Part 19 (1/2)
”Quite so.”
Sloan got up to go. ”About a woman who used to work as a children's nurse for a family called Hocklington-Garwell and we're trying to trace...”
Without any warning the whole atmosphere inside the drawing room of The Laurels, Cullingoak, changed.
Two beady eyes peered at Sloan over the top of the brandy gla.s.s. Just as quickly the old face became suffused with colour. A choleric General Sir Eustace Garwell put down his gla.s.s with shaking hands.
”Sir,” he said, quite outraged, ”is this a joke?”
He struggled to his feet, anger in every feature of his stiff and ancient frame. He tottered over to the wall and put his finger on a bell.
”If I were a younger man, sir,” he quavered, ”I would send for a horse whip. As it is, I shall just ask my man to show you the door. Goodnight, sir, goodnight.”
CHAPTER TWELVE.
As always, Sloan was polite.
He had long ago learned that there were few situations where a police officer-or anyone else, for that matter- gained by not being.
Henrietta was sitting opposite him and Crosby in the little parlour of Boundary Cottage.
”Yes, Inspector, I'm certain it was Hocklington-Garwell. It's not really a name you could confuse, is it?”
”No, miss, that's very true.”
”Besides, why should I tell you a name like that if it isn't the one I was told?”
”That's not for me to say, miss.”
She stared at him. ”You do believe me, don't you?”
”The mention of the name certainly upset the old gentleman, miss. He ordered us out of the house.”
Henrietta just looked puzzled. ”I can't understand it at all. It was Hocklington-Garwell and they had two boys. Master Michael and Master Hugo. I've heard such a lot about them always...”
”The General said he hadn't had any children,” said Sloan.
”There you are, then. It must have been the wrong man...”
”But the merest mention of the name upset him, miss. There was no mistake about that.”
She subsided again, shaking her head. ”I can't begin to explain that. They're wrong, you know, when they say 'What's in a name?' There seems to be everything in it.”
”Just at the moment,” agreed Sloan. He coughed. ”About the other matter, miss...”
”My father?”
”The man in the photograph.”
”Cyril Jenkins...”
”Yes, miss. We've got a general call out for him now, starting in the Calleford area...”
”You'll find him, won't you?”
”I think we will,” said Sloan with a certain amount of reservation. ”Whether, if we do, we shall find he fulfils all three conditions of ident.i.ty...”
”Three?”
”That your father, the man in the photograph and Cyril Edgar Jenkins are all one and the same.”
She nodded and said positively, ”I can only tell you one of them, that he was the man in the photograph.” She tightened her lips. ”You'll have to tell me the other two afterwards, won't you?”
Sloan frowned. There were quite a few little matters that Cyril Jenkins could inform them about and the first question they would ask him was where exactly he had been just before eight o'clock on Tuesday evening. Aloud he said, ”We'll tell you all we can, miss, though you realise someone might simply have borrowed his photograph to put on the mantelpiece here?”
She smiled wanly. ”Is that what they call a father figure, Inspector?”
”Something like that, miss.”
”Why should she have told me he was dead if he wasn't?”
”I don't know, miss.” Sloan couldn't remember a time when he had used the phrase so often. ”He might have left her, I suppose...” It wasn't a subject he was prepared to pursue at this moment, so he cleared his throat and said, ”In view of what you have told us about the War Memorial and the Rector about the medals, we are in touch with the War Office but there will inevitably be a little delay.”
A brief smile flitted across her face and was gone. ”Friday afternoon's not the best time, is it?”
”No, miss, I doubt if we shall have anything in time for the inquest.”
”Mr. Arbican's coming,” she said, ”and he's going to get someone to start going through the Court Adoption records.”
”That's a long job,” said Sloan, who had already taken advice on this point.
”Starting with the Calles.h.i.+re County Court and the Bere-bury, l.u.s.ton and Calleford Magistrates' ones. That's the most hopeful, isn't it?” she said. ”I expect you think I'm being unreasonable, Inspector, but I must know who I am-even if Bill Thorpe doesn't care.”
”Doesn't he?” said Sloan alertly.
She grimaced. ”He only thinks it's important if you happen to be an Aberdeen Angus bull.”
”Back to Berebury?” enquired Crosby hopefully, as they left Boundary Cottage. Breakfast was the only solid meal he had had so far that day and he was getting increasingly aware of the fact.
Sloan got into the car beside him. ”No.” He got out his notebook. ”So young Thorpe doesn't care who she is...”
”So she said.”
”But he still wants to marry her.”
”That's right,” said Crosby, who privately found it rather romantic.