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 Calleshire 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.
'I very much doubt it at this distance of time. We destroy most records after twelve years except conveyances and wills. However, we can soon see.' He rang for Miss Chilvers whose look of patient resignation had changed with the passage of time to one of plain resentment. 'Miss Chilvers, will you please see if we have any records of a Mrs. G. E. Jenkins of…' he looked down at the letter, 'Boundary Cottage, Larking.'
Miss Chilvers withdrew but her unforthcoming expression started a new train of thought in Sloan's mind. He waved vaguely towards the outer office. 'Perhaps, sir, whoever actually typed the letter might remember. Not Miss Chilvers naturally…'
Arbican looked at the letter again and shook his head. 'No?' said Sloan.
'I'm afraid not. I should say that our Miss Lendry typed this letter. Her initials are there after mine— W.B.L.'
'Couldn't she help?'
'No. She isn't with us any more.'
'Perhaps we could find her,' suggested Sloan. 'Do you know her address?'
'I'm sorry. I was using a euphemism.' He sighed. 'Miss Lendry's dead. About six months ago.' He tapped the letter. 'She wouldn't have been all that young when this was written, but she'd have remembered all right.'
'I see.'
'Been with the firm for years,' said Arbican. 'Knew everything…'
'Right-hand woman?'suggested Sloan helpfully. They could hear Miss Chilvers bumping her way round the filing cabinets in the outer office.
Arbican sighed. 'It's not the same without her.' Sloan knew what he meant. Miss Chilvers returned with little ceremony to announce that she couldn't find anything about a Mrs. G. E. Jenkins at all anywhere.
'Thank you,' said Arbican. He turned to Sloan. 'I'm sorry, Inspector, it doesn't look as if we're to help you with this Mrs. Grace Jenkins but if we do come across any…'
Sloan got to his feet 'Thank you, sir. I'd be much obliged if you'd let me know.'
Arbican handed the letter back. 'Whoever she was, it looks as if she got her settlement all right.'
'Settlement?' said Sloan sharply.
The solicitor pointed to the letter. 'Isn't that what that was?'
'Was it?' countered Sloan.
'I can't remember,' said Arbican cautiously, 'but it reads to me now as if it could have been. We advised her to accept the man's offer—that phrasing sounds like a settlement to me but I may be wrong. It's all a long time ago, now, Inspector, and I certainly can't remember.'
'Murder by motorcar!' exploded Superintendent Leeyes. 'Are you sure, Sloan?'
'No, sir.' Sloan was both tired and hungry. 'Not yet.'
It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening and they had just got back to Berebury Police Station after an hour's driving along the main road from Calleford.
'But Crosby found some tyre prints in a gateway where the car turned and came back, and Dr. Dabbe says she was run over twice.'
'Twice?' said the Superintendent, just as Hepple had done.
'Twice. Once alive, once dead.'
'Macabre chap, Dabbe.'
'Yes, sir.' Sloan paused. 'It's not exactly the sort of road where you could miss seeing someone lying in it.'
'So that makes you think that…'
'I think,' said Sloan heavily, 'that she was knocked down from behind on that bend on purpose by someone who afterwards turned in the entrance to Shire Oak Farm and who came back and deliberately hit her again.'
Leeyes grunted.
'Only he had a bit of bad luck.'
'It sounds to me,' said the Superintendent sarcastically, 'as if he wasn't the only one who had a bit of bad luck.'
'No, sir.'
'Well, in what way was he unlucky?'
'He happened to kill her outright the first time he went over her which meant the pathologist knew he'd gone over her twice.'
'How?'
'Because the second lot of injuries were post-mortem ones. They don't—bleed,' he added elliptically.
'You wouldn't convince a jury on that alone, Sloan.'
'I shouldn't try,' retorted Sloan spiritedly. 'But it's not alone. Put it together with the breaking into of the bureau and the fact that whoever Grace Jenkins was she wasn't the mother of the girl.'
'Ah, yes. I was forgetting the daughter had been smuggled in in a warming pan.'
'That's about the only explanation that fits at the moment,' agreed Sloan gloomily. 'There's something else, too, sir.'
'What's that?'
'This woman—Grace Jenkins—was having her daughter on about something else. Her age.'
'Her age?'
'Yes, sir. She told the girl she would be forty-six next birthday. Dr. Dabbe says she was older than
