The Winter Mystery

by Faith Martin

  ‘Young men liked to sow their oats,’ someone muttered at the back, and there was a general guffaw of laughter.

  ‘I know what you mean.’ It was the church warden (who else?) who was the first to admit to his own peccadilloes. ‘I was head over heels in love with Lucy Wentworth. Remember her?’

  There was a general salutation to the absent Lucy Wentworth, who’d been a good-hearted (not to mention liberal-minded) woman, by all accounts.

  The landlord winked at Jenny, who let the church warden ramble on. ‘In the end, I never did see her again. She ran off to Liverpool with some prat from the Territorials.’

  There was another loud wave of laughter, and into the companionable silence that followed, Jenny dangled her hook. ‘So was there someone poor Sid turned to? With Eloise out of the picture?’

  But nobody knew of any woman Sid might have turned to. At his place along the bar, having kept as silent as a mouse, Moulton finally (if belatedly) caught on to what she was doing. She was fishing to see if Sid could have had an illegitimate son. And with the Kelton farm always going to the eldest, regardless of whether or not he was a bastard, he could see how important that might be. And that it would be a possible motive for Sid’s murder went without saying.

  But nobody, it seemed, knew of Sid having a dalliance with anyone. And in a village of this size, everyone almost certainly knew everyone else’s business. Everyone had known of the church warden and the luscious Lucy, for instance.

  ‘But surely, after he came out of hospital then,’ she continued to probe mercilessly, ‘he couldn’t have wanted to live all those years without a little female company?’

  And she looked so charmingly curious, the way fat cooks are supposed to be, that nobody ever wondered why she should be asking them so many questions. But yet again, everybody swore that poor old Sid wasn’t the type to get any lass into trouble.

  And now the poor old bugger was dead.

  The mood began to turn nasty. When were the coppers going to arrest somebody for it? How could anyone in the village feel safe with some lunatic going around stabbing people in the chest?

  Moulton took the hint, swallowed the last of his brandy, and beat a hasty retreat.

  Jenny stayed on, however, and in exchange for their gossip, fulfilled her part of their unspoken bargain by describing what had happened up at Kelton Farm on Christmas Eve from an eyewitness point of view, being careful not to get too morbid, or give out too much detail.

  ‘It’s more than I can stand, I can tell you,’ she said at last, and, like a cinema when the film had come to an end, everybody parted to let her leave, fond eyes watching her go.

  A nice gal, that. And a good cook too, every one of them would have sworn. It was only after she’d gone that the landlord noticed that her brandy still stood, untouched, on the bar.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On the way back from the village pub, Jenny turned off into the fast-melting lane that led to the farm and saw, walking just a few yards ahead of her, a familiar, cheery, carrot-topped figure.

  ‘Sergeant Ford!’ she called, and saw his head swivel around with a jerk of surprise. But the policeman’s face broke into a pleased smile as he spotted her and he paused to allow her to catch up to him. As she passed the spot where she had covered some of the footprints with her scarf, she noticed that the melting snow had all but obliterated the patterns on the boots.

  Everywhere, things were dripping. The trees had lost their heavy burdens of snow, and a deep ditch, either side of the land, was flooding with meltwater. In the sky above, a pale, sickly-looking sun was beginning to poke some tentative rays through the clouds. The going was fast becoming treacherous, and in more ways than one, the cook thought to herself grimly.

  Unless she was very much mistaken, the killer who must still skulk undetected at Kelton Farm would be beginning to relax by now, and growing more and more confident that he or she would never be exposed. And that was usually when mistakes were made, in her experience. Or was that just wishful thinking on her part?

  Ford, his cheeks reddening in the nippy air, watched as the six-foot-tall cook approached, his eyes taking in her surprisingly pleasing and shapely girth and sure-footed progress. She never seemed to trip or stumble, for she had that kind of grace with which large people were sometimes gifted. She looked so totally as he remembered her that he was half expecting her to have the puzzle already solved, and announce that he was just in time to make an arrest.

