Henrietta Who Part 27

"True," said the Bursar, "but we were given funds on the condition that she never knew the source."

"I don't think she need," replied Sloan seriously. "I can't give you any sort of undertaking because this is a criminal case but unless such facts came out in open court I see no reason myself why she should be told."

"In that case," p.r.o.nounced the Princ.i.p.al, "I see no reason why Miss Wotherspoon should not divulge the-er-donor's name to you."

"Thank you, madam."

Miss Wotherspoon disappeared in the direction of ber study and returned waving a piece of paper.

"It wasn't a lot," she said. "Just a small cheque each term to make things more... what is the word I'm looking for?"

The word Sloan was looking for-and that very badly-- was on the paper the Bursar was holding. He retained his self-control with difficulty.

"Tolerable," decided Miss Wotherspoon brightly. "Grants and scholarships are all very well but a girl needs a bit more than that if she's going to get the most out of Camford."

"The name," pleaded Sloan.

Miss Wotherspoon looked at the paper in her hand.

"Would it," she said rather doubtfully, "be Hibbs? That's what it looks like to me. J. A. H. Hibbs."

Sloan groaned aloud.

"The Hall, Larking, Calleshire," said Miss Wotherspoon for good measure.

"He never said why, I suppose?" asked Sloan.

"Just a brief note with the first cheque saying he thought funds at home were rather low and the enclosed might help." Miss Wotherspoon waved a hand vaguely. "That sort of thing. The only condition was that the girl didn't know. I could tell her what I liked."

"And what did you tell her?"

"A Service charity," said the Bursar promptly. "Plenty of girls receive money from them. There was no reason why she shouldn't."

"There was," said the Princ.i.p.al unexpectedly.

Sloan, Crosby and Miss Wotherspoon all turned in her direction.

"A very good reason," said the Princ.i.p.al.

Sloan cleared his throat. It had suddenly seemed to go very dry.

"What was that, madam?" She looked the sort of person who could tell a good reason from a bad one. If she thought it a very good reason...

"She wasn't who she thought she was."

"No. We have established that, madam, in Calleshire, but I should dearly like to know how you..."

"For entry to Boleyn College, Inspector, we require a sight of the candidate's birth certificate..."

"Of course!" Sloan brought his hand down on the arm of the chintz-covered chair with a mighty slap. "We should have thought of that before."

"Not, you understand, in order to confirm family details. We are not concerned"-here academic scruple raised its head-"with the father's occupation but with the age of the candidate."

"Quite so," said Sloan, who was concerned about something quite different still. "How very stupid we have been, madam. This would have saved us a great deal-might even have saved a life."

As before, the Princ.i.p.al waited until he was quite finished before she continued. "Naturally this also applied in the case of Henrietta Jenkins."

"Yes..." eagerly.

"With her birth certificate came a letter from the woman whom she believed to be her mother..."

"Grace Jenkins..."

The Princ.i.p.al inclined her head. "This letter, which was addressed to me personally, explained that the girl did not know the name of her real parents and was not to be told it until she was twenty-one."

"Yes?" even more eagerly.

"This I felt was a most unwise procedure and one I would have counselled against most strongly. However..."

Sloan was sitting on the very edge of his chair. "Yes?"

"However, her-er-guardian... is that who she was?"

"In a way," said Sloan grimly.

"Her guardian's wishes were ent.i.tled to be respected."

"And?"

"The birth certificate was returned to Mrs. Jenkins and I have not mentioned the fact to anyone until today."

"The name," said Sloan. "What was the name?"

The Princ.i.p.al paused. "I don't think I can be absolutely certain..."

"Henrietta who?" said Sloan urgently.

"I am left with the impression that it was Mantriot."

Bill Thorpe walked down from Shire Oak Farm about half past two and called for Henrietta at the Rectory. She went with him as much because the Meytons were obviously used to a post prandial snooze on Sunday afternoons as for any other reason.

"I told you I'd seen Cyril Jenkins yesterday," she said by way of greeting. Her feelings towards Bill Thorpe were decidedly ambivalent.

"You did," agreed Thorpe.

"What price him being my father?"

"Perhaps," diplomatically.

"Or do you still think it doesn't matter?"

Bill Thorpe grinned. "A gooseberry bush would still do for me."

"Well!" exploded Henrietta crossly, "I think you're the..."

"Or a carpet bag. At Victoria Station." He took a couple of paces back and raised an arm to ward off an imaginary blow. 'The Brighton line, of course."

"The police," said Henrietta, ignoring this, "probably won't believe me, but..."

"The police," declared Bill, "are trained not to believe anybody. It is the secret of their success."

They had pa.s.sed the entrance gates to The Hall now and were walking down the road to Boundary Cottage.

"I've just thought of something," said Henrietta suddenly.

"What's that?"

"If I'm not who I thought I was..."

"Yes?"

"I don't have to be an only child."

"No," agreed Bill Thorpe.

"I thought you were going to say that didn't matter either,"she said, a little deflated.

"But it does." Bill Thorpe pushed open the gate of Boundary Cottage and stood back to let her go in first. "Very much."

"Very much?"

"Just in the one set of circ.u.mstances." He turned to shut the gate behind him, farmer through and through. "Unlikely, I know, but..."

"But what?"

"We must make absolutely sure," he said gravely, "that you and I are not brother and sister. I have every intention of marrying you and that's the only thing which could stop me."

She laughed at last. "Not allowed outside ancient Egypt?"

"The word is, I believe, taboo."

Henrietta led the way up to the front door, still laughing.

She stopped as soon as she opened it.

"Whatever's the matter?" enquired Bill quickly. "You've gone quite white."

She stood stockstill on the doorstep.

"Someone's been in here," she said, "since I left last night."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

There was no question of either of them having a meal. It was offered by the Princ.i.p.al of Boleyn College and seconded by the Bursar. Even in the ordinary way Inspector Sloan (if not Detective Constable Crosby) would have refused an invitation to sit down with three hundred young ladies of academic bent. Today was not ordinary. Their one aim was to get back to Calleshire with all possible speed. They hurried away from the dreaming spires without so much as a backward glance and got out on the open road.

"Hibbs," said Crosby glumly.

"Mantriot," countered Sloan.

Crosby executed a driving manoeuvre between two lorries and an articulated trailer which he had not learnt at the police motoring school.

"It isn't going to help our investigations, constable," said Sloan testily, "if we none of us live to find out Mantriot."

"No, sir." Crosby lifted his foot off the accelerator a frac"I think I know something already."

"You what?"

"The name, sir, it rings a bell."

"In what way?"

"I don't know."

"Then think."

"Yes, sir."

There was a short silence in the police car while Constable Crosby thought. This did not preclude him overtaking a sports car at a speed Sloan did not relish.

"If," said Sloan, "you would think any better away from the wheel, I will take it."

"That's all right, sir, thank you. I don't have to think about my driving."

"I noticed," said Sloan sweetly.

There was another silence while they ate up the miles at a speed which was specifically forbidden at the police motoring school.

Crosby was observed to be frowning.

"Well?" said Sloan hopefully.

"It's in the past somewhere, sir."