"Sorry to hear you say that." Bill Thorpe grinned and ran a hand over his face. "There's room for improvement here. Or do you like me as I am?"
She made a gesture with her hand. "I can't like you, Bill—I can't like anyone at the moment. Not until I know who I am. Oh, I can't put it into words but there just isn't any of me left over for things like that. Besides, you must know who it is you're marrying."
"You," said Bill Thorpe promptly. "And very nice, too."
"Bill, do be serious."
"I am," he said. "Deadly. I want to marry you. You as you are now."
She shook her head. "I'm too confused. I don't know what I want."
"I do," he said simply. "You."
She turned away without speaking.
Bill Thorpe was not disconcerted. Instead he looked at his watch and then switched on the radio. It hummed and hawed for a bit and then presently the weather forecast came on. He listened intently until it was finished and was just leaning across to switch the radio off when the announcer said:
The six o'clock news will follow in a minute and a quarter. Before the news there is a police message. There was an accident on the lower road to Belling St. Peter in the village of Larking, Calleshire, on Tuesday evening when a woman was knocked down and fatally injured. Will the driver of the vehicle and anyone who witnessed the accident or who may be able to give any information please telephone the Chief Constable of Calleshire, telephone Calleford 2313 or any police station.
Henrietta gave a sudden laugh. It was high-pitched and todevoid of humour.
"Any information!" she cried. "That's good, isn't it? If they only knew how much information we needed…"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"External examination," Inspector Sloan began to read. "The body was of a well-nourished female…"
Dr. Dabbe's typewritten report of his post-mortem examination, addressed to H. M. Coroner for Callesbire and marked Copy to Chief Constable, lay on Inspector Sloan's desk. He got as far as "aged about fifty-five" when Detective Constable Crosby came in.
"Everyone else seemed to be having tea, sir, so I brought some down. And the last of the cake."
"Good," said Sloan. "I was beginning to feel the opposite of well nourished myself. How have you got on?"
Crosby carefully carried a cup of tea across the room and sat down. Then he opened his notebook. "The hair, sir…"
"Ah, yes." Sloan fingered Dr. Dabbe's report. "I've got the name of that dye down here. All twenty-five syllables of it."
"I found the ladies' hairdressing saloon, sir…"
"They drop the second 'c,' Constable, nowadays.""Really, sir? Well, she had it done at a place called Marlene's in the High Street. I spoke to a young person there by the name of Sandra who—er—did her."
"When?"
"Every second Friday at ten o'clock. Without fail."
"Yes." Sloan set his cup down. "It would have to be without fail. Otherwise it would show."
"What would, sir?"
"Her fair hair. According to Dr. Dabbe she was fair-haired."
"And the girl was dark so she dyed hers dark, too," concluded Crosby, "so that the girl would think…"
"It's as good a disguise as any, too," said Sloan. "Especially if you don't expect it" He paused. "Cyril Jenkins was fair. You could see that much on the photograph."
"Yes, sir."
"That suggest anything to you?"
"No, sir."
Sloan sighed. "Constable, I agree the possibilities in this case are infinite. The murderer could be anyone, and as far as I am concerned the victim could be anyone and I am not altogether sure of the nature of the crime but there are just one or two clues worth considering."
"Yes, sir," said Crosby stolidly.
"The fact that Cyril Jenkins had…"
"Should it be 'has,' sir?"
Sloan glared. "What's that? Oh, yes, that's a point." He grunted and went on. "Has—may have—fair hair and Grace Jenkins had fair hair which she took pains to dye the same colour as Henrietta's is interesting…"
"Yes, sir."
"It's worse than drawing teeth, Crosby. Don't you have any ideas at all?"
"Yes, sir. But not about this," he added hastily, not liking the look on Sloan's face.
"Has it occurred to you that there is one possibility that would account for it? That Cyril and Grace Jenkins were brother and sister…"
"No, sir," replied Crosby truthfully. He thought for a minute and then said very, very cautiously, "Where would the baby come in then?"
"I don't know." Sloan turned back to the report. "How did you get on otherwise?"
"No joy about where she'd been all day except that it wasn't in Berebury."
"What?"
"I showed her photograph to the Inspector at the bus station. He thinks he saw her at the incoming unloading point about half five. Doesn't know what bus she got off…"
"Wait a minute," said Sloan suspiciously. "How does he remember? That was Tuesday. Today's Friday."
"I wondered about that, too, sir, but it seems as if an old lady tripped and fell and this Grace Jenkins helped her up and dusted her down. That sort of thing. And then handed her over to the bus people."
Sloan nodded. "Go on."
"It appears she stayed in the bus station until the Larking bus left at seven five. In the cafeteria most of the time. The waitress remembered her. Says she served her with…"
"Baked beans," interposed Sloan neatly.
Crosby looked startled. "That's right. At about…"
"Six o'clock," supplied Sloan.
"How do you know, sir?"
"Not me." Laconically. "The pathologist. He said so. She ate them about two hours before death. That ties up with her being killed as she walked home from the last bus."
"Wonderful, sir, isn't it, what they can do when they cut you up?"
"Yes," said Sloan shortly.
Crosby turned back to his notebook. "Wherever she'd been she didn't get to the bus station until after the five fifteen to Larking had left, otherwise she'd presumably have caught that."
"Fair enough," agreed Sloan. "What came in after five fifand before she went into the cafeteria?"
"A great many buses," said Crosby with feeling. "It's about their busiest time of the day. I've got a list but I wouldn't know where to begin if it's a case of talking to conductors."
"Return tickets?" murmured Sloan. "They might help."
Crosby looked doubtful. Sloan went back to the post-morexamination report.
"Was Happy Harry any help, sir?" ventured Crosby a little later.
"Inspector Harpe," said Sloan distantly, "has instigated the usual routine enquiries."
"I see, sir. Thank you, sir."
Suddenly Sloan tapped Dr. Dabbe's report. "Get me the hospital, will you, Crosby? There's one thing I can ask the pathologist…"
He was put through to Dr. Dabbe's office without delay.
"About this Grace Jenkins, Doctor…"
"Yes?"
"I notice you've made a note of her blood group."
"Routine, Inspector."
"I know that, Doctor. What I was wondering is if the blood group could help us in other ways."
"With the alleged daughter, you mean?" said Dabbe.
"Her alleged husband has turned up too," said Sloan; and he explained about the sighting of Cyril Jenkins.
"Blood groups aren't a way of proving maternity or paternity. Only of disproving it."
"I don't quite follow."
"If the child has a different one then that is a factor in sustaining evidence that it is not the child of those particular people."
"And if it is the same?"
"That narrows the field nicely."
"How nicely?" guardedly.
"Usually to a round ten million or so people who could be its parents."
"I see." Sloan thought for a moment. "We already know that Grace Jenkins is not the mother of Henrietta…"