  Now wouldn’t that be nice, he thought, with an inward and well-concealed grin. ‘Miss Starling. I hope you had a merry, well at any rate, a reasonable Christmas,’ he murmured, just managing to stop himself from sounding too cheerful, whilst at the same time guiltily aware that he, himself, had had a marvellous time.

  Sledging with his kids had driven all thought of murder and mayhem from his mind, at least for a day. His wife had been very appreciative over that little silk trifle of a negligee he’d given her, too!

  Jenny smiled grimly, but overlooked his near gaffe. The less they said about the kind of Christmas she’d had the better, in her opinion. ‘Have your people traced the owner of those footprints yet?’ she huffed, glad to stop beside him and get her breath back.

  ‘They belonged to the postman, I’m afraid,’ Ford said. ‘Just as we thought. We questioned him, of course, but he didn’t see anybody suspicious hanging about.’

  ‘Hmm. And he’s all right too, I suppose?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Been doing the job for nearly twenty-two years. Married, six kids and genuinely sad to hear about Sid Kelton. Apparently, Sid used to have him in for a cup of tea, whenever Stan Kelton was well out of the way. He’d put a drop of brandy in it for him too, so the postie says, when the weather was really bad.’

  Jenny merely nodded. She was hardly surprised, either by the postman’s undoubted innocence, or by Sid’s kindness. When his brother wasn’t around, that is.

  ‘Inspector Moulton was expecting you this morning,’ she warned him, and saw his already chapped face redden to an even deeper shade of beetroot. Not that she could blame him for stealing an extra morning off. But she’d heard Moulton muttering under his breath about his sergeant’s absence, as he’d beat a hasty retreat from the Lamb and Dog.

  Ford muttered something about having to check in at the police station first. It sounded a likely story, even to her unofficial ears. She could only hope that he would have thought of something better by the time they got back.

  They set off for the farm together amicably enough, Ford subdued and rapidly losing his Christmas spirit, Jenny thoughtful and pensive. She had learned nothing much of value in the pub, except that Sid had almost certainly left behind no by-blows to queer the pitch. Not that it would have put her any further forward if she had discovered a bastard son.

  Even if Sid had had a son to inherit and thus take away the farm from Stan Kelton, then Sid’s murder still wouldn’t have made any sense. Sid had been old and weak, and couldn’t have been expected to live for many more years. All his unknown heir would have needed to do was wait for nature to take its course. Besides, with so many people abandoning farming nowadays, who was to say that any child of Sid’s would even want to inherit the farm? No. Until she could understand the why of it all, she was lost.

  As they approached the farmhouse, Ford slipping and sliding a little in the thawing mud and snow, the gander suddenly shot out of ambush from behind a rusting cart. Hissing mightily, his neck was elongated and bent at such an angle that his sharp beak was making straight for Sergeant Ford’s most vulnerable spot. Whether this was due to luck or dastardly experience, Jenny wasn’t quite sure.

  ‘Oi!’ Ford yelped, and took smartly to his heels.

  Jenny watched the pair of them steam away across the cobbled yard, and looked up towards the farm. A fire was sending white-grey smoke out of the chimneys, the dog and Bert were out in the fields at the back, and things were getting back to normal in a way that the cook didn’t much like. Already i
t was as if Sid were fading away, forgotten and ignored, whilst the murderer breathed ever more easily. It didn’t help her dour mood that the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Sid had been trying to tell her something, sitting there at the table, his wide blue eyes open but lifeless.

  But what?

  Jenny paused in the courtyard, vaguely watching as Ford ineffectively tried to safeguard his vulnerable bits from the gander’s long reach and strong, uncannily accurate beak.

  Once more, in her mind, she went over that terrible scene of only two mornings ago. Back from getting the eggs. Boots, scarf and coat off. Into the kitchen. Kettle boiling. Making tea. Getting the hot mince pies out. Walking back across the, for once, blissfully clean and dry floor and sitting down in her chair, looking across and . . . Sid. Dead. Blue eyes open and looking at her. Except, of course, they weren’t really looking at her — they couldn’t.

