by Faith Martin
Delia smiled and nodded. Bert shifted uneasily on his chair. ‘Anyway, somehow the conversation got around to what I would do if I left the farm,’ Jeremy continued, slowly feeling his way into his recital. Jenny found his carefulness with words very interesting. He might be young, but he was not rash. Interesting, that.
Bill’s bleary blue eyes, the cook noticed, had shed the very last vestiges of drunkenness at his nephew’s surprising statement, and she didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know why. For years, the Kelton men had been all but semi-willing prisoners of Kelton Farm. Now, in the space of a day, one had been threatened with eviction and one had been sounded out on another potential escape. What the hell had been going on? For something obviously had been going on. And why hadn’t he known about it?
Bill ran a hand across his face, and began to sweat; he could feel it starting to ooze from his pores. The room was hot. He wanted to go out and get some air but something else kept him rooted to the spot.
Bert breathed in, hard. ‘And what did you say, son, when he asked you what you would do?’ he asked gruffly.
Jeremy looked at his father helplessly. ‘What could I say? I said I was never going to leave, so what was the use in dreaming? But Sid was insistent. Looking back now . . . I wonder . . . but at the time, I just thought he was trying to get at me. You know, force me into doing something about, well, living here.’ Jeremy flushed and carefully moved his eyes away from those of his father. Bert’s hands clenched into fists, then, very slowly, unclenched.
Everyone in the room knew what Jeremy had meant. Sid had been urging him not to be like his father — not to get trapped there on the farm. To break away, as Janice, his mother had done. To be his own man.
‘I got rather . . . well, to be frank, I got angry,’ Jeremy said, being scrupulously honest. ‘I told him to shut up about what I’d do. I wouldn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything.’ The lad’s voice had been getting gradually louder and more strident with remembered frustration, no doubt just as it had done back in November, when talking to his uncle. ‘But Sid wouldn’t back down,’ Jeremy continued, his voice falling back into a more normal — and puzzled — tone. ‘It wasn’t like him. You all know how Sid hated to argue. He’d always back down to avoid a fuss. But this time he didn’t,’ Jeremy frowned. ‘He kept pushing, and pushing. He said there must be something I wanted. Something I dreamed of. He said young men always dreamed of something. That’s when I blurted it out, like. About wanting a car.’
Bert leaned forward, forcing his son to look at him. ‘Why a car, son?’
Jeremy gave a slightly embarrassed, slightly defiant laugh. ‘I told him if I had a car I could get away. I could pick Mandy up, and drive off into the sunset. With a car I could get a job — turn the car into a taxi, maybe. I don’t know, something. I always thought if only I had wheels I could really get away. No more stupid horses playing up to the agri-tourists. No more long boring bus rides into Oxford or Burford. No more walking into the village and walking back. A car of my own somehow seemed like the answer to everything. And Sid seemed to understand when I told him. He was so kind about it all. I even confessed that sometimes, at night, I dreamed of rolling up outside the Lamb and Dog in a car, my very own car, and tooting on the horn. I imagined Mandy sticking her head out of the window, perhaps frowning at first because of the noise, and then seeing it was me.’
The lad’s face was bright now, his eyes glowing and his voice full of the promise of his youth. Jenny wasn’t the only one in the room who found a lump coming to her throat.
‘I imagined her running out the door and dancing around the car, talking a mile a minute, the way she does. And then, when she fell quiet, I would ask her to marry me — to come away with me in the car, far, far away from Westcott Barton. We’d never have to see a farm or a village pub again . . .’
Jeremy trailed off, only now becoming aware of how much he’d bared his soul, and he suddenly blushed to the roots of his hair. His hand though, Jenny noticed with a wry smile, was still closed tightly and possessively around the car keys.
And why not, she thought. Why shouldn’t a car, a simple, ordinary car, be the difference between a life of drudgery, and the hope of a whole new, shining future? Stranger things happened at sea all the time, so her grandma had always contended.
