by Faith Martin
Bert glanced at the tree. It seemed years, not a week, since Delia and Jeremy had decorated it, giggling over the decorations like five-year-olds. His eyes fell to the carpet beneath the tree, where a few presents still lay unopened.
‘Sid’s presents to us,’ he said, as if she’d asked a question. ‘I haven’t been able to open mine. The others must feel the same way.’
Jenny nodded, and made her way to the sofa, where she sat down and reached for the paper.
Bert watched her in silence for a while, his lips bearing the ghost of a wry smile, then he walked to the tree and stooped over the presents. He quickly read the labels, and picked up his own. It was a rectangular, well-padded present. He moved back to the armchair at a right angle to the grate and sat down, absently pulling at the brightly coloured Christmas paper. His eyes strayed over the top to look at the cook.
‘I’ve been watching you, Miss Starling,’ Bert said, his tired voice so calm and without inflection that Jenny was almost alarmed.
‘I know you have,’ she replied just as calmly.
Bert nodded. ‘The Old Bill . . . they don’t treat you the same as the rest of us. At first I thought . . .’ he gave a good solid rip on his parcel, and found himself holding a brown legal-looking envelope. He’d been expecting socks or handkerchiefs. That was Sid’s usual offering. Now what the hell was this all about?
He glanced up, realized the cook was waiting for him to continue and struggled back to what he’d been saying. ‘I thought it was because you were a stranger,’ he muttered. ‘Someone with no reason to kill poor old Sid. But then I began to wonder. And I noticed how you watched everybody,’ he carried on, turning the envelope over and over in his hands, his restless movements at odds with his clear, calm voice.
It couldn’t be easy, Jenny thought, opening a Christmas present from a dead relative. No wonder he wanted his mind on other things when he did so.
‘I noticed how nothing ever escapes your attention,’ Bert continued, his voice almost dreamy now. ‘And then, when I got to know that ridiculous Moulton better, I realized that it was you who was really in charge here.’ His simple, honest face creased into a frown. ‘And I don’t understand why.’
Jenny found herself totally unprepared, at a dangerous crossroads. Should she tell him about her past successes in the field of murderer-finding? If he was the killer, it wouldn’t, perhaps, be the smartest thing she’d ever done. So should she lie? Pretend to be one of those undercover detectives, whose tales of derring-do were so popular on the telly nowadays?
No, too outlandish by far.
Bert, perhaps never expecting an answer from her, returned his interest to the envelope. With fingers that shook, he prised it open and pulled out the wedge of papers it contained, frowning in surprise.
He opened them out, and a loose-leaf note fluttered onto his lap. He picked it up and read it, and as he did so, his face transformed itself into one big picture of massive shock. His eyes rounded. His lower lip fell open, and all the colour fled from his cheeks.
Jenny quickly craned her neck and read the upside-down address of one Janice Kelton. It was a Woodstock address, and after a quick bit of mental geography, gauged that it was probably no more than ten miles away from the farm.
‘All this time she’s been so close,’ Bert mumbled, his voice as hurt as that of a child who’d just been robbed of his lollipop. ‘I could have walked the distance . . .’
If only you’d known where to walk to, Jenny finished the thought for him. But — the cook suddenly straightened up. How had Sid known where Janice had taken refuge? And why had he waited until Christmas Day to tell Bert?
Jenny stared at the legal-looking document, still lying untouched in Bert’s lap. She licked her lips, her fingers literally itching to reach out and take it.
‘What are the other papers, Bert?’ she asked at last, unable to bear the suspense a moment longer, her voice almost a whisper. She didn’t want to break the suddenly fragile mood, but her curiosity was in danger of eating her alive.
Bert blinked, then looked down. He’d forgotten that there was anything else. All he’d been able to think about was finding Janice again, getting Janice back. And an escape, finally, from Kelton Farm.
Impatiently, wanting to get back to thoughts of Janice, he picked them up and started to read. The frown that came to his brows deepened the further he read, until his weather-beaten face had so many cracks and creases in it that it looked like one of his own fields after ploughing.
