Part 29 (1/2)
”The important thing, of course,” said Sloan, ”is obviously the girl's twenty-first birthday. That'll be the day when she'll come into her mother's money for sure.”
”I should like to be quite certain that the young man at the farm didn't know that,” said Leeyes. ”His-er-wooing was a bit brisk.”
”But not until after Grace Jenkins died,”pointed out Sloan. ”He'd agreed to stay in the background until Henrietta finished at Boleyn College.”
”Then,” said Leeyes pouncing, ”he kills Grace Jenkins and goes ahead with Henrietta.”
Sloan shook his head. ”What I would like to know, sir, is where Cyril Jenkins comes in.”
”I think he committed just the one mistake,” said Leeyes shrewdly. ”He knew who Henrietta was and he was probably the last person alive who did.”
”Bar one,” agreed Sloan ominously.
”Bar one,” agreed Leeyes. ”And what do you propose to do about it, Sloan?”
”Set a trap,” said that policeman, ”so deep that there'll be no getting out of it.”
It was half an hour later when Crosby gave a loud cry. ”Found something interesting, Constable?”
”A report of a road accident, sir.”
”When?”
Crosby glanced up to the top of the newspaper page. ”Almost six months ago.”
Sloan stepped over and read it.
”Do you believe in coincidence, Crosby?”
”No, sir.”
”Neither do I.”
”There's something I do believe in, sir.”
”What's that?”
”Practice making perfect.”
”You can say that again,” said Sloan warmly, ”we've just found this.”
Crosby read out the faded cutting which Inspector Sloan handed him. ”This bit, sir? 'Deceased had apparently shot himself whilst sitting down. The weapon had fallen on to the table in front of him...'” Crosby looked up. ”Just like Cyril Jenkins, sir...”
”Just like Cyril Jenkins,” agreed Sloan.
Later still.
”I've been a fool, Crosby.”
Crosby, no diplomat but still a career man, said guardedly, ”How come, sir?”
”We agreed a long long time ago,” (it was Wednesday actually) ”that where Grace Jenkins had gone in her Sunday best on Tuesday was relevant.”
”Yes, sir. Bound to have been. Someone who knew she would arrive at Berebury bus station too late to catch the five fifteen.”
”So she was bound to catch the seven five,” Sloan pointed to Crosby's notebook. ”She helped an old lady who fell getting off the bus, didn't she?”
”Yes, sir, but I don't see what...”
”The bus company will have the old lady's name and address. You can bet your sweet life on that. It'll be a rule of the house in case of an injury claim afterwards. Ten to one she came off the same bus.”
”Do you think so, sir?”
”It's worth a try.”
It was still Sunday.
That, to Henrietta, was the funniest part. It didn't seem like Sunday at all.
She was trying to explain to Inspector Sloan how it was she knew someone had been into the house during the night, but it didn't seem as if he wanted to know.
”That's all right, miss. I rather thought they might.”
”Inspector, were they looking for me?”
”I think so, miss.”
”You mean I'm in someone's way?”
”Let's say you're the stumbling block, miss.”
”What to?” Bewildered.
”A pretty penny, miss, though I'd say most of it's gone now.” He raised a hand to stem any more questions. ”Now that we know someone was here, would you mind just not mentioning it to anyone at all please.”
”Bill knows already. He was here...”
”To anyone else besides-er-Bill.”
”All right.” She didn't really care very much now whom she spoke to, still less what she said. ”The blood, Inspector, did it tell?”
”Yes, miss.” He paused. ”You're not Cyril Jenkins's daughter after all.”
”No.”
”You're not surprised?”
”No.” She hesitated. ”I think I would have felt it more.”
”Very probably, miss.”