Jeremy’s dream was by no means as foolish as it might sound. Mandy probably would abandon her father and the Lamb and Dog for a young man with a car in a trice! Especially when that man was Jeremy. After all, in such unique circumstances as these, a mere car was the equivalent of a maiden’s dream of a big white horse that would take her far away from the drudgery of her everyday life.
And Sid had probably realized the same.
‘So,’ Jenny said, letting her breath out in a whoosh. ‘A shop for Bert, a car for Jeremy, money for Delia . . .’ She turned and looked at Bill.
Bill stared back at her, blinking quickly. It had only just begun to occur to him that all of this was hardly any of the cook’s business, but now the thought simply fled; he had other things on his mind. He got to his feet, with just a residue of lightness in the head, thanks to the pub’s rather potent scrumpy, and retrieved the last package from under the tree.
Quickly, almost feverishly, he yanked the cheerful paper aside. It was a deep, square box, which turned out to be a complex model of a three-masted sailing ship.
Jenny, who had noticed several models of ships scattered around the farmhouse, had already surmised that one of the Kelton men must be a model buff.
Bill stared down at the gift, his eyes bemused. ‘She’s a beauty,’ he said absently, looking at the picture of the finished model on the lid of the box. He’d spent many happy hours making up the ships, most of which Sid had bought for him as Christmas and birthday presents.
‘But it’s hardly a new life, is it?’ Bill spoke out loud the thought that everyone else in the room was thinking, his voice hard and flat.
First his old man had turned on him for some reason, and now Sid? Bill could almost understand his father’s nastiness — Stan probably thought it was high old sport to make a fuss of him for the first half of his life, then turn against him for the second half. But Sid? Sid, who didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Why had Sid thought that all the others deserved a new life, but not him? Bill’s knuckles turned white as his grip tightened compulsively on the box, and one cardboard side slowly began to cave in. Slowly, through his pain and anger, he became aware of a great silence. He looked up sharply, meeting the cook’s eyes first. Funny, he’d never noticed before how beautiful they were. They were bluer than his own, fringed by dark lashes, and quite, quite, extraordinarily lovely.
The look in them, however, was totally unreadable. It was like looking into a mirror, where he could see only his own reflection. It left him feeling oddly unnerved.
Quickly he looked across at his brother, but Bert was still frowning at Jeremy. Delia, beside him, impulsively reached out and grabbed his hand. She gave her brother’s fingers a simple, comforting squeeze. For some reason, it made his heart leap.
Did they all think . . . ? Did Delia think . . . ? He swallowed hard. Oh Lord, what should he do now?
Jenny sighed deeply, and rubbed one finger against her nose. It was a habit of hers, when she was deep in thought. Had anyone pointed it out to her, of course, she would have denied it strenuously.
So, it turned out now that Sid had been behaving very strangely just before his death. For a start, he’d been spending his money as if there were no tomorrow. She felt a cold hand clutch her, somewhere deep in her throat, as she realized that, for Sid, there had been no tomorrow. Had he known he was going to die? Perhaps he’d had some sort of premonition? She thinned her lips angrily. Now don’t start getting morbid, she told herself grimly. Or fanciful. Now is a time to be practical. And think, damn it! Think!
Stan might run the farm, but the profits, at least legally, must have belonged to Sid. And, for some reason, this year, Sid had deci
ded to spend his money like never before, with the vast majority of it being spent on Bert. There was no getting away from that. Setting someone up in a business was a major undertaking.
Jenny looked across at the elder Kelton son, her mind whirling. Why had Sid done it? Did he have a guilty conscience about something? That was the most obvious answer. But about what? What could kind, ineffectual, good old Sid have to feel guilty about? Money for Delia; a dream come true for Jeremy; a whole new life away from the farm for Bert and his long-suffering wife, Janice.
And why nothing for Bill?
