by Faith Martin
‘I take it you’ve got a search party out, scouting for any footprints leading to the farm across the fields from the village?’ Jenny said as the room once more fell silent.
Moulton blinked.
Jenny sighed. ‘With all that snow lying around, we should make sure no one came here from the village, or from the main road. Whilst I don’t think it likely that a stranger did kill Sid, it’s probably a good idea to eliminate all other possibilities first,’ she explained, feeling unutterably weary.
Without a word Moulton left, no doubt to give the order for a team of constables to start scouring the fields for tracks.
Ford glanced at her, something approaching respect in his eyes. He was beginning to think she might prove to be useful after all. He was used to doing Moulton’s thinking for him, and he had to admit that, like his superior, he too had begun to feel a little out of his depth in this case.
It was nice to have an old hand, so to speak, hanging around — even if in a strictly unofficial capacity, of course.
‘So you think it was an inside job then?’ he asked, as his superior returned.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Jenny agreed wearily. ‘Especially since the dog was here all the time. I’d forgotten about Pooch,’ she admitted. ‘If a stranger had done it, then surely Sid would have showed some surprise? Some alarm? The dog would have barked, at the very least. And I’m sure Pooch would have attacked any stranger that went for his master. And I heard no such rumpus.’
She thought of Sid, fondling the dog’s ears. Pooch would wonder where that kind hand had got to, in the weeks to come. The thought threatened to bring tears to her eyes, and she briskly shook her head and snapped out of it. Getting maudlin, that’s what it amounted to. So she’d better watch it!
She glanced up as Ford put away his notebook, the gesture reminding her of someone else. Now who . . . ? Of course! Philip Endecott.
When she’d reached the age of twenty-one her father had become convinced that his only child would die an old maid unless he did something about it. Consequently he’d hinted, bullied, cajoled and whinged until she and Philip Endecott, a turf accountant from Banbury, had finally agreed to become engaged. Philip had fallen in love with her Yorkshire puddings and jam roly-poly. Or was it her bread and butter pudding? Of course, Jenny had had no serious intention of marrying anyone at such a young age — let alone Philip Endecott. But agreeing to the pretence had kept her father quiet, and in the end, once his hysteria had worn off somewhat, it had been easy enough to convince Philip that he really didn’t want to marry her either, divine Yorkshire puddings or not.
Funny, the last she’d heard, Philip Endecott had joined a monastery in deepest Peru. She frowned thoughtfully. Surely she hadn’t scared him that much? Although, now she came to think of it, she had threatened to do something very physical with a spatula unless he stopped bothering her . . .
‘Miss Starling!’ Moulton’s raised voice snapped her out of her reverie.
‘Hmm?’ She blinked and straightened up. ‘What?’ she asked briskly.
‘I was saying,’ Moulton explained patiently, ‘that the men are searching the fields now. The body’s gone, and everything’s quietened down.’
‘Hmm,’ Jenny said flatly.
But Moulton was not a man to be easily put off. He’d found his salvation, and was going to cling to it tenaciously come what may. ‘So, what do you suggest we do next?’ he prodded.
The cook looked at him thoughtfully. Never before had she been called upon to take such a direct part in a murder investigation. Usually, she spent much of her time assuring the policeman in charge that she had no intention of interfering. Now, faced with Moulton’s patiently waiting face, she felt a sudden blast of panic. What if she couldn’t do it? What if Sid’s murderer got away with it?
No! Such a thought was unthinkable. Jenny Starling visibly stiffened her shoulders, which made Moulton, at least, feel much happier about things. ‘Well,’ she said practically, ‘if we can’t do anything positive yet, we can at least see if we can rule out Delia from the list of suspects,’ she said firmly.
Moulton looked blank for a moment, then said, ‘We go and see Sissy Bray and her mother?’
‘Right,’ Jenny said. ‘And, er, Inspector? We’ll all go out the front way, if you don’t mind. I’d rather we got into the habit of coming and going that way. It’ll save me from spending my entire time mopping the floor!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cordelia Bray didn’t look like much of an invalid, although Jenny had to admit that she certainly knew how to be one. For the cook found herself instantly agreeing with Mrs Jarvis’s rather spiteful opinion of her next-door neighbour within moments of meeting her.
