The Winter Mystery

by Faith Martin

  THE WINTER

  MYSTERY

  An absolutely gripping whodunit from a million-selling author

  (Jenny Starling Book 2)

  THIS IS A REVISED EDITION OF A BOOK FIRST PUBLISHED AS “A FATAL FALL OF SNOW” BY JOYCE CATO.

  FAITH MARTIN

  Revised edition 2018

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  FIRST PUBLISHED BY ROBERT HALE IN 2011 AS “A FATAL FALL OF SNOW.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Faith Martin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to corrections@joffebooks.com

  We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.

  ©Faith Martin

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY FAITH MARTIN

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS AND OFFERS

  Glossary of English Slang for US readers

  PROLOGUE

  An old woman toddled up the freezing aisle, a glorious Christmas cactus clutched in one gnarled hand, a knotty hazel walking stick grasped in the other. From the pulpit, the equally ancient vicar smiled benignly at her as she placed it on an old crumbling window shelf, and felt himself shiver in his robes. In spite of global warming, it was an unusually viciously cold and frosty morning, and the church felt like a freezer.

  Overhead, the church bells pealed, echoing sharply across the rural Oxfordshire valley. It was the last Sunday before Christmas and perhaps because of that, the church actually had a few worshippers in it for a change. Two old men, bachelor twins of the parish, coughed and sneezed in the front row, victims of the latest flu virus, and the vicar sighed in sympathy. He now had three other churches to cover in his extended parish, and actual snow was forecast! It was many years since this part of the country had seen any significant snowfall, and the man of the cloth, to be frank, could have done without it.

  Ah well. The children loved it so.

  Reverend Adam Clode had come to the parish of Westcott Barton just over forty years ago. A small village in the heart of Oxfordshire, it had undergone the usual changes over that period of time. It had seen two cul-de-sacs of council houses built on a patch of wasteland, and had lost the village school and post office. And, of course, the rise in house prices had forced out many of the long-standing families, as incomers with money bought up the homes needed by the local youngsters. For all that, it still remained a largely close-knit farming community.

  The vicar watched as several young boys dashed in, looking irreverent, but carrying great boughs of holly. The vicar winced at the sight of the roughly broken stalks, and gave up a brief prayer that the children had combed the woods for them, and not raided the gardens of any of his parishioners.

  He met the eyes of the richest farmer in the county, Stanley Kelton, beneath their fiercely bushy brows, and quickly looked away. He prayed even harder that the boys had not wandered into Kelton woods for the holly. If Stanley now came across denuded holly bushes on his land he would soon be back to church, but not for morning worship. Adam Clode could almost hear the farmer’s imagined but withering tirade now.

  By his side, Stanley’s daughter Delia sighed in boredom, her two brothers staring absently at the hymn numbers on the wall. Given the choice, the vicar knew that none of the Kelton offspring would come to church at all. Like the rest of the country nowadays, he suspected they were at best indifferent, if not downright atheists. But Stanley Kelton must have insisted, and what Stanley Kelton wanted, Stanley Kelton got.

  A moment later, the vicar found himself meeting the very different gaze of Sidney Kelton, Stanley’s older brother. His blue eyes were gentle, and when he smiled at the vicar (almost as if he could read that reverend gentleman’s unease and wanted to offer some comfort), Adam smiled back automatically, feeling unaccountably better.

  Mrs Jarvis, the Keltons’ cleaner and a long-time member of the church’s unofficial care-taking committee, carefully lit the long white candles. Their flames flickered quickly, casting shadows across the sixteenth-century walls. Soon the smell of candle wax scented the air, and the holly, now placed along the alcoves by one of the sneezing bachelor twins, glinted in dark green glory.

  The bells continued to peal joyfully and echo across the crisp air, and suddenly, without warning, the real spirit of Christmas seemed to settle magically over the church and its tiny congregation. In these times of commercialization, and over-hyped advertising urging you to spend, spend, spend, Westcott Barton, for a few minutes at least, seemed to retain a little of the spirit of Christmas past.

  The old vicar straightened up as his arthritis was forgotten and the bitterly cold air in the church became irrelevant, and looked down at the pinched, cold white faces and red noses of his congregation. They waited for the sermon with patient resignation. Impulsively, the vicar reached for his songbook and called out for the carol ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ and the congregation caught the mood in an instant.

  The organist, nodding and shivering over the battered organ, sprang into life like the enthusiastic schoolteacher that he was, and voices, hoarse with colds, out of tune but gutsy, rang around the church. It was the Sunday before Christmas; there was going to be snow for the children, mulled wine for the adults and a rousing carol to lift the heart.