‘I just don’t understand this,’ Bert said at last, after turning the last page. ‘I need a lawyer.’
Jenny, for one wild moment, thought he was confessing to the killing of his uncle. Then Bert held the papers out to her, as if people confided their private family business to their cook every day. Jenny took the offering and instantly saw what he meant.
The document was written in the worst kind of legalese, with parties of the first part doing something in Latin with the party of the second part. But, even with great chunks of the document lost to red-tape mentality, she managed to grasp most of it.
Sid Kelton had not only known where Janice Kelton had escaped to, he’d also set her up in her own business. An antique shop, to be exact. And not only did Janice benefit, because the business was in Bert’s name too.
She looked up to find that the elder Kelton son was back to staring at the precious address of his wife. ‘An antique shop?’ Bert said, dazed, having figured out as much as Jenny. ‘Of course, she always loved buying old things,’ he murmured thoughtfully, his voice dazed. ‘She was forever dragging me off to village fetes, and those auction thingies where some old lady had died, and the contents of her house were being sold off. She bought all sorts of knick-knacks, mostly china. Dad said it was all rubbish, but—’
‘But I bet she knew what she was doing,’ Jenny guessed shrewdly. And, she added silently, I’ll bet my last wage packet that Sid knew that Janice knew what she was doing.
‘Perhaps Janice used her own collection for stock, to start her off,’ she hazarded, and looked thoughtfully at the half-owner of ‘The Old Duke’ antique shop, West Bladon Road, Woodstock. According to the papers, the shop had started up business just a few months after Janice had first left.
But why hadn’t Sid said anything about all this? Bert stared at her. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said at last.
‘No,’ Jenny said softly. ‘I don’t, either.’ But it was time she found out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Once she’d discovered a promising new trail to follow, Jenny was loath to give it up and just retire meekly to bed. What’s more, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was being totally dense about something.
And in circumstances like these, action was definitely called for. Even if her brain cells refused to get in gear and come up with something useful at least she could ferret out some more information. Even if she didn’t then know what to do with it!
So it was that she and Bert stayed up waiting for the others to get back from their night’s carousing, long after Stan had said a grumpy goodnight and had followed Moulton and Ford up the stairs to an early bed.
It was nearing midnight when Jenny heard the dog outside give a soft, welcoming bark, and moved out into the hall with Bert not far behind her. Why they should both feel that tonight was going to be so important — for everyone — neither of them could have said, but the air of expectancy was so thick that it could almost be cut with a knife.
Jeremy was the first to come through the door, his young face flushed, not so much with the dubious merits of alcohol, but as a result of a whole evening spent openly and above board with the beauteous Mandy.
Bill, though, following him into the relative warmth of the house, was most decidedly a little the worse for wear. His nose was just beginning to sprout a nice crop of red veins, and his speech, when he greeted his older brother and the cook with cheerful gusto, was just slightly slurred. But whether he had been drinking to
celebrate his unexpected release from Kelton Farm (Moulton and the Thames Valley Police Force permitting), or was mourning the loss of what was, after all, his home and livelihood, she was not so sure.
She rather suspected Bill wasn’t, either.
Delia, the last in, shut the outside door quietly behind them and glanced upstairs, no doubt expecting her father to poke his head over the banisters at any moment, bellowing brimstone and curses.
Jenny had no difficulty ushering them all into the lounge, with the promise of a hot drink and a late-night snack. She left to make strong cocoa — Bill at least, needed his head clearing — and loaded a tray with fresh bread, cheese and pickles. She came back to find everyone sitting on the sofa, like peas in a pod, staring happily into the leaping flames in the fireplace.
For the first time she noticed how very much alike Bert, Jeremy and Delia all were. The dark eyes and strong Kelton features. Bill, too, had the Kelton nose and chin, but the resemblance ended there. A family united. Except for one. One, at least, was now very much an outsider.
She put the mugs down and watched, pleased, as young Jeremy reached for his cocoa with evident pleasure and sipped the strong, milky brew. Delia made a face. ‘Cocoa! I can’t remember the last time I had that,’ but when she retrieved a mug, Jenny noticed that she sipped it with just as much juvenile appreciation as her nephew.
