Part 24 (1/2)

”I do not,” said Leeyes.

”Pity.”

”Those sort of people don't.” An eager note crept into the Superintendent's voice. ”What they do, Sloan, is to dig up a faithful nanny who knows them well and they park the nanny and the infant in a cottage in the depths of the country.”

Sloan had been afraid of that.

”And”-Leeyes was warming to his theme-”they support the child and the nanny from a distance.”

In Lady Garwell's case the distance-either way-so to speak-would be considerable, she being dead. Sloan presumed he meant Major Hocklington and said, ”Yes, sir, though I still can't see why Grace Jenkins should have to die just before the girl is twenty-one.”

”Ask Major Hocklington,” suggested Leeyes sepulchrally.

”Or, come to that, sir, why Grace Jenkins went to such enormous lengths to conceal the girl's true name and then talked quite happily about the Hocklington-Garwell's. If Lady Garwell were the mother, it doesn't make sense.”

”Someone has been sending the girl money at college,” said Leeyes. ”She and the clergyman have just been in to say so.”

”Maintenance,” said Sloan.

”Via the Bursar.”

Sloan scribbled a note, his Sunday rest day vanis.h.i.+ng into thin air. ”We could leave as soon as we've seen Cyril Jenkins...”

”And,” said Superintendent Leeyes nastily, ”you could see Cyril Jenkins as soon as you've had your tea and sympathy from Inspector Blake.”

Cullingoak was more certainly a village than Rooden Parva. It had all the customary prerequisites thereof-a church standing foursquare in the middle, an old Manor House not very far away, shops, a Post Office, a row of almshouses down by the river, even a cricket ground.

”All we want,” observed Crosby, ”is a character called Jenkins.”

”No,” said Sloan, ”if the civil register is correct, is called Cyril Edgar and should live at number twelve High Street.”

”Dead easy,” Crosby swung the car round by the church. ”That'll be the road the Post Office is in, for sure.”

”Stop short,” Sloan told him. ”Just in case.”

”Sir, do you reckon he's her father?”

”I'll tell you that, Crosby, when I've seen him.”

”Likeness?”

”No.” Sloan remembered Mrs. Walsh with a shudder. ”Something called eugenics.”

They found number twelve easily enough. Most of the High Street houses were old. They were small, too, but well cared for. Neither developers nor preservationists seemed to have got their hands on Cullingoak High Street. None of the houses were once 'wrong” ones now ”done up” for ”right” people. There was, too, a refres.h.i.+ng variety of coloured paint The door of number twelve was a deep green. Sloan knocked on it.

There was no immediate reply.

”Just our luck,” said Crosby morosely, ”if he's gone to a football match.”

It was implied-but not stated-that had Detective Constable Crosby not had the misfortune to be a member of Her Majesty's Constabulary, that that was where he would have been this Sat.u.r.day afternoon in early March.

”Berebury's playing l.u.s.ton.”

”Really?”

”At home.”

That was the crowning injustice.

Next Sat.u.r.day Crosby would have to spend good money travelling to l.u.s.ton or Calleford or Kinnisport to see some play.

Sloan knocked again.

There was no reply.

He looked up and down the street. There would be a back way in somewhere. The two policemen set off and walked until they found it-a narrow uneven way, leading to back gates. Some as neatly painted as the front doors. Some not. None numbered.

Crosby counted the houses back from the beginning of the row. ”Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.” He stopped at a gate that was still hanging properly on both hinges. ”I reckon this is the one, sir.”

”Well done,” said Sloan, who had already noticed that that back door was painted the same deep green as they had seen in the front. ”Perhaps he's one of those who'll answer the back door but not the front.”

They never discovered if this was so.

When they got to the back door it was ever so slightly ajar.

It opened a little further at Sloan's knock, and when there was no reply to this, Sloan opened it a bit more still and put his head round.

”Anyone at home?” he called out.

Cyril Jenkins was at home all right.

There was just one snag. He was dead.

Very.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Superintendent Leeyes was inclined to take the whole thing as a personal insult.

”Dead?” he shouted in affronted tones.

”Dead, sir.”

”He can't be...”

”He is.”