Constable Hepple stood squarely on the spot where he had seen the body.
'That,' pronounced Sloan sombrely, 'fits in very well with the first set of injuries…'
'The first, sir?' Hepple looked shocked. 'You mean…'
'Run over twice,' said Sloan succinctly. 'Once each way,' amplified Crosby for good measure. 'But…' Hepple pointed to the patch of road where he was standing. 'But, sir, someone coming the other way— from Belling St. Peter—would have had to come onto quite the wrong side of his road to hit her.'
'Yes.'
'But…' said Hepple again.
'I am beginning to think someone did come onto quite the wrong side of his road to hit her,' said Sloan, still sombre. 'The pathologist reports that a second car went over her after she was dead.'
'After she was dead?'
'Broke her femur.'
'A second car?' echoed Hepple wonderingly. 'Two cars ran over Mrs. Jenkins on this road…'
'Yes.'
'And neither of them stopped?' That was the enormity to P. C. Hepple. A new crime in an irresponsible society, that's what that was, something they'd have been ashamed to put on the Newgate Calendar.
'Two cars,' said Sloan ominously, 'or the first one on its way back.'
Constable Hepple looked really worried. 'I don't like the sound of this at all, sir.'
'No.' Sloan looked at the village constable. 'I don't think I do either.' He examined the road again. 'Now, tell me this—just supposing that it was the same car that hit her both times…'
'Yes, sir?' Clearly Hepple didn't like considering anything of the sort.
'Where would he have been able to turn?' This was where really detailed local knowledge came into its own.
'If he'd wanted to stay on the metalled road, sir, he'd have had to go quite a way. There's no road junction before Belling and this road is too narrow for a really big car to turn in. But if he'd settled for a gateway or the like…'
'Yes?'
'Then Shire Oak Farm is the first one you'd come to beyond the houses. The Thorpes's. After that there's Peterson's and then Smith's…'
Inspector Sloan sent Crosby off to search for tyre prints. 'It's probably too late, but it's worth a look.' Then he asked Constable Hepple to tell him what he knew about the late Mrs. Grace Jenkins of Boundary Cottage.
'Known her for a long time, sir, and always very pleasant when we met.' Thinking this might be misconstrued he added hastily, 'Never in the course of duty, mind you, sir. I never had occasion to speak to her in the course of duty. A quiet lady. Kept herself to herself, if you know what I mean.'
Sloan knew and wasn't pleased with the knowledge. Not the easiest sort of person to find out about.
'Tuesday,' he said. 'Did you find out anything about what she'd been doing on Tuesday?'
'She was away from Larking all day,' replied Hepple promptly, 'that's all I know. She went off on the early bus— the one that gets people into Berebury in time for work. And she came back on the last one. Two Larking people got off at the same time. Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Callows.'
'Do we—does anyone—know how she spent the day?'
'Not yet, sir. They—Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Callows—had been shopping but if Mrs. Jenkins had, I don't know what she'd done with her basket because it wasn't here when I searched yesterday morning.'
'I see.'
'Must have been all of eight o'clock when she was killed,' went on Hepple. 'Allowing for the walk from the Post Office.'
Sloan stroked his chin. 'Eight o'clock fits in with what the pathologist says.'
'Sir.' The conscientious Hepple was still worried about something.
'Yes?'
'This second accident—was it straight after the first?'
'I don't know. Nobody knows.'
'Oh, I see, sir, thank you.'
'We only know,' said Sloan, 'that she was killed outright by the first one, and that after it another car ran over her.'
Hepple had scarcely finished shaking his head over this before Crosby was back.
'Didn't have to go very far, sir.'
'How far?'
'He—whoever he was—turned in the first farm gateway…'
'Shire 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 grass 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…'