Bert was watching the cook closely, a war of fear and resignation waging behind his eyes. She resolutely ignored the wary, rather frightened look he sent her way; sentiment had no place in a murder inquiry. Besides, the look of fear in his eyes might well be for himself: someone in this house had killed Sid.
‘I think your father has something to tell you, Jeremy,’ Jenny said, getting straight to the point. Bill, whose head had been lolling back on the sofa, suddenly snapped upright. Delia froze, cocoa mug halfway to her lips. Jeremy flushed.
Suddenly, the feeling of well-being and comradeship fled. Eyes shifted to look at one another, then just as quickly shifted away again. Delia fought back a nervous titter. Something was in the air tonight, something that had, until recently, been a stranger at Kelton Farm. Namely: change. And she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that.
For years, time had plodded on as always, seemingly without any hope of things being different. Now, this Christmas, the Kelton world had been turned on its head. And was evidently still turning. Now, everyone turned to look at Bert to find out the latest twist. The latest shock. The latest danger.
Bert stared down at his large, calloused hands for a few moments, then sighed. ‘I opened Uncle Sid’s Christmas present to me today. Inside was Janice’s address, and the deeds to an antique shop.’
There was a small gasp. From Delia, Jenny thought, but didn’t take her eyes off Jeremy.
‘A shop?’ It was Bill who spoke — or rather slurred — the question, his voice raised a notch in squeaky surprise. ‘What do you mean, a shop? A proper shop, with stuff in it to sell?’ Obviously the alcohol he’d consumed wasn’t helping his mental synapses to fire properly.
Bert nodded. ‘Apparently, Sid set up Janice in the antique shop almost straight away. She’s been living and working in Woodstock all this time.’
Jenny wondered, briefly, why no one had discovered Janice’s new profession, but then, just as quickly, stopped wondering. When the Kelton family went to Woodstock, it was to buy groceries, hardware or farm equipment. Or, in Delia’s case, check out the boutiques. Which one of them would even think of looking around yet another tourist trap of an antique shop? And which neighbour would risk Stan’s ire by mentioning Janice’s new venture to any other member of the Kelton family, should they have accidentally found out about it?
‘I don’t get it,’ Jeremy finally said. ‘Mum’s in Woodstock?’
‘With her own business,’ Bert confirmed. ‘Or rather, our own business. It’s half mine apparently, according to the papers in Sid’s present.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Bill said, all squeakiness gone. ‘What came over old Sid? It’s not like him to be so . . . surprising.’
Jenny, the only one not sat on the sofa, but facing them in the armchair, was in a perfect position to note any tiny reaction, and instantly saw that Delia had stiffened. She looked like a cat that had just spotted a very fast, very hungry-looking dog.
The cook’s eyes zeroed in on her like hunting Spitfires. ‘What did Sid give you, Delia?’ she asked softly, catching the girl unawares and giving her no time to martial her thoughts or prepare her lies.
Delia gaped at her, wondering why the cook was picking on her all of a sudden, then belatedly noticed that she was now the centre of attention. Bert, Bill and Jeremy were staring at her in a way that she most definitely didn’t like.
‘Oh all right!’ she snapped, but her anger was more an instinctive reaction to fear than anything else, Jenny surmised. ‘The night . . . the night it happened . . . no, the next morning . . .’ she fought hard to keep her voice under control and clear her head, licking her lips nervously. She had to think clearly — it was obviously important. ‘I woke up and saw an envelope with my name on it on my bedside table. It was Sid’s handwriting. In it was some money.’
‘How much?’ Bill asked, surprised by yet more evidence of Sid’s largesse.
‘Quite a bit, actually,’ Delia said. ‘All in twenty-pound notes.’
She paused, but wasn’t at all convinced that she wanted to let her family know just how much Sid had given her. She needed time to think this through. After all, a girl had to look out for herself. Especially now.