Jenny’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Either Sid had nothing to feel guilty about in Bill’s case, or . . . Sid didn’t feel he owed Bill anything. The cook turned to look thoughtfully once more at the younger Kelton son.
Bill was staring blankly at the beautiful picture of a three-masted sailing ship in his hands. His face was as closed as a baker’s shop window during a yeast shortage, yet something was definitely going on behind those cloudy blue eyes.
What on earth could he be feeling? Betrayal? Confusion? If he’d killed Sid, maybe even vindication? Who could say?
Jenny sighed. She’d have to inform Moulton and Ford about these latest developments before she turned in. Moulton would have a fit if she kept him in the dark for even a night.
But she doubted he’d be able to see the light, any more than she could.
Sid had definitely been up to something in those last few weeks of his life. Why did he want everyone out of Kelton Farm? Was he thinking of selling it? If so, that put Stan Kelton firmly back in the frame. Previously, she hadn’t really considered him because he’d had no motive.
But even as she liked the thought of it, she somehow simply couldn’t imagine Sid selling the family farm. The land was as much in his blood as it was in that of Stan or any of the other men folk.
As she climbed the stairs, hearing the others trooping up after her, all of them no doubt locked deep into thoughts of their own, she suddenly wondered what Sid had given his brother Stan for Christmas.
She’d noticed that Stan’s present was the only one missing. Somehow, she didn’t think Stan would be in any hurry to tell her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jenny awoke bleary-eyed and disgruntled, and promptly discovered that a sheepdog was lying firmly across her chest. As she blinked, rather surprised by this development, the dog — with his nose a mere few inches from her face — executed a wide yawn that displayed fangs, pretty ribbed pink gums and a swinging pair of tonsils. Not to mention a case of extremely bad breath.
‘Gerroff,’ Jenny growled, and rolled the mutt off her chest and onto the floor. Immediately, she began to breathe easier. Literally.
She watched the dog warily as she dressed and combed her hair, wondering how it had gained access into the house. It must, she concluded, have seized the opportunity to sneak in with all the others last night. No doubt it had slunk into the shadows and hid itself somewhere in the hall. She wouldn’t put it past him to be able to wriggle himself into the casing of the grandfather clock. Any dog with the abilities of this one should join a circus act, Jenny mused.
The black and white mutt leapt lithely back onto her unmade bed, turned a few circles on the still-warm blankets, and settled down with a beatific sigh.
‘Gerroff,’ the cook said again mildly. The dog looked at her.
Jenny looked at the dog.
The dog got off.
Together they trotted down to the kitchen to start a new day. Soon eggs, bacon and sausages were sizzling in the frying pan, tea was brewing, a cheery fire was seeing off the last of the snow’s cold hold on the farm, and Jenny began to see light. Or rather, began to think that she would soon.
Stan Kelton clumped in a few minutes later — quite a feat, since he was wearing nothing more than socks on his feet — and glanced at the stove. ‘I want fried bread today as well.’
No ‘please’ of course. No ‘good morning.’
Jenny inclined her head, regal as a queen. ‘Certainly.’ Stan poured himself a cup of tea. ‘And Christmas is over. I think you can leave now. I know you’ve still got a week to go, if we stick to the letter of our agreement, but I won’t hold you to it. Under the circumstances.’
‘Very magnanimous of you, I’m sure,’ Jenny murmured, not a trace of sarcasm in her voice. ‘But I think the inspector might have something to say about that.’
Stan’s fiercely bushy grey eyebrows met over his eyes. He watched the cook add several slices of bread to the frying pan, his lips tight. ‘Hah! You’ve got those cops eating out of your hand,’ he said, more as a statement of fact than as a question. ‘Everyone knows that.’
Jenny turned, ready to defend with her last breath the honour of the Thames Valley Police Force, then saw there was no need. Behind her, in the doorway, Moulton coughed discreetly. Stan Kelton, far from embarrassed, shot him a dirty look over his shoulder. ