Henrietta Who?

been dead between ten and twelve hours, injuries consistent with vehicular impact?'

'That's the case. Read on. Especially P. C. Hepple's report of this morning.'

'Bureau in deceased's front room broken open. No signs of forced entry to the house.' Crosby sounded disappointed. 'That's not even breaking and entering, sir.'

'True.'

'I still don't see,' objected Crosby, 'what it's got to do with her being knocked down and killed.'

'Frankly, Crosby, neither do I.' Sloan put out his hand for the file. 'In fact there may be no connection whatsoever. In which case some of your valuable time will have been wasted.'

'Yes, sir.' Woodenly.

'That is,' he added gravely, 'a risk we shall have to take.'

Detective-Inspector Sloan read the accident report again and thanked his lucky stars—not for the first time— that he didn't work in Traffic Division.

'Of all the nasty messes,' he mused aloud, 'I think a hit-and-run driver leaves the worst behind. No medical attention. No ambulance. No insurance.'

'And no prosecution,' said Crosby mordantly. He pointed to the report. 'Perhaps this character who hit her was drunk.'

'Perhaps.' Sloan got up from his desk. 'Though it was a bit early in the evening for that.'

'Perhaps she was drunk then,' suggested Crosby, undaunted.

Sloan shook his head. 'Hepple didn't suggest she was that sort of woman—quite the reverse in fact… A car, please, Crosby, and we shall venture into the outback at once.'

They didn't go quite straight away because the telephone on Sloan's desk started to ring.

'Berebury Hospital,' said a girl's voice. Can Inspector Sloan take a call from the Pathologist's Department, please?'

Crosby handed the receiver over to Sloan, who said, 'Speaking.'

'Dabbe here,' boomed a voice.

'Good morning, Doctor,' said Sloan cautiously.

'I've been trying to talk to your Traffic Division about a woman I'm doing a p.m. on.'

'Yes?'

'They say she's your case now and you've got all the papers…'

'In a way,' agreed Sloan guardedly. He'd sort that out with Traffic afterwards.

'I've got her down,' said the pathologist, 'as Grace Edith Jenkins.'

'That's right. We're treating it as an R.T.A., Doctor.'

'Road Traffic Accident she may be,' said the pathologist equably. 'I'll tell you about that later. That's not what I'm ringing about. The notes that came in with her say she was identified by her daughter.'

'That's right.'

'No, it isn't.'

Sloan picked up the file. 'Miss Henrietta Eleanor Leslie Jenkins said it was her mother.'

'Any doubt about the identification?'

'None that I've heard about, Doctor.'

The pathologist grunted. 'She wasn't disfigured at all-there were no facial injuries to speak of.'

'No? Is it important, sir?'

'Either, Inspector, this girl…'

'Miss Jenkins.'

'Miss Jenkins has identified the wrong woman…'

'I don't think so,' objected Sloan, glancing swiftly through the notes in the file. 'The village postman and a neighbouring fanner's son called Thorpe put us on to her—to say nothing of Constable Hepple. They all said it was Mrs. Jenkins well before we got hold of the daughter.'

'That's just it,' said the pathologist.

'What is, sir?'

'She wasn't the daughter.'

'But…'

'This woman you've sent me may be Mrs. Grace Edith Jenkins,' said Dabbe.

'She is.'

'I don't know about that,' went on the pathologist, 'but I can tell you one thing for certain and that's that she's never ever had any children.'

'Her daughter, Doctor, said…'

'Not her daughter…'

Sloan paused and said carefully, 'Someone who told us she was Miss Henrietta Eleanor Leslie Jenkins then…'

'Ah,' said Dabbe, 'that's different.'

'She said she was prepared to swear in a Coroner's Court that this was the body of her mother, Mrs. Grace Edith Jenkins, widow of Sergeant Cyril Jenkins of the East Cal-leshires.'

The pathologist sounded quite unimpressed.

'Very possibly,' he said. 'That's not really my concern but…'

'Yes?'

'You might take a note, Inspector, to the effect that I shall have to go to the same Coroner's Court and swear that, in my opinion, she—whoever she is—had certainly never had any children and had very probably never been married either.'

CHAPTER THREE

'Have you ever turned two pages of something, Sloan?'

The Superintendent of Police in Berebury glared across his desk at the Head of his Criminal Investigation Department. It was a very small Department, all matters of great moment being referred to the Calleshire County Constabulary Headquarters in Calleford.

'No, sir. The girl positively identified the woman as her mother and Dr. Dabbe, the pathologist, says the woman had never had any children.'

'How does he know?'Truculently.

'I couldn't begin to say,'said Sloan faintly. The Superintendent's first reaction was always the true English one of challenging the expert. he was quite definite about it.'

'He always is.'

'Yes, sir,'Sloan coughed. 'There are really three matters…'

Superintendent Leeyes Grunted discouragingly.

'First of all a woman is knocked down and killed on Tuesday evening not far from her home.'Sloan stopped and amended this. far from what we believe is her home. At some stage before or after this but not before Wednesday evening someone lets himself into her house with a key but doesn't have a key to the bureau so breaks it open…'

'Why?'

'I don't know yet sir. Thirdly…'

'Well?'

'Te woman isn't the mother of a girl who identified her as her mother.'

'It's not difficult,' said Leeyes softly. 'She's probably the father's bastard.'

Sloan ignored this and said conversationally, 'Mrs. Jenkins seems to have been a very unusual woman, sir.'can say that again,'said the Superintendent. 've never heard of unnatural childbirth before.'

'She managed'—Sloan was still struggling to keep the tone at an academic level—'she managed to keep her private affairs private in a small village like Larking.'

'I'll admit that takes some doing. Did she have a record then?'

'I don't know, sir, yet, but that's not quite the same thing as a secret.'