly.
    â€œExactly, sir. We’ve got the experts working on those tire casts too, and we’re putting out a general call for witnesses. We’re also trying to establish how she spent Tuesday—that may have some bearing on the case.”
    Leeyes grunted again.
    â€œIt’s a bit difficult,” said Sloan, “because the girl has no idea …”
    â€œIt strikes me that the girl has no idea about too many things.”
    â€œShe was away at college at the time.”
    â€œCheck up on that, too, Sloan.”
    â€œYes, sir. This man Hibbs