The Winter Mystery

by Faith Martin

  Stan Kelton hardly sounded like a maiden’s dream of an employer, and a rebellious daughter could cause her no end of problems. She only hoped there’d be no funny business this time. Through no fault of her own, she had, in the past, had to sort out some very nasty murders. People nowadays had no self-control, she thought crossly.

  After a while she stopped walking, both to catch her breath and because something else had caught her attention: to her left, two rows of wooden stakes, standing a few feet apart and about a foot above the ground, led off over the crest of a hill. She put her holdall down and looked back down the road, thinking. Had she come half a mile? Straight on, the tower of the village church certainly looked closer. And that row of posts signified to her a set of fences running alongside a road. And, looking more closely still, the snow there did seem to be a few inches lower than the surrounding mass, as if, a few days ago, someone or something had passed along, flattening the first layer of snow tight. The new snowfall, however, looked ominously pristine.

  ‘Oh, wonderful,’ Jenny muttered. Above her, a flock of jackdaws rose noisily from a bare oak tree, scuffling and arguing. For a moment she watched them, envying their ease of movement as they set off towards the village. Then with a somewhat self-pitying sigh, she resumed her trudging. She only hoped the farm was just over the hill. Snow looked pretty, but it was hard going on the legs. Her calf muscles were already begging for mercy and her toes had long since said bye-bye to the rest of her.

  But if the farm turns out to be three or four miles over the hill, she thought resentfully, I hope someone finds my frozen body and gives me a decent burial.

  A lone jackdaw came to roost on one of the posts, and called out a cheery greeting to her as she went past. ‘Jack!’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Jenny snarled at it, and hefted her holdall just a little higher under her armpit.

  Since there’d been no telephone number attached to the advertisement, she’d written a letter, citing her previous experience and employers, and had been accepted by return of post. In that letter, Mr Stanley Kelton had specified this morning as her time of arrival. The least he could have done was have one of his horses plough a path up this blasted track, she thought, feeling more and more put upon with every plodding step.

  At last, she crested the small rise and looked down, thankfully, onto a large, square Cotswold-stone farmhouse spread out below her. Although it was nearly eleven o’clock in the morning, the sky was so overcast it felt almost dark. In several windows, orange light spilled cheerfully onto the snowy courtyard surrounding it. From the set of stables off to the left, and attached to the house by a makeshift corrugated iron passageway, she could see steam gently rising into the air, although no horse, very wisely, hung his head over the half-doors into the frigid air beyond.

  As she looked, a black and white shape trotted across the cleared courtyard and scratched at the door to the house. The sheepdog was evidently out of luck, for as the cook thankfully picked up a little speed, the prospect of hot tea and an even hotter kitchen fire spurring her on, the dog trotted back disconsolately and disappeared into one of the stables. There, at least, the body heat of the animals would help to raise the temperature a little.

  She was out of breath but in a much happier frame of mind when she finally reached the door and banged on it sharply. At the sound, the sheepdog sped across the yard and comically skidded to a halt at the sight of a stranger in his domain. Guiltily, not to mention rather belatedly, he started to bark. Jenny glanced at him, not in the least intimidated.

  ‘Shut up, Pooch,’ a young and attractive voice said, right in her left ear, and Jenny quickly turned around.

  ‘Hello. Are you Miss Kelton?’ she asked with a bright smile. She believed in making a good first impression.

  ‘Yes?’

  Delia Kelton looked to be about eighteen or so. She had shoulder-length blond hair, the colour of ripening wheat, and deep chocolate-brown eyes. She was in a red woollen dress that was well-worn and far too small for her. The effect showed off too much leg, and pulled too tightly across her rather well-developed breasts. No doubt her strike over Christmas was probably the least of her father’s worries, Jenny thought wryly.

  ‘I’m Jenny Starling,’ Jenny said, to no effect. ‘I’m the cook?’ Still no reaction. Delia continued to look at her, a puzzled frown pulling at her brows. ‘Mr Kelton has hired me for two weeks. To help out with the Christmas dinner and so on . . .’ she trailed off, dismayed to see a look of petulant fury fill the girl’s otherwise pretty face.

