Part 8 (1/2)
”s.h.i.+re Oak Farm,” said Hepple. ”The Thorpes's.”
”He was fairly big,” went on Constable Crosby. ”He had to have two goes at it to get round.”
”Yes.” That was what Sloan would have expected.
”The offside rear tyre print's nearly gone-had some big Stuff through that gate since then I should think...”
”Tractors,” supplied Hepple, ”and the milk lorry.”
”But there's a good one of a nearside rear.”
Sloan pointed to the gra.s.s verge. ”So we've got a nearside front tyre print there...”
”A good clear one,” contributed Hepple professionally.
”And a same sized nearside rear tyre print turning in the Thorpe entrance about-how far away would you say, Crosby?”
”About half a mile.”
Hepple didn't like the sound of that at all. ”So you think he came back this way, sir?”
”I do.”
”He must have seen her the second time,” persisted Hepple. ”The road isn't wide enough for him not to have seen her lying across it the second time even if he didn't the first.”
”I am beginning to think,” said Sloan grimly, ”that he saw her quite well both times.”
”You mean, sir...”
”I mean, Hepple, that I think we're dealing with a case of murder by motorcar.”
CHAPTER SIX.
The offices of Waind, Arbican & Waind were still in Ox Lane, Calleford.
Inspector Sloan telephoned from the kiosk outside Larking Post Office. There were, it seemed, now no Mr. Wainds left in the firm but Mr. Arbican was there, and would certainly see Inspector Sloan if he came to Calleford. Sloan looked at his watch and said they might make it by six o'clock. Cross country it must be all of forty miles from Larking to the county town.
They got there at ten minutes to the hour, running in on the road alongside the Minster as most of the population were making their way home. Crosby wove in and out of the crowded streets until he got to Ox Lane.
The solicitor's office was coming to the end of its working day too. In the outer office a very junior clerk was making up the post book and two other girls were covering over their typewriters. One of them received the two policemen and showed them into Mr. Arbican's room. The solicitor got to his feet as they entered. He was in his early fifties, going a little bald on top, and every inch the prosperous country solicitor. The room was pleasantly furnished, if a little on the formal side.
”Good afternoon, gentlemen. Do sit down.” He waved them to two chairs, and said to the girl who had shown them in, ”Don't go yet, Miss Chilvers, will you? I may need you.”
Miss Chilvers looked resigned and returned to the outer office.
Arbican looked expectantly across his desk. It had a red leather top and was in rather sharp contrast to the wooden one at which Sloan worked.
”It's like this, sir,” began Sloan. ”We're in the process of making enquiries about a client of yours...”
Arbican raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
”Or it might be more correct,” went on Sloan fairly, ”to say a former client.”
Arbican cleared his throat encouragingly but still did not speak.
”A Mrs. Jenkins,” said Sloan.
”Jenkins?” Arbican frowned. ”Jenkins. It's a common enough name but I don't think I know of a client called Jenkins.”
”Jenkins from Larking,” said Sloan.
”lurking? That's a fair way from here, Inspector. I shouldn't imagine we would have many clients in that direction. You're sure there's no mistake?”
”We are working, sir, on the supposition that she came from East Calles.h.i.+re before she went to Larking.”
”Ah, yes, I see. Quite possibly. Though I can't say offhand that the name alone means anything to me.” He raised his eyebrows again. ”Should it?”
”We have a letter you wrote...”
Arbican's voice was very dry. ”I write a great many letters.”
”To a Mr. James Heber Hibbs of The Hall, Larking.”
Arbican shook his head. ”I'm very sorry, Inspector. Neither name conveys anything.”
”That could be so, sir. It was all a long time ago.”
”You're being quite puzzling, Inspector...”
”Yes, sir,” said Sloan stolidly. He took out the letter James Hibbs had given him and handed it across the desk to the solicitor. ”Perhaps you'd care to take a look at it.”
Arbican took the letter and read it through quickly. ”I'm sorry I couldn't remember the name but I must have written hundreds of letters like this. In fact, Inspector, it's neither an uncommon name nor an uncommon letter.”
”I suppose not, sir.”
”It was-er-as you say quite a long time ago, too.”
”Over twenty years.”
”Then you can't really have expected me to remember.” He smiled for the first time. A quick professional smile. ”I was a comparative youngster then, cutting my legal teeth on routine where I couldn't do any harm.”
”But you did write it?”
He scanned the letter again. ”I must have done. These are certainly my initials at the top-F.F.A. Therefore”-he frowned-”therefore we must have done business with this Mrs. G. E. Jenkins.” He looked curiously across at Sloan. ”And so?”
”And so you might have some records, sir,” responded Sloan promptly.