‘There was a letter as well,’ she added quickly, anxious to find her way onto less hazardous ground. ‘It said . . . well . . . it wished me luck in a life away from here.’ Once again her voice was wobbling, and her eyes were flooding with tears.
Genuine grief for a lost uncle, or merely superb acting? Jenny wondered. She was beginning to suspect that the clue to this whole mess depended on the reason behind Sid’s sudden generosity. For a man who didn’t have much beside the farm, he’d obviously been depleting whatever savings he’d had to splash out on his nearest and dearest. But why now? Why this Christmas? What had changed? If she knew that, she thought, she would know who had killed him. And why.
She’d learned from Bert earlier on that Sid’s past Christmas gifts had been of the usual variety: socks, hankies, perfume for Delia, that kind of thing.
Of course, Sid might simply have thought that Delia was now old enough to leave home, and there was nothing more sinister to it than that. Perhaps he hadn’t felt able, in all good conscience, to give his niece the money to leave until he was sure that she’d become old enough, and presumably sensible enough, to put it to good use.
But what about Bert? It could have been sheer coincidence that Janice had left him at the same time that Delia had come of age, thus forcing Sid, yet again, to be more than usually generous to a member of his family. Or then again . . .
Jenny glanced quickly at Jeremy, who was staring at his aunt with puzzled eyes.
‘Jeremy?’ the cook said sharply, and noted out of the corner of her eye how Bert came to instant attention. ‘What did your uncle give you?’
Jeremy blinked. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t opened his present yet.’
As one person, everyone turned to look at the tree, and the two presents remaining. Wordlessly, but grim-lipped, Bert did the honours and fetched Jeremy’s present.
It was tiny — a mere box, not more than three inches square. Jeremy winced as his father dropped it into his hands, and for a long moment simply sat and stared at it, too frozen by a sudden, unnamed terror to open it.
Jenny waited patiently. Delia sat forward on the sofa, fascinated to see what was inside. Bill, Jenny noticed with one quick, comprehensive glance, was sobering up fast.
Eventually, aware that there was no ducking it, Jeremy took off the wrapping paper, the smallness of the parcel and his own nervous fingers that had suddenly become all thumbs making the task a nerve-r
ackingly long and clumsy one. Eventually, though, he had a small, plain blue box in the palm of his hand. He lifted the lid.
Inside was a set of car keys.
He stared at them, his young face slowly draining of colour. The insignia on the keyring was for a small mid-range hatchback. Not a hugely expensive car, to be sure, but a car. Something Jeremy, from the look on his face, had not expected to be able to afford to buy for another good few years yet.
‘A car.’ Jeremy said the two words as if quoting from a tablet of stone.
‘What about it, son?’ Bert said, his voice tense and nervous. Even Bill, usually the least observant of the Kelton bunch, noticed it, and gave his elder brother a quick, curious and touchingly anxious look.
How these Kelton men liked to stick together, Jenny thought. It was touching how a tyrant could unite his enemies in a way that no other bond could. Had Stan Kelton but known it, he’d created a strong, supportive, loving family unit here. She had a good mind to tell him so, just to have the entertainment of watching him grind his teeth in frustration! But, of course, she wouldn’t be so petty as to point it out to him. Well, not yet anyway.
Jeremy reverently lifted the keys into his hand, and noticed a slip of paper underneath. He seemed not to have heard his father’s question. He opened it out, his eyes blank as he read the few words.
‘It’s an address,’ he said quietly. ‘Of a garage in Woodstock. The car must be there.’
‘Why a car, Jeremy?’ the cook asked quietly but firmly as Jeremy closed his fingers possessively around the set of keys.
He looked up at her then, not sure he wanted to answer, then glanced across at his father, and finally at all the others, patiently waiting. He felt like Delia had only minutes before. Something was in the air — something important — but he had no idea what the implications might be for himself, or for anyone else.
‘Several weeks ago, the beginning of November I think it was, I was in here with Sid. He’d finished with the accounts and I was back early from collecting the horse feed from Simon. Sid called me in. At first I thought he just wanted a chat, like. You know how lonely he could get, and how he always kept you nattering just when you wanted to get off, or had work to do.’