  It was at once obvious that her father had not told her what he’d done. No doubt, Jenny thought with intuitive accuracy, Delia had hoped that her threat to stop work over Christmas was going to win her some concession or other. And Jenny’s untimely arrival was living proof that she had failed.

  ‘Oh hell,’ Jenny said glumly.

  Delia glanced at her sharply, her eyes narrowing. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said at last, grudgingly.

  And as the unexpected visitor passed by, her well-padded figure such a striking contrast to her own slim frame, Delia frowned. She had the uncanny feeling that the other woman had understood far more than she should have done, just from a few simple words. It left her feeling oddly vulnerable, and wrong-footed.

  ‘I suppose I’d better show you to the kitchen then,’ she said, with more hostility than she’d meant. ‘I daresay you’re cold after that walk,’ she added quickly, by way of shame-faced recompense.

  Jenny nodded gratefully, and followed her hostess into the most pitiful kitchen it had ever been her misfortune to come across.

  Although the room itself was perfectly adequate — large, square and well equipped — everything else was a sight. The floor was a picture of muddy footsteps, thawing into little pools of water. Obviously, the men of the house just tramped through with muddy, snow-covered wellingtons whenever they pleased. The fire in the Aga was low, and untended; the sink was full of unwashed dishes. On the table were a few crusts of bread and a piece of uncovered, hard-looking cheese. No kettle boiled. No smell of delicious baking permeated the air.

  And surely — she glanced at her watch; yes, it was now almost eleven thirty — wouldn’t the men be coming in for their lunch soon? In weather like this, they’d need something hot.

  Delia watched the stranger’s eyes narrow.

  Jenny quickly pulled off her bobble hat, revealing a cascade of surprisingly pretty, glossy dark hair. When the big cook looked once more her way, Delia found herself looking into piercing blue eyes that seemed to cut right through her.

  Jenny didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

  ‘I’ve refused to have anything to do with the place,’ Delia said, instantly on the defensive. ‘I told Father so, but he thought I was bluffing. Well, he knows differently now.’ Her chin angled up as her voice rose into semi-hysterical defiance.

  Still Jenny made no comment, but she wearily shrugged off her coat. Beneath it she wore a heavy ivory-coloured woollen sweater and a longish brown skirt. Her ample but sexy hourglass shape made the girl’s eyes widen.

  ‘How long is it since the men have eaten a cooked meal?’ she asked briskly, instantly the consummate professional.

  Delia pouted. ‘They make themselves poached egg on toast. Stuff like that. Oh, all right! Four days,’ she finished in a burst, her pout going into overdrive.

  Jenny shuddered. Food was the great love of her life, and the thought of anyone going without a proper quantity of it for so long was horrendous! ‘I see. How many will I be cooking for?’

  Delia met the unwavering blue gaze, and was the first to look away. The kitchen had somehow taken on an air of sudden animation, as if it were magically aware of the presence of a maestro. Delia herself was becoming aware of the force of the other woman’s personality, and felt an uprising of panic.

  ‘Well, there’s my dad and Uncle Sid. Bert, my older brother, and his son Jeremy, and Bill. Bill’s my other brother. And myself of course, and
Mrs Jarvis. She’s our daily. Part of her wages is a cooked meal. She’s a widow, lives on her own. She’s late in today. I daresay with the snow and everything . . . anyway, that’s all. Bert’s wife left him, and Bill isn’t married. Nobody stays around here unless they have to,’ she finished her somewhat rambling inventory with a bitter grimace.

  ‘Humph,’ Jenny grunted, and began a thorough check of the kitchen, noting utensils and supplies as she went. Delia watched her, clearly fascinated: the cook missed nothing.

  After ten minutes, she’d assembled a pile of leeks and potatoes from the cold cellar, and extracted some ham from the fridge. Herbs from the herb closet followed, and when, later, two men walked in, a blast of frigid air accompanying them, the room was filled with the smell of potato and leek soup and freshly baking bread.

  Bert and Bill Kelton both moved cautiously into the middle of the kitchen, staring first at the nearly six-foot-tall figure of the unknown cook, then at their sister, then at each other.

  Jenny, noticing both their caution and lack of words, frowned over her saucepan. This would never do. She turned, looked them over and nodded. ‘Gentlemen, I’m Jenny Starling. Your father hired me to cook for you over the Christmas season. There’s ham, potato and leek soup for lunch, with bread fresh from the oven. Sit down, and I’ll lay the table.’

  Bert, who was obviously the elder, slouched wordlessly at the table. He was, Jenny would learn later, forty-six years old, and his thick brown hair had begun to turn grey. He watched the world through such sad brown eyes that he reminded Jenny of a bullock about to go to the slaughter. He seemed utterly defeated, but quite by what, she couldn’t tell.

  Bill, younger by ten years, still moved like a man in his prime. His hair was fair, like that of his sister, but his eyes were a soft grey-blue. ‘Smells good,’ he said, and gave Jenny a smile that would just have to do as her official welcome. She accepted both his compliment and greeting with a bow of her head then looked up as one of the inner doors opened.

  The man who came through shuffled, as though raising his slipper-shod feet to take individual steps was beyond him. In fact, everything looked beyond him. He was tall, but stoop-shouldered. Consequently, the old grey cardigan that he wore hung almost to his knees. His hair was white and sparse, and on his skull, age spots showed like giant freckles. His chest looked caved in, and as he moved he wheezed. His eyes, however, were the same grey-blue as his younger nephew, and Jenny instantly knew that this could not be the Stan Kelton who had produced such contempt in the knight of the road who’d given her the much-needed lift that morning.

  No, this could only be Uncle Sid.

  ‘Hello there, and who’s this?’ Sid Kelton asked amiably. ‘And what’s that delicious smell?’ he added, his voice as paper-dry as a desert wind. His smile, though, was warm and sunny, and Jenny found herself rapidly moving forward and drawing a chair out for him to collapse into.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Kelton. Your brother hired me to cook for the family.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sid Kelton looked troubled and glanced sympathetically at his niece.

  ‘Just for the Christmas season,’ Jenny added quickly, wanting to ease the old man’s anxiety. She was rewarded by a look of relief, and nodded to herself, returning to her stove to make sure her soup wasn’t sticking to the bottom. It was a thick, nourishing soup, the way any good soup should be. But as she stirred, she made a mental note: whatever the reason behind Delia’s rebellion, it was obvious that her uncle was on her side.

  And Jenny couldn’t help but feel that any side Sid Kelton was on was the side she wanted to be on too.

  ‘You managed to clear off Spokeswain Bridge then, you two?’ Sid was asking behind her, and both men were halfway through a humorous account of trying to find the river and the small bridge that crossed it in the blanket of snow, when the outer door was flung open and a blast of snow-washed air came in.

  Jenny turned, frowning fiercely as yet another pair of dirty, snow-encrusted boots came into view. With a very audible ‘tut’ of annoyance, she went straight to the cupboard where she’d noticed a mop, and brought it out. She began to mop the floor with quick and efficient strokes and only when she’d finished, and put the mop away, did she look up.

  She’d been aware of total silence throughout her endeavours. She’d also been aware of how the atmosphere of the room had compressed. It was as if all the previous warmth she had put into it, the stoking of the fire and the smells of good food, had somehow been brought to nothing.

  And when she looked up and met Stanley Kelton face to face, she understood why. Fierce brown eyes glinted from beneath bushy brows, but there was no touch of animal softness in these orbs. Stan Kelton was a bullish-looking man, from the width of his shoulders to the thickness of his waist. His large, beefy hands were chapped and reddened by the coldness outside, but he seemed oblivious to physical discomfort. His eyes ran over her, but there was no curiosity in them.

  ‘You’re the cook then?’ he said flatly, and it came as no surprise that his voice was loud and dominating.

  Jenny felt her backbone stiffen. ‘I am,’ she said, in a decibel above that she’d normally use. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you men would remove your boots before coming in here. The floor is a disgrace.’

  Behind her somebody gasped. Or rather, several people gasped. Jenny had the feeling that nobody, but nobody, spoke to the old man like that. But Stan Kelton did not, as she had half expected, explode into a show of temper. For a long moment he simply considered her in silence. Then he walked over to the stove, lifted the lid off the saucepan, reached for a spoon and took a taste.

  Now everyone seemed to hold their breath except for Jenny. Jenny Starling already knew that the soup was excellent.

