by Faith Martin
She sighed, tossed the magazine into the already bulging bag with the others, and continued her search.
A few minutes later she found a bag of mint imperials, tucked guiltily away in his sock drawer. That, a bag full of assorted change, a small but unmarked calendar and a safety pin was the sum of her haul. Which wasn’t exactly helpful.
She looked at the mint imperials and smiled. He might not have felt like sharing them when alive (and every man needed a vice) but he would hardly mind now. She offered one to Delia, who looked at the white bag and burst out laughing.
The young girl took one and sucked it with a slight grimace at the astringency of it. ‘Good old Sid,’ she sighed, rolling the hard sweet into one cheek pouch. ‘I used to get these for him from the village shop. I never fancied them much, but Dad was always guzzling them down, so Sid always kept a little stash somewhere, just for himself.’
Jenny helped her cart the bags of clothes and magazines to the hall, where they’d just have to stay until tomorrow.
‘I think I heard Bert saying that he was going into Burford tomorrow,’ Delia muttered. ‘He can take them somewhere.’
She turned abruptly and left the pathetic bundles in the hall. No doubt it had suddenly occurred to her that it wasn’t much for a man to leave behind him after his death.
Jenny returned silently to her kitchen.
There she found Ford and Moulton, tucking into a slice each of her Christmas cake, and discussing the case in desultory tones.
‘Find anything of interest?’ Moulton asked, perking up a little at the sight of the cook. Jenny sighed, but dutifully gave a brief but thorough rundown on her afternoon’s activities and finds.
‘Old magazines,’ said Ford dispiritedly. ‘Wonderful.’
Jenny grimaced. ‘What did you expect? A letter, starting off, “In the event of my sudden death, I would like it to be known” . . .’ She broke off, aware that she was being snappish with the wrong people. She sighed deeply. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t get it out of my head that I’m missing something. Something important.’
Sergeant Ford poured her out a cup of tea. ‘Don’t get in a tizzy about it, Miss S. We all have days like that.’
Jenny took a long sip and sat back with a sigh. ‘Yes, but this is different. At the back of my head, a little imp is saying that it’s all so simple. I’ve seen something or heard something or know something that makes it as clear as a pikestaff who murdered poor old Sid, and why, and I’m just not getting it.’ She thumped an angry fist on the tabletop.
Moulton shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘Have you ever had this feeling before?’ he asked, trying in his own way to help her out.
Jenny heartily wished he wouldn’t bother.
She smiled ruefully. ‘Yes. Twice, in fact. Once at a certain birthday party, and once in a locked room.’
The two policemen looked at each other knowingly. ‘But both those times . . .’ Moulton trailed off delicately, not actually wanting to say out loud that both those times she’d actually unmasked the murderer, right under the nose of the attending police inspector.
Jenny grunted inelegantly. ‘Oh yes, it came to me eventually,’ she admitted. ‘And both times, it was shocking how simple it all really was. And even more shocking was how clear it became just how stupid I’d been,’ she said, somewhat ungrammatically.
Absently, she reached for a slice of cake and took a generous bite. Luckily, it would take more than embarrassing remembrances of past stupidities to put Jenny Starling off her food.
‘No, there’s no getting away from it. We’ve learned all we’re going to learn,’ she murmured. ‘Nobody’s going to come out of the woodwork now and say they saw X sneaking back into the farm on Christmas Eve. None of your people are going to miraculously send a message saying the forensic lads have come up with a piece of cast-iron evidence pointing to X. Nobody here’s going to break down and admit what they know, or think they know. Where we are now is where we’re going to stay, until one of us uses our loaf and figures out what it is that’s staring us right in the face.’
The two policemen looked at each other, both fighting a growing feeling of dismay. Without saying it aloud, each acknowledged that they didn’t have a clue.
‘My pie!’ Jenny suddenly wailed, making them both jump out of their skins, and dived for the oven. But her pie was a lovely golden brown, not daring to be anything else. She removed it to the hot plate and returned, limp with relief, to the table.
