Henrietta Who?

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"I've got her down," said the pathologist, "as Grace Edith Jenkins. The notes that came in with her say she was identified by her daughter."

"That's right," answered Sloan. "Miss Henrietta Eleanor Leslie Jenkins said it was her mother."

"Any doubt about the identification?"

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

"Either, Inspector, this girl…"

"Miss Jenkins."

"Miss Jenkins has identified the wrong woman."

"… or she wasn't the daughter."

DEDICATION:

FOR ALL MY ELEVEN O'CLOCK FRIENDS, WITH LOVE.

HENRIETTA WHO?

CHAPTER ONE

Harry Ford was a postman. He was a postman of a vintage that is fast disappearing—that is to say he still did his delivery round on a bicycle. The little red vans had reached the large village of Down Martin but his own round of the smaller ones like Larking and Belling St. Peter was just as quick on two wheels as on four.

And he, for one, wasn't sorry. Gave you time to think, did a bicycle, even if it was a bit chilly at six o'clock of a dank morning in March. He was well muffled up against the cold though and he didn't mind the half dark. Besides, there were compensations. Another few weeks and he'd be abroad in that glorious early morning light that did something for the soul.

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