  Stan Kelton turned back to her. ‘Good soup,’ he said. ‘But nobody takes their boots off before coming in here, especially not in weather like this. There’s no porch out there, and I ain’t going to stand around in the cold, trying to prise my wellies off just to suit you. Get used to the mop.’ And with that he walked to the table, took the chair that was positioned at the top, and sat down.

  Head of the table. Head of the house. His power was so obvious it was almost farcical. ‘Is that bread ready yet?’ he asked.

  Jenny regarded him steadily. Quickly, she measured the trouble of an argument against any possible gains, and shrugged philosophically. ‘In a few minutes. Then it must cool. Eating hot bread is bad for the digestion.’

  She waited, as if expecting him to comment. Her gaze never wavered.

  ‘Aye,’ he finally said, and leaned back, stretching his cramped muscles. ‘I expect you’re right. You seem to know what you’re about, right enough. I don’t have to tell you what I expect, food wise, do I?’

  ‘No,’ Jenny said coolly. ‘You don’t. I’ll make the mince pies tomorrow. Will it be turkey or goose, Christmas Day?’

  ‘Goose, woman,’ Stan Kelton said firmly.

  Jenny nodded. ‘Goose it is. Christmas pudding then, to follow?’ She didn’t wait for his assent. They already understood one another perfectly. Wordlessly, she turned back to the stove.

  Sid Kelton looked at his brother thoughtfully, then glanced across at the two boys. He frowned. Delia watched the cook, playing nervously with the buttons on her red dress. Jenny stirred her soup and sighed.

  Well, this was a cheerful place and no mistake!

  As she took the bread out of the oven and laid it on a tray to cool, she began to wish that she were back at her bedsit in Oxford. One small gas ring or not.

  Merry Christmas, Jenny, she told herself wryly!

  CHAPTER TWO

  The last drop of soup had gone (and she’d made six pints) and the last crumb of bread had been devoured (hard luck on any birds hanging around in the courtyard hoping for some crumbs). And the kitchen floor was once again muddy, where the men had left the table and tramped back out again.

  Jenny surveyed the sink full of washing up and the dirty floor and sighed heavily. At th
e table, only Delia remained. She stayed stubbornly seated, arms folded firmly across her chest, her expression mutinous. Not that Jenny had expected any help from that quarter.

  ‘Has your uncle gone for a nap?’ she asked instead, returning to the mop, which was already beginning to feel as familiar as a lifelong friend, and setting to on the floor. Although it wasn’t technically part of her duties to be a cleaner, she simply couldn’t abide a kitchen that wasn’t clean. No doubt her celebrity-chef father would have minions to see to his every whim, but his travelling-cook daughter had to make shift for herself.

  When the younger girl didn’t answer, Jenny smiled. ‘After a meal it does a man good to sleep for a while,’ she offered pleasantly, which would be her one and only attempt at friendship. Should it be rebuffed, she could quite happily leave the petulant little madam to her own sulky devices. She was here to cook, not to be popular.

  Delia eventually shrugged. ‘For an invalid to take a nap you mean?’ she corrected her. But there was no malice in her voice, and she half turned to look affectionately at the door to the hall, where Sid, no doubt, probably was already dozing by the fire. ‘It was a wicked bout of pneumonia and an asthma attack that did it, you know,’ she said sadly.

  Jenny, with the floor once more looking respectable, stopped mopping and looked up. ‘Ah,’ she said softly, in immediate and sympathetic understanding. ‘His chest is weak?’

  ‘Yes,’ Delia confirmed. ‘He was in hospital for nearly six months, back in the seventies. When he came back to the farm, he just couldn’t pick up where he left off. Didn’t have the physical stamina anymore, y’know? And he was still youngish then, I suppose,’ she mused doubtfully. ‘Lucky for him, Dad was here,’ she added, her voice so suddenly loaded with vitriol that Jenny, caught in the act of adding washing-up liquid to the dishes, quickly turned her head.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked sharply, not sure why her own curiosity was so firmly aroused. She didn’t really want to learn any more about the intricacies of the Kelton family, after all. She just wanted to keep her head down, work out the two weeks, and hotfoot it back to Oxford before any funny business (or downright unfunny business) took place.