There she slumped in her favourite chair and glanced across to the space where Sid’s chair had once stood.
Sid, waiting so patiently for her to bring his killer to justice. Sid with his wide blue eyes, open and staring.
And from the radio, playing somewhere in the background, the melancholy voice of Willie Nelson began to sing:
‘In the twilight glow I see her, Blue eyes cryin’ in the rain . . .’
‘Oh shut up!’ Jenny Starling snarled at it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bert walked in from the raw wet and cold of the fields, but wished he was still out there, for all the warmth and supposed security the farmhouse kitchen had to offer him. He closed the door wearily behind him before traipsing further into the room, his boots sounding loud on the uneven tiles, his gait unsteady.
The big cook was just adding a pinch more salt to a saucepan that was spurting forth a marvellously scented steam. One quick relieved look told Bert that there was no one else around, and his shoulders slowly slumped in tiredness and relief.
Jenny gave the saucepan a good stir, and the scrumptious smell of herbs filled the air. Bert watched her in silence for a while, his shoulders beginning to ache now the tension had left him. There was something so soothing about the domestic scene being played out around him that was all the more blissful for being so unexpected. Normally Delia would be the one cooking, and feeling resentful and surly as she did so, which meant that her culinary offerings usually consisted of oven chips and pies bought from the supermarket.
He’d been dreading coming back to the farm. Or rather, to be more accurate, he’d dreaded returning to the Kelton household more than usual. Perhaps it was the lack of all the other Keltons in the room, or perhaps there was something about the cook herself that gave Bert such a welcome feeling of relief and succour. There just seemed to be something so dependable and so warmly human about the big attractive cook that instantly made Bert’s heavy heart lift.
He missed his wife suddenly and ferociously, and felt utterly weary as he pulled back his chair and slumped down. Beside him, the dog slunk under the table and settled his chin on top of his new master’s boot. He gave a huge sigh.
To the dog, the kitchen was heaven simply because it was sheep and gander free.
Jenny turned, glanced at the floor and the line of wet and muddy tracks, sighed heavily and reached for the mop. Bert coloured.
‘Sorry.’
‘What you apologizing for?’ Stan, who’d been watching the scene unnoticed from the hallway door, now belligerently demanded. He moved into the room and took his usual chair. ‘I keep tellin’ you. A floor was made to be walked on.’ He scowled at the cook, who continued to mop in dogged silence, then turned back to Bert. Not surprisingly, every scrap of well-being he’d been feeling had completely drained away.
‘Where’s the Old Bill, anyway?’ Stan barked, at nobody in particular.
‘Upstairs,’ Jenny responded shortly. They’d gone into a huddle after a report had been delivered to Moulton. By the look on the inspector’s face, no doubt it had also contained a sharp reminder from his superiors to get on with it and make an arrest as quickly as he could. She hadn’t seen a paper in days, and wondered if the press was making a big noise about it. Murder in a snowed-in farm had probably made titillating Christmas fare for many newspaper readers.
Moulton had huffily decided on a strictly all-police conference in the privacy of their ‘incident’ room — also known as Moulton’s ice-cold bedroom. Jenn
y wished them luck for their brainstorming session, but she didn’t exactly have high hopes.
The outside door flew open for a second time and Bill came in, slinging his heavy-weather coat onto the chair and creating a freezing draught as he did so. He reached for the teapot. Jenny sighed heavily, and once again reached for the mop.
Bill watched her angry jerking movements as she cleaned the floor yet again, then glanced at his father’s set face. He noted the beady eyes, just waiting for him to say something — anything — so that he might jump down his throat, and pressed his lips firmly together. He scraped back his chair with a loud screech and sat down. The glare he gave his father was one of pure and undiluted hatred.
Moulton, who’d very quietly crept down the stairs on hearing the return of the Kelton men, found himself shifting uneasily at the sight of it. He’d seen hate in many a man’s eyes before, but none that pulsed with such burning intensity. If looks could kill, he thought grimly, they’d have a second homicide to investigate, right there and then.
