that.'
'He should know, I suppose.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Anything else?'
'She'd had her hair dyed.'
'Who hasn't?' said Leeyes cynically.
'From blonde to brunette.'
'It's usually the other way,' agreed the Superintendent.
'The girl's hair is dark,' said Sloan, 'but the father's is fair—noticeably fair—even in a photograph. Grace Jenkins was fair too—before she had her hair dyed.'
'A pretty puzzle,' Leeyes said unhelpfully.
'Yes, sir. So far we've confirmed that the woman went to Larking when the girl was a small infant and passed her off to everyone as her own.'
'It's been done before.'
'Yes, sir. They rented a small cottage in the grounds of The Hall estate.'
'Buried in the country.'
'Exactly, sir. The rent is very low indeed. Seems almost nominal now but it may have been fair enough at the time. Landlord says he isn't allowed to put it up.'
'He may not have wanted to,' observed Leeyes.
'That thought had occurred to me, sir.'
'That's been done before too,' said the Superintendent emphatically.
'What has, sir?'
'Parking an infant in a corner like that. Where you can keep an eye on it.'
'Without acknowledging anything,' Leeyes grunted. 'What's he like?'
'Hibbs? Dark. But it's not a father we're short of, sir, it's a mother.'
'Someone who couldn't acknowledge it either, I daresay,' said the Superintendent.
'Perhaps. Then who is Grace Jenkins?'
'And why kill her?'
'Aunt?' said Sloan as if he had not spoken. 'Nanny? Or grandmother?'
'Wet nurse, more like,' growled Leeyes.
Sloan told him about the letter and the interview with Ar» bican. 'He thought the wording read like the outcome of a settlement rather than straightforward renting.'
'There's nothing straightforward about this case,' said the Superintendent irritably. 'Nothing at all.'
'No, sir.'
'We don't even know for a start that the deceased has been correctly identified.'
'We've no evidence either way about that,' said Sloan carefully. 'The only actual evidence we've got that will stand up in a Coroner's Court is that she was childless. We've got none as to who she is.'
'Then,' said the Superintendent irritably, 'you'd better get some, hadn't you, Sloan…'
'Yes, sir.'
'… And quickly.'
Henrietta refused to stay the night at the Rectory.
'It's very kind of you,' she said awkwardly. 'Mrs. Thorpe asked me to go to Shire Oak as well but I don't think I will, all the same. I feel—well—I feel I ought to begin as I mean to go on.'
'You may be right there,' conceded the Rector, though the kindhearted Mrs. Meyton was all protestation. 'I'll just walk back with you, though, and see you safely home.'
'Is it?'
'Is it what?'
'Home,' said Henrietta.
He took the question very seriously. 'You know, what you need is a good solicitor.'
'I feel,' she said fervently, 'as if I need more than that. A magician, at least.'
But she was grateful to him for escorting her home and said so.
He came indoors with her and checked that Boundary Cotwas secure for the night.
Henrietta pointed to the photograph on the mantelpiece. 'Now I know why the police were so interested in my father.'
'Yes.'
'I wasn't able to tell them much.'
The Rector nodded slowly. 'Your mother never spoke about him to me.'
'She did to me—but mostly about the sort of person he was. Not,' bitterly, 'concrete facts for policemen.'
'No.'
'And she wasn't my mother.'
'I was forgetting,' he apologised obliquely.
'It's made me realise how little I really know about him too.'
'A sergeant in the East Calleshires,' said Mr. Meyton, moving towards the photograph. 'That's definite enough.'
'Yes.'
'And he saw a fair bit of action.'
'Yes.'
'The D.C.M. and the Military Medal, I think,'said the Rector, taking a closer look still. 'Yes, that's right.'
Henrietta opened the bureau drawer. 'They're in here so that's another thing that's definite.'
She pulled open the little drawer inside the bureau and got out the two medal cases. 'Here they are.'
She handed them to the Rector. He flicked them open.
'Henrietta,' he said.
'Yes?'
'These medals…'
'Don't tell me,' she said in a voice that was almost harsh, 'that there's something wrong with those too.'
'That chap in the photograph…'
'My father.'
'He had the D.C.M. and the Military Medal.'
'I know.'
'These,' the Rector indicated the two in his hand, 'these are the D.S.O. and the M.C.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
'Who?' asked Sloan into the telephone.
'A Mr. Meyton, sir,' said the Station Sergeant. The Rector of Larking.'
'Do you know him, sergeant?'
'Not to say know him exactly,' replied the sergeant carefully. 'Not him, himself, if you know what I mean. But we know his hat and his gloves and his umbrella—particularly his umbrella. It comes in here practically every time he comes into Berebury. Very clearly marked, though, I will say that for them.'
'Put him through,' said Sloan resignedly.
He listened. Then in a quite different voice, 'Are you sure, sir?'
'Oh, yes, Inspector.' Mr. Meyton might forget his hat, gloves and umbrella but not his military history. 'Henrietta showed them to me last night and I took the liberty of taking them home with me for—er—safe keeping.'
'Thank you, sir.'
