"Where?"
"That man." She started to struggle to her feet, her face quite white.
"What about him?"
She was pointing agitatedly towards the back of a man walking down the street. "It… it's the man in the photograph… Oh, quickly. I'm sure it is."
"You mean your father?" He pushed his chair back.
"Cyril Jenkins," she said urgently. "I swear it is. It was exactly like the man in the photograph but older." She started to push her way out of the tea shop. "Come on, Bill, quickly. We must catch him whatever happens."
CHAPTER TEN
It was well after four o'clock before Inspector Sloan and Constable Crosby met again. Crosby went into Sloan's room at the Berebury Police Station waving a list.
"Nearly as long as my arm, sir, this."
"It can't be as long as your face, Crosby. What is it?"
"The Holly Tree Farms in Calleshire."
"Routine is the foundation of all police work, Constable. You should know that."
"Yes, sir. Records have come through on the phone, too, sir. They've got nothing against any Cyril Edgar Jenkins or Grace Edith Wright."
"Or Jenkins."
"Or Jenkins."
"That doesn't get us very far then."
"No, sir." Crosby still sounded gloomy. "And I can't get anywhere either with this family that the girl says her mother used to work for."
"Hocklington-Garwell?" Inspector Sloan frowned. "I was afraid of that They may not have lived in Calleshire, of course…"
"No, sir. I'd thought of that" Crosby looked as if he might have to take on the world.
"And there is always the possibility that the girl may be having us on."
"You mean they might not exist?" If Crosby's expression was anything to go by, this was not quite cricket.
"I do."
Crosby looked gloomier still. "It's a funny name to be havus on with, sir, if you know what I mean."
"That, Constable, is the most sensible remark you've made for a long time."
"Thank you, sir."
"Therefore I am inclined to think that the Hocklington-Garwells do exist."
"Not in Calieshire, sir," said Crosby firmly. "Several Gar-wells but no Hocklingtons and not a sniff of a Hocklington-Garwell."
"Give me the Garwells's addresses then," said Sloan. "We've got to start somewhere and we're getting nowhere fast at the moment."
"It would have been a lot simpler," said Crosby plaintively, "if she had had the baby and we were looking for the father."
Superintendent Leeyes said much the same thing in different words a few minutes later in his office in the same corridor.
"I've dealt with a few paternity orders in my time, Sloan, but I'm damned if I've met a maternity one yet."
"No, sir." He coughed. "This case has several unusual features."
"You can say that again," said his superior encouragingly. "Found out whose the medals were?"
"Not yet, sir. The old boy at the Rectory's quite right. Knows his stuff. They're the wrong ones for the photograph quite apart from the fact that the D.S.O. and M.C. are never awarded to sergeants."
"Officers, medals, for the use of."
"Yes, sir."
"This man Hibbs at The Hall. He an officer type?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hrrrmph."
"I've had a look at his car," said Sloan hastily. "It looks all right to me. It's not all that new and I don't know how much damage to expect to the car from her injuries. I'll have a word with Traffic about that. And Dr. Dabbe."
"And check," growled Leeyes, "that he hasn't had them repaired. Plenty of time for that since Tuesday."
"Yes, sir."
"What was he doing on Tuesday evening anyway?"
"Nothing," said Sloan cautiously.
"Nothing?"
"He was alone at home."
"Was he indeed? Interesting."
"You see, sir, it was the first Tuesday in the month."
"I am aware of that, Sloan, but the significance eludes me…"
"That's Institoot—I mean, Institute night."
"You don't say."
"Mrs. Hibbs," said Sloan hurriedly, "is Branch President So she was out."
"No servants?"
"A daily. A real one."
"A real one?"
"Comes every day. Daily."
"There's no need to spell it out for me, man."
"No, sir."
"What you are trying to tell me—and taking the devil of a long time about it, if I may say so—is that James Heber Hibbs was alone all evening at The Hall, he has a car whose tyre marks correspond with those found at the scene of the accident and you aren't yet sure if he killed Grace What-ever-her-name is."
"Yes, sir."
"Anything else?"
"There may well be something odd about this chap Jenkins, sir, apart from the medals."
"You can say that again," responded Leeyes generously.
"I've been making a few enquiries about his pension."
"Oh?"
"And I can't trace it. It wasn't paid out via the local village Post Office which is not all that surprising, but it didn't go into her bank account either. I've just seen the manager. No pension voucher record there. Her account was kept going with a small regular monthly cash payment over the counter."
"Who by?" sharply.
"Grace Jenkins herself to all intent and purposes," sighed Sloan. "According to the paying-in slips, she always handed it over herself."
"Maintenance,"concluded Leeyes.
"Yes, sir, with any clue to its source carefully concealed."
"And anything not concealed equally carefully removed from the bureau on Tuesday."
"Just so," agreed Sloan.
"From what you've said so far," said the Superintendent, "she doesn't strike one as having been a kept woman."
"Only literally, sir, if you follow me. I think it was the child who was kept. I've got in touch with the pension auand they're doing a bit of checking up now but it'll take time. It's not as if it were an uncommon name even."
"No." The Superintendent thought for a moment and then said, "The most interesting question from our point of view is: Who was keeping both of them."
"Yes, sir."
"And why." The Superintendent sat silent, thinking. Sloan knew better than to interrupt his thoughts. "If," said Leeyes at last, "we knew why they were being kept I daresay we'd know who killed the woman."
"Whatever the story," said Sloan, "I think we can be fairly sure the situation changed when the girl reached twenty-one."
"And someone didn't like it the new way."
"No."
"That means there's money somewhere, Sloan, or I'm a Dutchman."
"Perhaps." Sloan tapped his notebook. "It could be a quesof inheritance easily…"
"Or concealment of birth."
"I'd thought of that, sir. I've been on to the General Register Office with the only reasonable thing I could think of to ask them."
"What was that?"
"A list of the female children born about the same time as Henrietta Jenkins says she was and who have the same Chrisnames."
"That's a tall order," said the Superintendent.
"They said it would take time," agreed Sloan dubiously. "I don't suppose a Friday afternoon's the best moment to ask them either."
"No." Leeyes looked at his watch. "Late on Friday afternoon at that."
"She was called Henrietta Eleanor Leslie though."
"That's better than Mary, I suppose."
"But you don't have to register a birth for six weeks and…"
"And," said the Superintendent grimly, "we've only got her word for it that those are her names and that that is when she was born."
"Just so," said Sloan.
That was the moment when the telephone began to ring.
Leeyes picked it up, listened for a moment and then handed it over to Sloan. "A call for Inspector Sloan from Calleford. Urgent and personal."