A well-cushioned woman, she lay on a long, comfortable sofa, and was dressed in a cosy, warm-looking dressing gown and slippers, next to a roaring log fire. By her side was a table on which rested an empty teacup, a bowl of fruit, a box of chocolates, and several popular women’s magazines.
Her hair had been carefully washed and brushed, and was still more golden than grey. Her lips were coloured with a very discreet lipstick, and her face powdered to a becoming pink. Since she couldn’t have been expecting visitors, and thus must repose beautifully like this all day long, it was obvious that her appearance meant even more to Cordelia than her supposed ill health.
Her voice was decidedly weak, though, as was the look in her eye, as she made a feeble attempt to sit up a little straighter. Now, was that simply play-acting or a case of genuine lethargy, Jenny wondered, with just a touch of unease. She supposed that if you played the invalid for long enough, and didn’t exercise or use your muscles much, then someday you might very well discover that you’d become an invalid in reality.
The thought was rather horrific.
‘Sissy, did you say these were the police?’ she breathed, her eyes widening in alarm, her hands fluttering in panic. Jenny wasn’t sure if the panic was real, either, or if Mrs Bray merely thought that it was the done thing to do, when your daughter ushered in such unexpected visitors to your living room.
In contrast to her mother, Sissy Bray looked the epitome of wholesome health and youth. She was Delia’s age, but rather more plain and serious in her manner than her friend, and she hovered about the room as if unsure of what to do next.
Jenny could well imagine that apart from Delia, there were very few callers at their cottage. Apart from anything else, it was in such an isolated spot, with a mere footpath leading to The Dell from Kelton Farm. No car could be driven right up to the front door, and in this day and age, she cynically expected that that fact alone would put off a lot of would-be callers, anyway. She doubted that the green message — i.e. cycle or walk — counted for much in this small rural community.
As the girl, all gangly arms and legs, finally decided to settle on the arm of a huge, padded armchair, Jenny wondered with sympathy if the very isolation of her home added to the girl’s obvious desperation to escape from it.
‘I’m Inspector Moulton, Mrs Bray,’ the inspector began gently, responding as most men would to the sight of a supposedly helpless, quite good-looking female. He even managed a smile. Ford actually blushed as Cordelia swept her eyes briefly over him.
‘Please, gentlemen, do sit down. I’m afraid I can’t rise . . .’ Both men fell over themselves to assure her that she mustn’t upset herself, and Cordelia sank graciously back against the pale mint-green cushions that complemented her colouring so well.
‘Sissy, you must make some nice hot tea for our callers. The weather’s so foul, isn’t it? Of course, it’s nice to have snow for Christmas for a change, but . . . oh, dear,’ she gave a lovely little shudder that rocked her ample bosom just nicely, and then sighed deeply. ‘So much of it! I swear, I think we’ll be snowed in here for weeks!’
Moulton murmured, vaguely tut-tutting condolences and assurances, whilst Ford, somewhat reluctantly it seemed, reached for his notebook. Her performance over for the moment, Cordelia finally
gave her female visitor a quick scrutiny.
Her eyes were faintly contemptuous as they took in her unusual height and well-endowed hourglass figure, but her gaze sharpened and then she took in a quick gasp of air as she met Jenny’s eyes. Not only were they far more beautiful than her own, but they were looking at her as if they could see right through her.
Cordelia quickly looked away. She coughed gently. ‘Well, gentlemen, I must say I didn’t expect to ever entertain a policeman in my home. There’s nothing wrong is there?’
At that moment Sissy returned with a tray. She had been so quick, the cook instantly surmised two things. One was obvious — the poor girl had to keep a kettle constantly on the go to have a steady supply of hot water ready; and secondly, she didn’t like to be out of earshot for any longer than was strictly necessary.
That, Jenny supposed, could be put down to simple curiosity. Then again, perhaps the girl didn’t trust her mother to be alone with them? And if that was the case, what was it she was afraid of that Cordelia might say?
Jenny watched the teenager closely as she stirred the tea. It had been a cold walk from Kelton Farm to The Dell, and the prospect of hot tea was more than welcome.