‘There’s two more ewes dead,’ Bert said flatly, apparently unaware of the antagonism raging around him. Either that, Jenny thought grimly, putting away her mop, or he was by now so totally inured to it that he didn’t even acknowledge it anymore. ‘And if this thaw continues, we might have problems with flooding in the lower meadow.’
‘We already have,’ Bill said. ‘I noticed the brook is already coming over the banks.’
‘We’d better tell Mrs Jarvis not to come in until we’re sure the bridge is safe then.’ Bert shifted his weight a little, forcing the dog to lift his chin patiently and wait for the boot to resettle itself into a proper chin-rest once more. He didn’t sigh though; he’d heard Stan Kelton’s voice, and knew better than to give his presence away.
‘We’ll see about that,’ Stan said. ‘I pay that woman good money.’
‘You pay her a pittance,’ Bill corrected, his big hands closing into fists.
Stan Kelton’s head reared back. His brown eyes became as black as thunder. Bill’s blue eyes stared back, as cold as ice.
‘And I suppose, if the farm was yours, you’d run it into the ground, paying everyone ridiculous wages? You’re soft, boy, that’s your trouble. You’ve got to be liked, just like your uncle had to be liked. Well, what good did being so damned well-liked do for him, eh? You tell me that!’ Stan roared, thumping his fist down on the table.
Moulton moved forward, taking a chair next to the cook and accepting the ubiquitous cup of tea from the always-full teapot.
Bill glanced at the policeman and sneered. Nevertheless, he subsided into his chair and contented himself with merely giving his father yet another killing look. ‘I suppose you’d rather our daily try to cross the bridge and get swept away and drown, right, Dad?’ he drawled, his fair hair flopping over his forehead as his chin jutted pugnaciously forward.
Bert sighed heavily. ‘You just can’t let it go, can you?’ he asked, but whether he was talking to his brother or his father, neither Moulton nor Jenny could easily tell.
Stan leaned forward, his bullish neck straining with thumping little nerves, his face flushed an ugly, angry red. His eyes were all but popping out of his head. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ he bellowed.
Bill leaned forward also, putting the two men nearly nose-to-nose.
Jenny took a sip of tea, and watched them, the expression on her face one of mild interest.
‘It means what it sounded like,’ Bill snarled back. ‘You all but killed her old man. Why not go for the double?’
‘You jumped-up little bastard!’ Stan yelled, and reached out meaty hands that went straight for his son’s neck. Bill, taken by surprise, was half dragged across the table before he could get a firm grip on anything to keep his feet anchored to the floor.
Jenny hastily removed her plate of mince pies from the table and out of the fighting arena. Really, these men had no manners! It had taken her hours to make them, and she wasn’t about to see them scattered and trampled underfoot in a melee.
‘That’s enough!’ a voice roared, so loud and commanding that Jenny nearly dropped her teacup. For the sound had definitely, but definitely, come from Moulton.
Moulton!
Both men did a swift and comical double take. At the same time, pounding footsteps could be heard speeding across the ceiling and rapidly thumping down the stairs. Ford, reacting to the unusual sound of his superior’s raised voice, rushed in panting and wild-eyed, then skidded to a stop in the middle of the kitchen, taking in at once the frozen tableau and glancing quizzically at his chief.
Bill Kelton was still half-hauled across the table, and Stan’s hands were still clamped tight on the collar of his son’s shirt. Both were staring at Moulton in astonishment. The policeman was sitting stiff and bristling like an insulted cockerel, his face flushed.
Jenny, who was also staring — with some admiration — at the usually meek and mild Moulton, suddenly realized her mouth was hanging open, and closed it with a decisive snap.
Ford didn’t know whether to laugh, do some shouting of his own or come indignantly to his inspector’s aid.
‘Mr Kelton,’ Moulton said, his voice once more bland enough to dry paint. ‘Please release Mr Kelton.’
Stan blinked, looked across at his son, seemed to notice for the first time that he still had him by the throat, and with a growl thrust him backwards and contemptuously away. When he landed back in his chair, it rocked a little under Bill’s solid weight.
