Henrietta Who? (15 page)

“She didn't,” said Sloan cautiously, “strike me as the sort of woman to overlook even one wild oat.”

“There you are then.” He veered away from the subject of the Hibbs's as quickly as he had brought it up. “What next?”

“The inquest is in an hour.” Sloan looked at his watch. “And then a few inquiries about young Master Thorpe of Shire Oak Farm.”

“Oh?” Leeyes's head came up like a hound just offered a new scent.

“He,” said Sloan meaningfully, “doesn't care who she is. He just wants to marry her as soon as possible. That may only be love's young dream …”

“Ahah,” the superintendent leered at Sloan. “From what you've said she's a mettlesome girl.”

“On the other hand,” said Sloan repressively, “it may not.”

The Rector of Larking and Mrs. Meyton and Bill Thorpe all went into Berebury with Henrietta for the inquest. It was to be held in the town hall and they met Felix Arbican, the solicitor, about half an hour beforehand in one of the numerous rooms leading off the main hall.

“I can't predict the outcome,” was the first thing he said to them after shaking hands gravely. “You may get a verdict of death by misadventure. You may get an adjournment.”

“Oh, dear,” said Henrietta.

“The police may want more time to find the driver of the car.”

“And Cyril Jenkins.”

Arbican started. “Who?”

Henrietta told him about the previous afternoon.

“I'm very glad to hear you've seen him,” responded the solicitor. “It would seem at this juncture that a little light on the proceedings would be a great help.”

“No light was shed,” said Henrietta astringently.

“None?”

“We couldn't find him in the crowd,” said Bill Thorpe.

Arbican turned to Thorpe and asked shrewdly, “Were you able to identify him?”

Bill Thorpe shook his head. “I only saw his back.”

“I see. So Miss Jenkins is the only person who is certain who it was and the police haven't yet found him?”

“Yes,” intervened Henrietta tersely.

“Extraordinary business altogether.”

“More extraordinary than that,” said Mr. Meyton, and told him about the medals.

Arbican's limpid gaze fell upon the rector. “Most peculiar. Let us hope that the police are able to find this man and that when they do some—er—satisfactory explanation is forthcoming.” He coughed. “In the meantime I think we had better come back to the more immediate matter of the inquest.”

Henrietta lifted her face expectantly. The animation which had been there since she saw Cyril Jenkins had gone.

“Your part, Miss Jenkins, is quite simple. You have only to establish identity.”

“Quite simple!” she echoed bitterly. “It's anything but simple.”

“To establish identity as you knew it,” amplified Arbican. “If the police have evidence that Grace Jenkins was not—er—Grace Jenkins they will bring it. As far as you are concerned that has always been the name by which you knew her.”

“Yes.”

“Strong presumptive evidence. In any case—”

“Yes?”

“The coroner holds an inquest on a body, not—so to speak—on a person. An unknown body sometimes.”

“I see.”

“His duty will be to establish the cause of death. If it was from other than natural causes, and it—um—appears to have been, then he has a parallel duty to inquire into the nature of the cause.”

“I see.” Henrietta wasn't really listening any more. For one thing, she found it difficult to concentrate now. Her mind wandered off so easily that she couldn't keep all her attention on what someone was saying. For another she didn't really want to hear a legal lecture from a prosperous looking man in a black suit. He had never had cause to wonder who he was. He was too confident for that.

“The cause of death,” he was saying didactically, “would appear to be obvious. The main point must be the identity of the driver. If the police found him we could try suing for damages.”

“Damages?”

“Substantial damages,” said Arbican.

“If no one else saw the car even, let alone the driver, I don't see how they'll ever find him.”

Bill Thorpe was getting restive too. “And it was nearly a week ago already.”

“They'll go on trying,” said the solicitor. “They're very persistent.”

“You say,” put in Mrs. Meyton anxiously, “that all Henrietta will have to do will be to give evidence of identification?”