Sissy had none of Delia’s natural poise or grace, she noted clinically, but even so she seemed to pour out the tea in jerks and nervous starts that went far beyond the fumbling of an awkward teenager. She was obviously tense and on edge about something. But that might just be put down to the alien presence of the police in her living room.
Ford helped himself to two lumps of sugar; Moulton had one. Jenny took her own cup from the girl and smiled at her encouragingly. She got absolutely no response. It was as if the girl barely knew she was there.
She’s definitely nervous about something, Jenny thought uneasily, and suddenly had a very strong premonition that this interview was not going to give them the results she’d been hoping for.
‘Now, Mrs Bray,’ Moulton began. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a little trouble over at Kelton Farm,’ he admitted, and Sissy’s cup rattled noisily in her saucer. She quickly picked up the cup and took a sip, but nobody in the room had missed the telltale reaction.
Her mother cast her a quick, black look. It boded badly for Sissy later on, Jenny thought; Mother was going to lay down the riot act about something and no mistake. Now though, and mindful of her visitors, she merely lifted one delicately arched eyebrow and tried not to look too curious. ‘Oh? Well, I’ve never been over there, of course. I’m completely housebound, I’m afraid. So I don’t quite see . . .’ as delicately as she could she urged them to get to the point.
She wants to get her daughter alone as quickly as possible, Jenny thought in quick comprehension, and felt her sympathy for the girl grow in leaps and bounds. Mrs Bray’s stranglehold on her only child had to be protected at all costs. Jenny could well understand why she would deem any news, no matter how seemingly irrelevant, as a possible threat to her cosy life here in The Dell.
‘Yes, well, it’s Delia Kelton we actually want to talk to you about,’ Moulton said. He was not about to tell the charming and unfortunate Mrs Bray all about the murder — it was hardly police policy to go about dispersing information to the general public — but he did need to get to the facts.
Cordelia shot her daughter a fulminating look. ‘Yes, well, I don’t think I should say much about Delia,’ she began sweetly. ‘You see, I don’t really approve of the girl,’ she carried on, fluttering her hands helplessly.
I’ll just bet you don’t, Jenny thought grimly. She was too much of a disruptive influence on Sissy, no doubt. And too dangerous by half, with all her ideas of running away and maybe sharing a flat together and getting a job and becoming free of their respective prisons and jailers.
‘So, I wouldn’t want anything I say to colour your, er, judgement, so to speak,’ Cordelia was finishing, so reasonably and with such impeccable fairness that Jenny shot her a quick look. She thinks something’s happened to Delia, the cook realized with sudden comprehension. Now why should she think that?
‘Oh, of course not. But really, all we need to know,’ Moulton rushed to assure her, ‘is whether or not Delia came here this morning, and if so, how long she stayed for.’
‘Oh,’ Cordelia said, sounding (to Jenny’s ears at least) a trifle disappointed. ‘Yes, she did come this morning. About . . . what time, Sissy?’ she turned to her daughter, who was staring down with intense interest into her cup.
Sissy raised and lowered her shoulders sullenly. ‘I dunno. Just after breakfast. About nine.’
Ford meticulously scribbled down a note of the time. ‘And what time did she leave, do you think, Miss Bray?’ he prompted her softly.
Again, the teenager’s shoulders rose and fell in silent misery. ‘I dunno. Just before lunch.’ Suddenly, Sissy lifted her eyes and stared straight at her mother. ‘She’s not allowed to eat here, you see. She has to go home for lunch.’ Her voice, although even and steady, spoke volumes.
Cordelia flushed angrily, then, aware of her audience, half turned to the two policemen sitting opposite her, and opened her eyes piteously wide. ‘The young these days don’t understand about hardship, Inspector. You see, I only have my widow’s pension, and with the price of food these days . . .’ Her hands did a helpless butterfly act. ‘I simply couldn’t afford to . . . well . . . you know,’ she said, her voice wavering slightly, her head dipping in very seemly humility. ‘But the Keltons of course are really quite wealthy . . .’
‘Oh, quite, of course,’ Moulton said and cast an angry glance at Sissy. ‘Children nowadays don’t have much idea about the importance of money,’ he agreed, his voice chilly.