  The season of peace and goodwill was truly upon them. And yet, in the seemingly blameless congregation, amid the holly and the singing, silently, carefully, purposefully, someone was plotting cold-blooded murder.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The bone-shaking tractor pulled to a somewhat coughing halt as the driver peered out of his snow-frosted side window. ‘There’s the road to Westcott Barton, missus. Not much of one is it? And I doubt it’ll be cleared any time soon either. Think you can manage it? I’d offer to take you down there, but I’ve promised a smallholder in the next village I’ll help him move his sheep before it gets dark.’

  By his side, perched precariously and distinctly uncomfortably on a rusted wheel arch, an impressively Junoesque woman with beautiful blue eyes squinted through the glass.

  As the farmer had said, the lane wouldn’t be much of a thoroughfare even in good weather. A single track, it was hemmed in on all sides by straggling blackthorns, and burdened with a recent and spectacular snowfall of nearly two feet, it resembled nothing so much as an obstacle course.

  Jenny Starling, travelling cook, sighed deeply, hefted her holdall past the rear of the driver’s seat and half rose. The farmer, a middle-aged man wit
h a hooked nose and curious eyes, took one appreciative glance at her generous curves and decided she would most definitely need a helping hand down. He quickly opened his door and slid out, sinking into a snowdrift which came over the top of his wellingtons and promptly turned his shins numb.

  He cursed mildly, but watched with bemused respect as the attractive twenty-something woman climbed out of the cramped tractor with unexpected ease and grace. Her coat was a bulky padded blue, matching the knitted bobble hat that hid a glossy array of dark brown curls. On her feet were sturdy leather boots that sensibly fitted far more snugly than his own wellingtons. She was already hoisting her holdall down after her, before the farmer could offer to reach up for it.

  And he had been about to offer. Although he’d come across his unexpected and unusual hitchhiker on a deserted winter road — and his mother had always maintained that only riff-raff thumbed rides — there had been something about the woman that had instantly screamed ‘class’ at him.

  In fact, Jenny usually travelled everywhere in her trusted cherry-red catering van, but not even her gallant and stalwart steed would have been able to handle the snow-packed roads, so she’d been forced, very reluctantly, to leave it under cover in a long-term car park not far from Burford. Unfortunately, all the local buses had been cancelled due to the previous day’s snowstorm, leaving her with no other choice but to hoof it unless she wanted to let her clients down.

  Which she most definitely didn’t. Jenny had her reputation for reliability to maintain.

  Luckily, she hadn’t gone far when the tractor had rumbled up behind her and she’d raised a hopeful thumb.

  Now the farmer watched her as she negotiated around the snowdrifts and stood by a drunkenly leaning signpost, rubbing her gloved hands briskly together for some much-needed warmth in the crisp morning air.

  England hadn’t had a really bad winter to speak of for some time, and Jenny hoped the snow would soon go. Still, she couldn’t help but be thrilled by the sudden blanket of white that had descended on the countryside. Everywhere children were tobogganing, making snowmen and laying in ambush for the postmen with a stock of snowballs. At first, it had made her feel like singing ‘Winter Wonderland’ over and over again.

  Until the novelty of it all wore off, that is. The thing was, she’d forgotten how damned inconvenient snow could be!

  Ivy grew darkly in the hedgerows around her, and by the side of the road mysterious animal tracks dotted the snow. She could see the unmistakable track of a fox, the paw prints placed in a single straight line, and the light feathery trail of his brush where it had dragged along the ground. Any number of birds had left little clawed trails, but nothing much moved now — only a single crow overhead, cawing raucously as it headed for a bare sycamore.

  Her eyes turned to the only sign of habitation for miles around and roved thoughtfully over the rooftops and chimneys of the village that nestled about a mile down in the valley.

  ‘It’s not actually the village itself I want, but Kelton Farm. Do you know it?’ she asked, turning back to the farmer, thankful that there was no wind to drop the temperature even further.

  At the mention of the farm, however, the tractor driver visibly stiffened. His eyes, which had been both speculative and friendly, suddenly turned hostile. Despite the all-pervading freezing cold, Jenny felt the temperature drop yet another notch, and her heart fell.

  ‘Sure, I know it. You want to take this lane for half a mile or so and then take the first path on the left — if you can see it in all this,’ he waved his hand at the blanketing snow. ‘I doubt old man Kelton has had the track cleared just to make life easier for visitors, mind. He would have better use for the few tractors he’s got, I reckon, and he certainly wouldn’t want to get his precious cart horses out just for that.’

  There was unmistakable contempt in his tone now, and Jenny arched one eyebrow delicately into her fringe of dark hair. ‘Horses?’ she almost squeaked in surprise. ‘You mean proper cart horses?’ she asked quietly, feeling a thrill of romanticism ripple through her.

