Henrietta Who? Read Online Free PDF Page B

minute.”
    She hesitated. She had an image of her father in her mind, always had had and it was compounded of many things: the words of her mother, the photograph in the drawing room, the conception of any soldier, of all soldiers, killed in battle—but it wasn’t something easily put into words.
    â€œHe wasn’t afraid,” she said awkwardly.
    â€œI realize that.” They didn’t award medals for cowardice. “But what do you know about him as a person? What was his occupation, for instance?”
    â€œHe worked on a farm.”
    â€œDid he own it?” Property owners as a class of person were easy to trace, popular with the police.
    â€œI don’t think so. He was the farm bailiff for someone.” She frowned. “His father had a small farm though. It wasn’t really big enough for my father to work as well—that’s why he worked for someone else.”
    â€œWhereabouts?”
    â€œSomewhere on the other side of Calleshire. I’m not sure exactly where.”
    â€œSo that is where your mother came from to Larking?”
    â€œFrom that direction somewhere, I suppose. I don’t know exactly. She said he—my father, that is—had moved about a bit getting experience. He would have had to run his father’s farm one day on his own and he needed to learn.”
    â€œI see.” He gave her a quick grin. “So on Saturday nights, miss, you—er—support the East Callies?”
    She responded with a faint smile. The regimental rivalry between the East and West Calleshires was famous. “They get on very well without my help. The West Callies have lost their mascot twice already this year.”
    â€œHave they indeed? Vulnerable things, mascots. Now this farm of your—er—grandfather’s—do you know where that was?”
    â€œIt was called Holly Tree Farm, I know,” said Henrietta promptly, “because I remember my mother telling me there was a very old holly tree there that my grandfather wouldn’t have cut down even though it was just in front of the house and made the rooms very dark. He used to say you can’t have a Holly Tree Farm without a holly tree.”
    â€œA very proper attitude,” agreed Sloan stoutly. “Did you ever go there?”
    â€œNot that I can remember. I think he died when I was quite young.”
    â€œBut your mother used to talk about the farm?”
    â€œOh, yes, a lot. She grew up near there too.”
    â€œAnd so she had known your father all her life?”
    Henrietta nodded. “Certainly since they were children. She used to tell me a lot about him when he was a little boy. But, Inspector, I don’t see what this has got to do with my mother’s death.”
    â€œNo, miss, I don’t suppose you do.” Sloan paused judiciously. “It’s not easy to say this, miss, and if it weren’t a matter of you having to give formal evidence of identification at the inquest it might not even be something we need to take cognizance of.”
    â€œWhat might not be?” Henrietta looked quite mystified.
    â€œThis Cyril Jenkins.”
    â€œMy father?”
    â€œHad he been married twice by any chance?”
    â€œNot that I know of. Why?”
    â€œOr Grace Jenkins? Had she been married to anyone else besides Cyril Jenkins?”
    A slow flush mounted Henrietta’s cheeks. “No, Inspector, not to my knowledge.”
    Like a cat picking its way over a wet path Sloan said delicately, “There is a possibility that your name may not be Jenkins.”
    â€œNot Jenkins?”
    â€œNot Jenkins.”
    â€œI may be being very stupid,” said Henrietta, “but I don’t see why not.”
    â€œIt was Dr. Dabbe.”
    â€œDr. Dabbe?”
    â€œThe pathologist, miss, from the hospital. He conducted a post-mortem examination on the body of the woman who was knocked down.”
    â€œThat’s right.” She