  Now what, what out of all that was she missing? Something about that scene was niggling away at her, taunting her that if she could only figure out what it was that was wrong, she could have the whole thing solved. But the only aspect of it that stood out in her mind’s eye were Sid’s own watery blue eyes gazing back at her as if trying to tell her something. Blue eyes? Jenny frowned, wondering. There seemed to be something lurking at the back of her mind about Sid’s blue eyes. Some snippet of forgotten or barely remembered information about . . . well, what exactly?

  But the more she pressed her subconscious for it, the more confused she became until, annoyingly, the only thing that sprang to her mind at all about blue eyes was an old country and western song that her father had been fond of about Blue eyes crying in the rain. An old Willie Nelson song, wasn’t it?

  And a fat lot of good that did her!

  She looked up, distracted, as a door banged shut behind a furiously cursing Ford, who’d at last managed to get into the house with little worse than a solid peck on his backside.

  Jenny went back to walking, and thinking. Halfway across the courtyard, the gander, flushed and overconfident after his successful tangle with — and routing of — the law, rashly decided that the time had come to regain his badly dented ganderhood and take on the big woman interloper.

  He set forth with his neck outstretched, wings outspread, and hissed with gusto. Jenny, who was far too big to be able to run (or even jog) with anything approaching dignity, merely looked up and waited for her moment.

  The gander was just within beak-distance, and they had a firm eye-lock on each other, when she said firmly and quite clearly, ‘I could always make goose-liver paté for a starter.’

  The gander, upset by her confident tone, began to back-pedal furiously, way too late, of course, and he began to skid precariously on the icy cobbles, his webbed feet finding little purchase in all the icy slush, and within a blink of an eye he shot past her like a water-skier out of control. She heard a dull thud, and as she turned, saw a single white feather float past her. She was just in time to see the gander stagger away from the rusting wheel of the cart, into which he’d run, full pelt.

  ‘Stupid bird,’ Jenny muttered, then smiled wryly. She was hardly proving to be a shining light of intelligence herself. Blue eyes crying in the rain, indeed.

  Hah!

  * * *

  Ford and Moulton were locked in a serious conference in the lounge when Jenny checked that her ham, leek and leftover goose pie in the oven could do with another half hour. The vegetables were done, salted and ready to be cooked, and her kitchen was in immaculate order. As usual, she had her domain to herself.

  So a small unhappy sound had her lifting her head instantly, eyes wary. She relaxed and smiled briefly at Delia, who hovered in the doorway, wringing her hands together in front of her and looking totally miserable. ‘Hello, Miss Starling. You’re back.’

  Jenny knew she wasn’t required to answer, and didn’t. Delia continued to wring her hands. ‘Inspector Moulton says he’s finished with Uncle Sid’s room now. He says we can clear it out, if we like.’

  The cook nodded. ‘And your father asked you to see to it?’ she guessed bluntly. Such indifferent heartlessness was typical of Stan, Jenny thought crossly. She doubted that it had even crossed his mind that it was a task that Delia must dread.

  Delia nodded. ‘I wondered if, well . . . if dinner can wait for a while if . . .’

  ‘You want me to help?’ Jenny quickly came to her rescue. Not only was she genuinely sympathetic — after all, to a teenage girl, death was not something to be born stoically — but she was curious as well. To be offered a legitimate reason to look through Sid’s things was an opportunity too good to be missed. ‘Of course I’ll help. We’ll need plenty of bags.’

  Delia, wilting in relief now that the task need not be faced alone, ran ahead to fetch out from the staircase cupboard some strong, sturdy black bin bags. Then she followed the cook up the stairs. Once outside Sid’s door, she would have lingered apprehensively, no doubt working herself up into a good head of skittish steam, had she not been dealt with firmly.

  ‘Now,’ Jenny pushed open the door and stepped briskly inside. ‘Will anyone in your family be wanting Sid’s clothes, do you think?’

  Delia blinked. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think they’ll fit Dad, or Bert.’

  ‘What about Bill? No, he’s not as big as Bert I know, but still he’s not skinny enough. They’ll fit Jeremy though, won’t they?’ She raised one eyebrow questioningly. ‘He’s only a bit of a twig. But they might be a bit old-fashioned for a youngster. What do you think?’