“That's all, Mrs. Meyton. It won't take very long. The coroner may want to know if Mrs. Jenkins's sight and hearing were normal. If it seems relevant her doctor could be called in as an expert witness on the point. Otherwise the coroner will just note what she says.”

“‘“Write that down,” the King said',” burbled Henrietta hysterically, “‘“and reduce the answer to shillings and pence.”'”

Arbican looked bewildered.

“
Alice in Wonderland
,” said the rector as if that explained everything.

THIRTEEN

There was a sudden stir and a rustle of feet. Seven men filed into the room where the inquest was being held and sat together at one side of the dais. Henrietta looked at Arbican.

“The jury, Miss Jenkins.”

She hadn't known there would be a jury.

“There is always a jury when death is caused by a vehicle on a public highway.”

The rector counted them. “I thought juries were like apostles.”

Arbican frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Twelve in number.”

“Not for a coroner's inquest.”

“So We Are Seven?”

Arbican frowned again. “We are seven?”

“It's another quotation,” said Mr. Meyton kindly.

Henrietta was the first person to be called. A man handed her a Bible and told her what to say.

“I hereby swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give touching the death of Grace Edith Jenkins shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

The coroner picked up his pen. “Your name?”

She swallowed visibly. “Henrietta Eleanor Leslie Jenkins.”

“You have seen the body declared to be that of a woman found on the lower road to Belling St. Peter in the village of Larking on Wednesday morning last?”

“Yes.”

“A little louder please, Miss Jenkins.”

“Yes.”

“And you identify it as that of the said Grace Edith Jenkins?”

“I do.”

“What was your relationship to the deceased?”

She stared at a spot on the wall above and behind the coroner's head and said faintly, “Adopted daughter.”

The coroner twitched his papers. “I must ask you to speak up. I am aware that this must perforce be a painful occasion to you but an inquest is a public enquiry, and the public have a right, if not a duty, to hear what is said.”

“Adopted daughter.” She said it more firmly this time, as if she herself were more sure.

“Thank you.” His courtesy was automatic, without sarcasm. “When did you last see deceased alive?”

“Early in January, before I went back to college.” She hesitated. “I was due home at the end of this month but, of course …” her voice trailed away.

“Quite so.” The coroner made a further note on his papers. “That will be all for the time being, Miss Jenkins. I must ask you to remain in the building as you may be recalled later.”

Harry Ford, postman, came next, and deposed how he had come across the body early on Wednesday morning.

Graphically.

Mrs. Callows described how Mrs. Jenkins had got off the last bus with her and Mrs. Perkins.

Melodramatically.

Then P.C. Hepple related that which he had found.

Technically.

The coroner wrote down the width of the carriageway and said, “And the length of the skid mark?”

Hepple cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid there wasn't one.”

The coroner was rather like a rook. An elderly but still spry rook. And very alert. He didn't miss the fact that there was no evidence of the car's brakes being urgently applied. Nor did he comment on it. Henrietta moved a little forward on her chair as if she hadn't quite heard the constable properly but otherwise his statement made no visible impact.

Then a tall thin man was taking the oath with practised ease. He identified himself—though the coroner must have known him well—as Hector Smithson Dabbe, Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery, Consultant Pathologist to the Berebury Group Hospital Management Committee. Then he gave his evidence.

Impersonally.

Henrietta lowered her head as if in defense but she couldn't escape the pathologist's voice while he explained that, in his opinion, the injuries sustained by the body which he was given to understand was that of one Grace Edith Jenkins …

Henrietta noticed the word “which.” Grace Jenkins was—had been—a person. She wasn't any longer. This man had said “which” not “who.”

“… were consistent,” said Dr. Dabbe, “with her having been run over by a heavy vehicle twice.”

Henrietta felt sick.

