'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.'
'Affinity. That's the word, isn't it? I didn't feel that when I saw him. He was just a photograph, you see. Not like her.'
Sloan heard the warmth come flooding back into her voice and said as impersonally as he could, 'She really cared for you, miss. I expect that's what makes the difference, more than blood relationship.'
'Yes,' she turned her head away. 'Inspector, what about tonight? Do I go back to the Rectory?'
'Ah,' said Sloan. 'Tonight. Now listen very carefully. This is important.'
'No,' said Superintendent Leeyes flatly.
'But, sir…'
'Too risky. Suppose the girl gets hurt…'
'She won't be there to be hurt.'
'I still don't like it.'
'I can't think of a better way of making him show his hand.'
There was a long pause. It became evident that the Supercouldn't either.
Henrietta was standing in the telephone kiosk outside the Post Office. It was nearly ten o'clock in the evening.
The fact that the pile of small change feeding the coin box came from Inspector Sloan's pocket was highly significant.
'Is that you, Mr. Hibbs? This is Henrietta Jenkins speaking.'
Sloan could hear his deep voice crackling over the line.
'It is.'
'I'm sorry to trouble you but I'd like some advice.'
'What's the trouble?' James Augustus Heber Hibbs, secular adviser to the village, did not sound particularly surprised. Just attentive.
'I was just going to bed,' said Henrietta, 'and I thought I'd like something to read. I… I haven't been sleeping all that well since…'
'Quite.'
'Well, I was getting a book out of the bookcase—one of my favourites actually—and I came across my mother's will. It's in an envelope—all sealed up. I just wondered what I should do.'
'Put it somewhere safe,' advised Hibbs sensibly, 'and ring your solicitor first thing in the morning.'
She had exactly the same conversation a few minutes later with Felix Arbican.
'Grace Jenkins's Will?' echoed the solicitor. 'Are you sure?'
'Quite sure,' said Henrietta mendaciously. 'You said it would be a help.'
'It will,' said Arbican. 'I think you'd better bring it over to me first thing in the morning—just as you found it. In the meantime…'
'Yes?' said Henrietta meekly.
'Put it in the bureau.'
'But the lock's gone.'
'I don't suppose anyone would think to go back there a second time.'
Bill Thorpe might have been in when Henrietta rang the farm. He didn't say. He listened to her tale and said firmly, 'Before you leave the call box I should ring the police. Let them decide what to do. And, then I should go straight back to the Rectory.'
'I'm not going back there tonight,' she said. 'I'll be all right on my own.'
'Now, listen to me, Henrietta Jenkins…'
'Not Jenkins,' said Henrietta sedately.
'Henrietta whoever you are, I won't have you…'
But Henrietta had rung off.
'I meant that,' she said to Sloan.
'What, miss?'
'That bit about not going back to the Rectory.'
'Oh, yes, you are.'
Henrietta smiled sweetly. 'Oh, no, I'm not, Inspector. What's more, you can't make me. I'm coming back to the cottage with you.'