  Delia, for the first time since Christmas Eve, managed to laugh. ‘I don’t think Jeremy will want Uncle Sid’s old cardigans and baggy trousers, somehow!’

  Jenny smiled, glad to see some of the terror leave the girl’s dark eyes. ‘No, I expect not. Right then, all his clothes should go to charity, yes?’

  Delia nodded. Making that decision, for some reason, had her feeling suddenly very grown up.

  ‘Right then. They need to be folded carefully and put into the bags.’

  Delia, once guided, set to with a certain resignation. The girl had really suffered for want of a mother, the cook thought with a pang, as she watched Delia settle down by the wardrobe. It couldn’t have been easy, all those formative years, growing up in a household full of men.

  Jenny, having sorted out Delia to their mutual satisfaction, realized that she was now free to look around. This she did with meticulous care.

  On Sid’s bedside table was a pair of dark-rimmed reading glasses, a glass for his teeth, a roll of indigestion tablets and a table lamp. She moved on to the small dresser against one wall, going through the drawers and carefully putting away folded shirts and cardigans, but coming across nothing more helpful than a small battered box that, once opened, revealed a small gold locket inside.

  Checking that Delia was still busy with her uncle’s suits hanging in the wardrobe, Jenny prised open the locket with a sturdy thumbnail. She was hardly surprised to find a faded picture of Eloise in one side, and a very young Sid in the other. She sighed, and carefully put the box to one side. Delia should have that, of course. She’d give it to the girl later, when she was feeling a little stronger and less weepy.

  The bottom drawer felt heavier the instant she went to open it, and, looking down, she quickly saw why. It was filled with magazines, some of them ancient. Her eyebrows rose for an instant, then resettled themselves. She shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, what could poor Sid have had to do all day except read? She knew the radio that played constantly had been his, and that he’d been in the habit of turning it on first thing in the morning and leaving it on — a habit that Bert seemed to have taken up where his uncle had left off. But that, Jenny suspected, had only been Sid’s way of creating some noise, in an effort to make the deserted farm seem less lonely during the day.

  She lifted out huge piles of National Geographic, science magazines and innumerable gardening magazines. Sid had obviously been a fact
buff, rather than a fiction reader.

  She glanced down at one magazine, not surprised to see that it was over twenty years old. He was obviously a hoarder.

  ‘I see Sid liked to read a lot,’ Jenny mused, and Delia glanced uninterestedly over her shoulder.

  ‘Hmm. Bert always picked them up whenever he went to the doctors or dentists or whatever. Sid had piles of them, just waiting for him to get around to browsing through them. He was always trying to get me to read them,’ she said, her voice a little wistful. ‘He thought it was educational. “Look at this, our Del, all about this tribe in South America,” he’d say. “They hunt with poisoned darts.” And I’d read the article, just to keep him happy, but really, I wasn’t much interested. He used to read my fashion magazines sometimes, saying how pretty I’d look in this or that. But I think he just liked to look at the pretty models.’ Delia’s voice ended on a wobble, and Jenny thoughtfully turned away.

  She stacked the rest of the magazines at the foot of the bed, and double-bagged them into the sturdiest bags of all. They weighed a ton. ‘I think the old folks’ homes and day care centres should have these,’ Jenny said, and Delia nodded, not even looking at them.

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  The cook turned to the bed next, carefully stripping it down and putting the sheets to one side to be washed. She was just pulling the bottom sheet out when a multicoloured object half slipped from beneath the mattress.

  Jenny picked up the vintage magazine and flicked through it. It was one of those science-explained-for-the general-reader publications. It fell open at an article about genetics, and how baby rabbits with brown eyes were unlikely to produce blue-eyed bunnies and vice versa. It all sounded rather old hat to her — nowadays, surely genetics was far more advanced, post Dolly-the-sheep. She tossed it aside without much thought and sighed.

  Fascinating, Jenny thought wryly, and was once more back to Blue eyes crying in the rain. Typically, now that she’d remembered the song again after all this time, she was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to get the tune out of her head. It had been buzzing about in the back of her mind all afternoon.