Henrietta Who?

by Catherine Aird

  “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 Sl
oan, 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.

  “That’s what the girl told us, wasn’t it, sir? Holly Tree Farm.”

  “That’s right. She said she didn’t know the second bit.” He paused. “Get me the Calleford police.”

  Sloan spoke to someone on duty there, waited an appreciable time while the listener looked something up and finally thanked him and replaced the receiver.

  Crosby stood poised between the door and the desk. “Are we going there, sir?”

  “Not straight. We’re calling somewhere on the way. They’ve looked up the address. There’s no one called Jenkins there now. Walsh is the name of the occupier.” Sloan looked at his watch. “It’s nearly twelve. Do you suppose Hirst nips out for a quick one before lunch?”

  “Hirst?” said Crosby blankly.

  “The General’s man. We must know what’s so sinister about the magic words Hocklington-Garwell.”

  Which was how Detective-Inspector Sloan and Detective Constable Crosby came to be enjoying a pint of beer at The Bull in Cullingoak shortly after half past twelve. The bar was comfortably full.

  “He usually comes in for a few minutes,” agreed the landlord on enquiry. “He’s got the old gentleman, see. Got to give him his lunch at quarter past. Very particular about time, is the General. Same in the evening. He can’t come out till he’s got him settled for the night.” He swept the two plainclothesmen with an appraising glance. “You friends of his?”

  “Sort of,” agreed Sloan noncommittally.

  The landlord leaned two massive elbows on the bar. “If it’s money you’re after you can collect it somewhere else. I’m not having anyone dunned in my house.”

  “No,” said Sloan distantly. “We’re not after money.”

  “That’s all right then,” said the landlord.

  Sloan allowed a suitable pause before asking, “Horses or dogs?”

  The landlord swept up a couple of empty glasses from the bar with arms too brawny for such light work. “Horses. Nothing much—just the odd flutter—like they all do.”

  “Did he come in last night?”

  “Hirst?” The landlord frowned. “Now you come to mention it, I don’t think he did. Perhaps his old gentleman wanted him. He’s not young, isn’t the General.”

  “Quite,” agreed Sloan. “What’ll you have?”

  It was nearly ten to one before Hirst appeared. He came in quietly, a newspaper—open at the sporting page—tucked under his arm. He looked a little younger in the pub than he had done in the General’s house but not much. His shoes were polished to perfection and his hair neatly plastered down but he, like his master, was showing signs of advancing age. Sloan let him get his pint and sit down before he looked in his direction.

  “I fear, Hirst, that I upset the General last night,” he said.

  Hirst looked up, recognized him and put down his glass with a hand that was not quite steady. “Yes, sir. That you did.”

  “It was quite accidental.”

  “Proper upset, he was. I had quite a time with him last night after you’d gone, I can tell you.”

  “You did?” enquired Sloan, even more interested.

  “Carrying on alarming he was till I got him to bed.”

  “Hirst, what was it we said that did it?”

  “The General didn’t say.” He lifted his glass. “But he was upset all right.”

  “I was asking him something about the past,” said Sloan carefully, watching Hirst’s face. “Something I wanted to know about a woman who—I think—was called Grace Jenkins.”

  There was no reaction from Hirst.

  “Do you know the name?” persisted Sloan.

  “Can’t say that I do.” Reassured, he took another pull at his beer. “It’s a common enough one.”

  “That’s part of the trouble.”

  “I see.”

  “Garwell’s not a common name,” said Sloan conversationally.

  “No,” agreed Hirst. “There’s not many of them about.”

  “And Hocklington-Garwell isn’t common at all.”

  Hirst set his glass down with a clatter. “You mentioned Hocklington-Garwell to the General?”

  “I did.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, sir,” said Hirst reproachfully.

  “This woman Jenkins told her daughter that she used to be nursemaid to the family.”

  “No wonder the General was so upset. In fact, what with her ladyship being dead, I should say it would have upset the General more than anything else would have done.”

  “It did,” agreed Sloan briefly, “but why?”

  Hirst sucked his teeth. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Sloan, sir, I should have said it was all over and done with long before your time.”

  “What,” cried Sloan in exasperation, “was all over and done with before my time?”

  “That explains why the General was so upset about your being a detective, sir, if you’ll forgive my mentioning it.”

  Sloan, who had been a detective for at least ten years without ever before feeling the fact to be unmentionable, looked at the faded gentleman’s gentleman and said he would forgive him.

  “I kept on telling him,” said Hirst, “that it was all over and done with.” He took another sip of beer. “But it wasn’t any good. I had to get the doctor to him this morning, you know.”

  “Hirst,” said Sloan dangerously, “I need to know exactly what it was that was over and done with before my time and I need to know now.”

  “The Hocklington-Garwell business. Before the last war, it was. And she is dead now, God rest her soul, so why drag it up again?”

  “Who is dead?” Sloan was hanging on to his temper with an effort. A great effort.

  “Her ladyship, like I told you. And Major Hocklington, too, for all I know.”

  “Hirst, I think I am beginning to see daylight. Hocklington and Garwell are two different people, aren’t they?”

  “That’s right, sir. Like I said. There’s the General who you saw yesterday and then there was Major Hocklington—only it’s all a long time ago now, sir, so can’t you let the whole business alone?”

  “Not as easily as you might think, Hirst.”

  “For the sake of the General, sir …”

  “Am I to understand, Hirst, that Lady Garwell and this Major Hocklington had an affair?”

  Hir
st plunged his face into the pint glass as far as it would go and was understood to say that that was about the long and the short of it.

  Detective-Inspector Sloan let out a great shout of laughter.

  “Please, sir,” begged Hirst. “Not here in a public bar. The General wouldn’t like it.”

  “No,” agreed Sloan. “I can see now why he didn’t like my asking him if he was called Hocklington-Garwell. In the circumstances, I’m not sure that I would have cared for it myself. Would a note of apology help?”

  “It might, sir.” Hirst sounded grateful. “But why did you do it, sir? It’s all such a long time ago now. We never had any children in the family, sir, so we never had any nursemaid at all. And there’s no call for a nursemaid without babies to look after, is there?”

  “I asked him, Hirst, because a woman, who is also dead now, had a sense of humor.”

  “Really, sir?” Hirst was polite but sounded unconvinced.

  “Yes, Hirst, really. I never met her but I am coming to know her quite well. She misled me at first but I think I am beginning to understand her now.”

  “Indeed, sir?”

  “A very interesting woman. Give me your glass, will you?”

  “Thank you, sir. I don’t mind if I do.”

  The Rector of Larking and Mrs. Meyton joined Henrietta as soon as the inquest was over. She was standing talking to Bill Thorpe and Arbican.

  “There is very little more you can do at this stage, Miss Jenkins,” the solicitor was saying. “You must, of course, be available for the adjourned inquest.”

  “I shan’t run away.” Henrietta sounded as if she had had enough of life for one morning.

  “Of course not,” pacifically. “And then there will be the question of intestacy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Mr. Meyton coughed. “I think that is the greatest virtue of education …”

  Arbican turned politely to the rector, who said:

  “You learn the importance of admitting you don’t know.”

  “Quite so.” Arbican turned back to Henrietta. “Grace Jenkins appears to have died without making a will. That is to say”—legal-fashion, he qualified the statement immediately—“we cannot find one. It hasn’t been deposited with the bank, nor presumably with any Berebury solicitor.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Bill Thorpe.