Part 4 (1/2)
”No,” Henrietta shook her head. ”To Mr. Hibbs at The Hall. It's the last of the cottages on his estate. That's why it's called Boundary Cottage.”
”Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to break in here?”
She shook her head again. ”I don't think she kept anything valuable there. That's why I can't understand anyone wanting to go through it. There wasn't anything to steal...”
”It doesn't look,” he said cautiously, ”as if, in fact, anything has been stolen.”
She reached over and pointed out a little drawer. ”If you would just look inside that, Inspector... thank you. Ah, they're all right. My father's medals.”
It was the opening Sloan was looking for.
”I'll need a note of his full name, miss, for the inquest.”
”Sergeant Cyril Edgar Jenkins.”
”And your mother's maiden name?”
”Wright,” said Henrietta unhesitatingly.
”Thank you. That's his photograph, I take it?”
”It is.” Henrietta handed it down from the mantelpiece and gave it to Sloan. ”He was in the East Calles.h.i.+res.”
”That's unusual, isn't it, miss? I mean, they're mostly West Calles.h.i.+res in these parts.”
”He came from East Calles.h.i.+re,” she said.
”I see.” Sloan studied the picture of a fair-haired man in soldier's uniform and glanced back at Henrietta's darker colouring.
”I was more like my mother to look at,” she said, correctly interpreting his glance. ”The same colour hair...”
But Mrs. Jenkins was not her mother. Dr. Dabbe had said so.
”Really, miss?” said Sloan aloud. ”Now, you wouldn't have a photograph of her by any chance?”
”In my bedroom. I'll fetch it.”
”A pretty kettle of fish,” observed Sloan morbidly to Crosby the minute she was out of-earshot.
”Someone's been through that bureau with a toothcomb, sir,” said Crosby. ”Glove prints everywhere.”
”Wonder what they wanted?”
”Search me.” Crosby ran his fingers in behind pigeonholes, pressing here and pulling there. ”Nothing to suggest a secret drawer.”
”That's something to be thankful for anyway... Ah, there you are, miss, thank you.”
Henrietta handed him a snapshot in a leather frame-quite a different matter from the studio portrait that had stood on the mantelpiece.
”It's not a very good one but it's the only one I've got.”
Sloan held the snap in front of him. It was of an ordinary middle-aged woman, taken standing outside the back door of the cottage. She had on a simple cotton frock and had obviously been prevailed upon to come out of the kitchen to be photographed. She was smiling in a protesting sort of way at the camera.
”I was lucky to have one of her to show you,” said Henrietta. The sight of the picture had brought a quaver into her voice which she strove to conceal from the two policemen. ”She didn't like having her photograph taken.”
”Didn't she indeed?”
”But I had a college friend to stay for a few days the sumbefore last and she had a camera with her.”
”Do you mean to say, miss, that this is the only photograph of your mother extant?”
She frowned. ”I think so. Angela-that was her name- sent it to us when she got home.”
Inspector Sloan stood the two photographs side by side, the formal silver-framed studio study and the quick amateur snapshot.
”On my left, a sergeant in the East Calles.h.i.+re Regiment called Cyril Edgar Jenkins...”
”My father,” said Henrietta.
”Aged about-what would you say?”
”He was thirty-one,” supplied Henrietta. ”Is it important?”
”And on my right a middle-aged woman called Grace Edith Jenkins...”
”My mother,” said Henrietta.
There was a short silence. Henrietta looked first at one policeman and then at the other.
Sloan avoided her clear gaze and said, ”Can you remember anything before Larking?”
”No, I can't.” She looked at him curiously but she answered his question. ”I've lived here ever since I can remember. In Boundary Cottage. With my mother.”
”And you don't remember your father at all?”
”No. He was killed soon after I was born.”
”What do you know about him?”
”Him?”
”Yes, miss. I'll explain in a minute.”
She hesitated. She had an image of her father in her mind, always had had and it was compounded of many things: the words of her mother, the photograph in the drawing room, the conception of any soldier, of all soldiers, killed in battle-but it wasn't something easily put into words.
”He wasn't afraid,” she said awkwardly.
”I realize that.” They didn't award medals for cowardice.
”But what do you know about him as a person? What was his occupation, for instance?”