"You mean he might have died a natural death?"
"People do, you know," said Thorpe mildly. "Even in war."
She was silent for a moment. Then, "Nothing seems to make sense any more."
"Everything has an explanation."
"This must sound very silly," she said, choosing her words carefully, "but let me say what I know for certain. There is a photograph…"
"The photograph is a fact," acknowledged Bill Thorpe.
"Which you have seen."
"Then the photograph is doubly a fact," he murmured ironically.
"There is a photograph of a man in the uniform of this regiment in the drawing room at home, and…"
"And that," said Bill Thorpe, "is all you know for certain."
She stared at him. "A man who I thought was my father."
"Ah, that's different."
"Who I thought was called Jenkins."
"Who may or may not be called Jenkins."
"And who I thought was killed in the war."
Bill Thorpe pointed to the memorial again. "Don't you see that he might be called Jenkins or he might have been killed in the war—but not both. The facts are mutually exclusive— unless he changed regiments halfway through or something out of the ordinary like that."
"Or died a natural death," persisted the girl.
"Or a very unnatural one," retorted Thorpe.
Henrietta waited.
"Well," said Thorpe defensively, "if he'd been shot as a spy or a deserter or something like that…"
"I hadn't thought of that."
"…We're hardly likely to find his name here, are we?"Bill waved a hand which took in all the hallowed thirteenth-century stone about them.
"That means," decided Henrietta logically, "that you don't think the man in the photograph is…" she hesitated, "or was my father."
"There is something wrong with the medals…"
"There's something wrong with everything so far," rejoined Henrietta. "We're collecting quite a bit of negative evidence."
"Just as useful as the other sort," declared Thorpe.
"I'm glad to hear it," she said rather tartly. "At the mo-ment the only thing we seem to be absolutely sure about is that there is a photograph of a sergeant in the East Cal-leshires which has been standing in Boundary Cottage ever since I can remember."
"The photograph is a fact," agreed Bill Thorpe with un-diminished amiability.
"And so is the name of Jenkins not being on this memorial."
"The evidence is before our very eyes, as the conjurors say."
"And the police say Grace Jenkins wasn't my mother."
Bill Thorpe looked down at her affectionately. "I reckon that makes you utterly orphan, don't you?"
She nodded.
"Quite a good thing, really," said Thorpe easily.
Henrietta's head came up with a jerk. "Why?"
"I don't have to ask anyone's permission to marry you."
She didn't respond. "I'm worse than just orphan. I don't even know who I am or who my parents were."
"Does it matter?"
"Matter?" Henrietta opened her eyes very wide.
"Well, I can see it's important with—say—Shire Oak Majestic. A bull's got to have a good pedigree to be worth anything."
"I fail to see any connection," said Henrietta icily.
"I'm not in love with your ancestors…"
The verger ambled up behind them. "Found what you were looking for, sir, on that memorial?"
"What's that? Oh, yes, thank you, verger," said Thorpe. "We found what we were looking for all right."
"That's good, sir. Good afternoon to you both."
Not unexpectedly, Mr. Felix Arbican or Messrs. Waind, Arbican & Waind, Solicitors, shared Henrietta's view rather than Bill Thorpe's on the importance of parentage. He heard her story out and then said, "Tricky."
"Yes," agreed Henrietta politely. She regarded that as a gross understatement.
"It raises several—er—legal points."
"Not only legal ones," said Henrietta.
"What's that? Oh, yes, quite so. The accident, for instance." Arbican made a gesture of sympathy. "I'm sorry. There are so many cars on the road these days." He brought his hands up to form a pyramid under his chin. "She was walking, you say…"
"She was."
"Then there should be less question of liability."
"There is no question of where the blame for the accident lies," said Henrietta slowly. "Only the driver still has to be found."
"He didn't stop?"
She shook her head.
"Nor report it to the police?"
"Not that I've heard."
"That's a great pity. If he had done, there would have been little more to do—little more from a professional point of view, that is, than to settle the question of responsibility with the insurance company, and agree damages."
Henrietta inclined her head in silence.
"And they usually settle out of court."
Henrietta moistened her lips. "There is to be an inquest… on Saturday morning."
"Naturally."
"Is Berebury too far for you to come?"
"You want me to represent you? If your—er—mother was a client of mine at one time—and it seems very much as if she must have been, then I will certainly do that."
"The Inspector told me she came to you once…"
"A long time ago."
"You don't recall her?"
Arbican shook his head.
Henrietta lapsed back in her chair in disappointment "I was so hoping you would. I need someone who knew her before very badly…"
"Quite so." The solicitor coughed. "I think in these—er— somewhat unusual circumstances my advice would be that you should first establish if a legal adoption has taken place. That would put a different complexion on the whole affair. You say there are no papers in the house whatsoever?"
"None. There was this burglary, you see…"
Arbican nodded. "It doesn't make matters easier."
"No."
"In the absence of any written evidence we could begin a search of the court adoption registers…" Henrietta looked up eagerly.
"But it will necessarily be a slow business. There are about forty County Courts, you see, and—er—several hundred Magistrates' Courts."
"I see."
"A will," said Arbican cautiously, "might clarify matters."
"In what way?"
"It would perhaps refer to the relationship between you and Grace Jenkins. Whilst not being her—er—child of the body you could still stand in a legal relationship to her."
"I don't see how."
"Have you thought that you could be a child of an earlier marriage of one of the two parties?"
She sighed. "I don't know what to think."
"If that were so then you must have been the child of one of them…"
"Not Grace Jenkins," reiterated Henrietta.
"If you aren't," went on the solicitor, "and the fact of this in each case can be proved, then you could be a child of a marriage, the surviving partner of which subsequently married one of the two persons whom you had hitherto considered your parents…"
She put her hands up to her head. "You're going too quickly."
"That would entail a third marriage on someone's part— but three marriages are not out of the place these days."
"It—it's very complicated, isn't it?"
"The law," said Arbican cheerfully, "is."
She hesitated. "Mr. Arbican, if I were illegitimate?"
The fingers came up under his chin again while the solicitor pontificated. "The law is much kinder than it used to be, and if your—the person whom you thought to be your mother has made a will in your favour it is of little consequence."
"It isn't that," said Henrietta quickly. "Besides we—she had no money. I know that."
Arbican looked as if he was about to say that that was of no consequence either.
"In any case," went on Henrietta, "I wouldn't want to claim anything I wasn't entitled to, and if she wasrft my mother, I don't see how I can be."
"A will," began Arbican, "would…"