‘Hah!’ Jenny could restrain herself no longer. She was pretty sure that Sissy Bray knew an awful lot about the hardships of life. Both men turned to stare at her, surprised by her snort of disbelief. Cordelia watched her teacup with as much industrious concentration as Sissy had previously been watching hers.
Aware that she now held centre stage, and had no one to blame for it but herself, she gave a small cough.
‘I take it that Delia stayed in here most of the time, Mrs Bray?’ she said, and when the woman shot her a puzzled look, nodded around the room. ‘In the living room, I mean.’
‘Oh. I see. No, as a matter of fact, Sissy always takes Delia upstairs to her bedroom,’ she said, her voice dripping with disapproval. ‘She keeps her magazines up there, you see, and her stereo, and that dreadful computer that she’s always on, day and night. You know how silly girls are, with their fashion magazines and pop stars and things,’ she said, not to Jenny, but to Moulton.
In Cordelia’s world, it was obviously only the men that mattered.
‘I see,’ Jenny said, her voice droll, and turned to Sissy. ‘Miss Bray, did Delia leave your room for any length of time during the morning?’
Sissy was now looking distinctly puzzled. ‘Leave? No, I don’t think so. Of course, I had to keep popping downstairs to see to Mum,’ she said, and the cook nodded wisely. Yes, I’ll just bet you did, you poor chump, she thought grimly.
‘But apart from that, you were together all morning?’ she persisted, beginning to feel relieved that at least one Kelton was now properly out of the running for the murder of poor Sid.
But Sissy was nodding, even as Cordelia was shaking her head.
‘Don’t forget my bath, darling,’ she reminded, her voice sweetness itself. She didn’t know why, but Delia Kelton was in some kind of trouble, and that was too good an opportunity to miss for someone like Mrs Bray.
Jenny glanced at her briefly, then turned back to her daughter as the girl sighed heavily. ‘Oh yes. I had to give Mum a bath.’
‘When was this?’ Ford piped up, his ever-ready notebook quivering in his hand.
‘Just before lunch,’ Sissy said. ‘I remember, because when I got back, me and Dee-Dee didn’t have much time left to talk.’ And the fact that Sissy had desperately wanted to talk to her friend Jenny didn’t doubt, for Sissy st
ill looked the epitome of misery. Had Delia stormed out after some kind of argument? Sissy seemed to be regretting something. But what exactly? And surely a spat between young friends could have nothing to do with Sid Kelton and his death?
‘How long, do you think, did it take you to give your mother her bath?’ she asked gently, and Sissy shrugged.
‘I dunno. Half an hour or so I should think. It takes a while to run the water just right, and get Mum in and everything—’
‘Sissy,’ Cordelia said, glancing quickly at the men. ‘I think that’s enough.’
Moulton shifted uneasily in his chair. He, too, had no wish to go into details about poor Mrs Bray’s ablutions.
‘And this was just before lunch,’ Jenny said. ‘Say . . . one o’clock?’ she asked hopefully.
But her luck was out. ‘Oh no,’ Sissy said quickly. ‘We usually eat around twelve thirty.’
So Delia had been alone when Sid was killed. And had been alone for a good half an hour or so. Plenty of time to go to the farm and come back again. And she’d have known, from her past experiences at The Dell, roughly how long it would take Sissy to bathe her mother.
Damn!
Opposite her, both policemen were thinking much the same thing. Ford glanced at Moulton who reluctantly rose to his feet.
‘And you never popped back into your bedroom for something, even once, and saw Delia?’ Jenny fished, just to make sure, but Sissy was already shaking her head.
‘I daren’t leave Mother alone in the bath,’ she said simply. Jenny nodded and sighed. And, of course, Delia would know that as well. So that was that.
Sissy rose to see them out, but once on the doorstep she quickly grabbed Jenny’s arm. Moulton and Ford were already making off down the footpath, not anxious to linger on the cold doorstep. A chill wind was springing up in the east.
‘I hope she makes it!’ Sissy hissed, her voice rich in defiance, and Jenny met her dancing eyes with a sad look. For with those few simple words, she understood at once what Sissy was thinking, what she had been thinking all throughout the interview.