The coroner thanked him and then shuffled his papers into order and looked at the jury. “I am required by law to adjourn an inquest for fourteen days if I am requested to do so by the Chief Constable on the grounds that a person may be charged with murder, manslaughter or with causing death by reckless or dangerous driving.”

He paused. Someone in the room sneezed into the stillness.

“I have received such a request from the Chief Constable of Calleshire and this inquest is accordingly adjourned for two weeks. No doubt the press will take cognizance of the fact that the police are appealing for witnesses.”

The press—in the person of a ginger-haired cub reporter from
The Berebury News
—obediently scribbled a note and suddenly it was all over.

Inspector Sloan came up to Henrietta. “I won't keep you, miss. There's just one thing I must say to you.”

“Yes?”

“I know you weren't thinking of it but I must formally ask you not to go abroad before the inquest is resumed.”

She smiled wanly. “I promise.”

He hesitated. “May I hazard a guess, miss, that you've never been abroad at all?”

“Never, Inspector. How did you know?”

He didn't answer directly. “Did you ever want to?”

“Yes, I did. Especially lately. Since I've been at university, I mean. Some friends went on a reading party to France last summer. They asked me to go with them and I should liked to have gone.”

“But Grace Jenkins didn't want you to.” put in Sloan.

“That's right. How did you know?”

“Did she say why?”

“I thought it was because of the money.”

“It may have been, miss, but there could have been another reason too.”

“Could there?” It was impossible to tell if she was interested or not.

“To go abroad you need a passport.”

“Yes.”

“To get a passport you need a birth certificate.”

She was quicker to follow him than he had expected, swooping down on the point. “That means I'm not Jenkins, doesn't it?”

“I think so.”

“Otherwise,” went on Henrietta slowly, “she could have arranged it all without my actually seeing the birth certificate.”

“Probably.”

“But not if my surname wasn't Jenkins.”

“No.”

They stood a moment in silence then Henrietta said, “I shall have to sign my name somewhere sometime.”

“I should stick to Jenkins for the time being,” advised Sloan.

“A living lie?”

“Call it a working compromise.”

“Or shall I just make my mark?”

“Your mark, miss?”

“I think an ‘X' would be most appropriate.” She gave him a wintry smile. “After all, it does stand for the unknown quantity as well as the illiterate.”

He opened his mouth to answer but she forestalled him.

“There's one thing, anyway.”

“Yes, miss?”

“I'm practically certain of a place in any college team you care to mention.”

“College team?” echoed Sloan, momentarily bewildered.

“There's always an A.N. Other there, you know,” she said swiftly. And was gone.

“That's that,” observed Crosby without enthusiasm as he and Inspector Sloan got back to the police station afterwards. “We've only got two weeks and we still don't know what sort of a car or where to look for the driver.”

“One good thing though,” said Sloan, determinedly cheerful. “From what the coroner said everyone will think we're looking for a dangerous driver.”

Crosby sniffed. “Needle in a haystack, more like. P. C. Hepple said to tell you there's nothing new at his end. He can't find anyone who saw or heard a car on Tuesday evening.”

“No.” Sloan was not altogether surprised. “No, I reckon whoever killed her sat and waited in the car park of the pub and then just timed her walk from the bus stop to the bad corner.”

“That's a bit chancy,” objected Crosby. “She might not have been on that bus.”

“I think,” gently, “that he knew she was on it. The only real risk was that someone else from down the lane might have been on it too. But now I've seen how few houses there are there, I don't think that was anything to worry about.” He pushed open his office door, and crossed over to his desk. There was a message lying there for him. “Hullo, the Army have answered. Read this, Crosby.”

“Jenkins, C.E., Sergeant, the East Calleshires,” read Crosby aloud. “Enlisted September, 1939, demobilized July, 1946. Address on enlistment …”

“Go on.”

“Holly Tree Farm,” said Crosby slowly, “Rooden Parva, near Calleford.”

“The plot thickens,” said Sloan rubbing his hands.