  ‘That’s right,’ he snorted. ‘He uses mostly horses, and charges a fortune for folks to come and watch what he calls “traditional farming” being done. He gets all sorts out here — school trips and tourists and whatnot, and all of them paying good money for the privilege. He sells his produce to them organic people who go crazy for it, plus he rakes off all the grants he can get from the government for being so “green.” That’s not to mention the half-baked hippies who pay a fortune to live in his run-down cottages and get a taste of the “real thing.” They think because they have to pump water out of a well by hand and live by gas lamps and candlelight, that they’re experiencing something special. Truth is, the canny old sod doesn’t have to pay for the upkeep or maintenance of the cottages and he can still make a tidy profit out of ’em.’

  ‘But surely, in this day and age he has to meet certain standards?’ Jenny objected.

  Her knight of the road snorted disdainfully. ‘Not him! Besides, nobody complains do they? Like I said, they think they’re getting a taste of the good old days — growing their own veg and raising rabbits or whatever. He even set up a fancy petting zoo for kiddies in the summer — charges nearly five quid for entry. Can you believe it? Five bleeding quid!’

  Jenny shrugged, wondering if it was just jealousy talking. Nowadays, she knew that many farmers had to subsidize their incomes. Maybe Stanley Kelton was one of those wise and heart-warming souls who bred rare species in an effort to save them from extinction. She knew a lot of the UK’s oldest and more rural breeds of farming animals were in danger of dying out, in which case he would need the extra capital for their upkeep.

  ‘You ask me, he likes to think he’s some kind of lord of the manor still living in Victorian times. And what’s to stop him? He’s got all his family too scared to stand up to him. And Kelton Farm’s the biggest around here,’ the farmer finally admitted, grudging every syllable. ‘His farmhands have got no choice but to play along with him, if they want to work that is. Even though it’s bloody back-breaking work doing things the old-fashioned way. You ask me, he’s just too tight-fisted to pay good money on modern equipment. There’s a saying around here. You can always trust a Kelton to get blood out of a stone.’

  And he gave a gurgling laugh.

  Jenny sighed deeply. It was going to be one of those Christmases. She could just feel it. The farmer, noting her gloom and unable to contain his curiosity any longer, gave an artificial cough. ‘You, er . . . going to work there yourself, then?’

  Jenny smiled rather grimly. ‘I’m afraid so. But just for the two weeks over Christmas. I’m their cook.’

  ‘Their cook!’ the farmer echoed, too stunned to remember his good manners. When he found those disconcertingly lovely blue eyes centred on him once more, he felt himself blush; at forty-two, it was something he hadn’t done since his teen years. ‘Sorry, missus. It’s just that it’s not like Stan to hire somebody he didn’t have to. Not when he’s got a daughter, like, to do all the drudgery and cooking for him.’ A glint of mischievous glee suddenly lightened his dour face. ‘Oh, I get it! Joanne, that’s my wife, she told me that she’d heard young Delia was threatening to stop work over the Christmas season. Looks like she got up the gumption to stick by it too. Good on her, I say. But I said to Jo at the time, I couldn’t see Stan going without his mince pies and turkey.’ Crow’s feet appeared at the corners of his eyes as he grinned at some private or local joke that Jenny fervently hoped wasn’t going to backfire on her.

  Whatever the family tensions were at Kelton Farm, the last thing she wanted to do was stand on anybody’s toes. She sighed again, more deeply than ever.

  Yes, it was definitely going to be one of those Christmases. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be off,’ she muttered, never one to falter in the face of adversity. She glanced at the leaden skies all around her and frowned. ‘There’s more snow up there,’ she added quietly, her words rousing the farmer from his
musings.

  ‘I reckon you’re right there,’ he agreed briskly. ‘You mind them ditches then. Stick to the middle of the road,’ he advised, climbing back into the cabin of his shuddering tractor and continuing on down the road with a blithe wave of farewell in her direction.

  Jenny looked all around her at the snow and sighed. Wonderful! How was she to tell what was the middle of the road amongst all this blanketing whiteness? She gave a mental shrug and hoisted her tough nylon holdall firmly over one shoulder and set off.

  If she suddenly found herself knee-high in a foot or so of frozen water, she supposed that she could safely assume she’d come across a ditch.

  It was Christmas Eve tomorrow, and who knew what sort of welcome awaited her at her new place of work? Still, things could be worse, she told herself philosophically. At least she had a job — well, for the next two weeks at any rate.

  She’d been staying in Oxford where she was hoping to secure a position in one of the many college kitchens, once the next term started. Although she’d secured a little bedsit near Keble College, her kitchen in the converted Victorian house consisted of a single gas ring, and the thought of spending Christmas alone had been a depressing one, her father still in France and her activist mother off on some crusade or other about Christmas trees. So when she’d seen the two-week job as cook at Kelton Farm advertised in the local paper, it had roused her interest immediately. And not even the derisory wages on offer had put her off. She cooked for the love of it, as well as for money. And the thought of spending a good old traditional Christmas on an English farm, cooking all those good old traditional dishes, seemed almost too good to be true.

  Now, as she trudged her way through the snowdrifts, she told herself that the next time mawkish sentiment reared its seductive head, she’d look the other way!