‘Get out,’ Stan snarled at him. ‘Just pack your bags and don’t come back.’
Bert’s head snapped up. Bill’s stormy blue eyes widened with incredulity.
Jenny, under cover of the table, gave Moulton a very sharp kick in the shin. Moulton winced, but (very manfully, Jenny thought) refrained from yelping. He stared at her. The cook slightly — and warningly — inclined her head towards Bill.
Moulton blinked, not getting it.
Jenny gave him another sharp kick in the shin. It was, she was later to recall, one of the more satisfying moments in her life.
Moulton winced again.
Eventually she sighed heavily. If you wanted a job done . . . ‘I think, Mr Kelton, that the police will have something to say about Bill, or anyone else for that matter, leaving the premises just yet. I think Inspector Moulton will want everyone available for interview. At least until everything’s settled.’
Moulton fought the desire to rub his abused shin, but caught on at last. He nodded briskly instead. ‘Quite right. No one leaves here until I say,’ he said forcefully. Although, in fact and in law, he had no means of enforcing that order.
And bully for you, Jenny thought wryly.
* * *
After an excellent dinner, and a superb Bakewell tart, Jenny cleared away with her usual efficiency and found, for once, that she was becoming heartily sick of her kitchen! With a final mop of the floor (she seemed to have spent the last few days doing nothing else, so why fight it?) she left her natural domain to sail forth into the sitting room.
Delia, Jeremy and Bill had all decided to go to the pub and brave the village gossip. They had to do it sometime, they reasoned, so why not tonight?
Jeremy, of course, had needed no persuading to go and see his lady-love, and Delia had already started her campaign to become Bill’s favourite shadow. Ever since Bert had told her about Bill’s upcoming exile, Delia had seen her chance.
Even though she now had Sid’s money to help her, the thought of leaving the farm and setting off on life’s great adventure on her own had clearly been daunting for the inexperienced teenager. Without her best friend to share the upheaval with her, some of her bravery had, understandably, fled. But with an older brother to look after her . . . well, that was different. They could go to London together. Set themselves up in a two-bedroomed flat. Look for work together. And Bill, seeing right through her, had smiled and been the one to make the suggestion that they all go to the Lamb and Dog and get pie-eyed.
Stan had snorted and taken off to the stables, muttering something about harnesses that needed cleaning. So Jenny had confidently expected to have the room to herself, but as she entered, someone stirred on the sofa and a moment later she saw Bert lean forward to toss a three-day-old newspaper onto the table. He looked up and saw her hovering in the doorway, and smiled wryly.
‘Come on in, Miss Starling. I daresay it’s a relief to get out of the kitchen for once.’ He stood up to chuck another log on the fire, and leaned one arm along the mantelpiece to watch the spluttering sparks fly up the chimney. It was strangely mesmerizing, and Jenny followed the light show with interest.
‘Your two companions in detection have decided to opt for an early night. The young sergeant has decided he’d better stay on here too for the time being. I rather think he suspects one of us might take a midnight stroll into Inspector Moulton’s room to slit his gizzard.’
Jenny stared at his tense back thoughtfully. Once again she was struck with the feeling that Bert was very much an unknown quantity in the Kelton family. When she’d told Moulton earlier that she didn’t think anyone was going to say anything that they hadn’t already said, she’d been thinking mostly about Bert. For Bert, she suspected, knew far more, or at least suspected far more, than he was willing to say. She hadn’t forgotten, on the morning they’d discovered Sid’s body, how anxious Bert had been to corroborate both Jeremy’s and Bill’s story about when and in what order they’d returned to the farm.
Or had he just been anxious to give himself an alibi? Saying he saw Jeremy and Bill ahead of him certainly tended to deflect suspicion from his own time of arrival on the scene.
Bert, as if aware of the cogs silently turning in her mind, turned from the fireplace, his face flushed from the heat. His gentle brown eyes watched her for a moment, his eyes questioning.
Jenny nodded towards the Christmas tree. ‘You should give that some water. Its needles will start shedding, else.’
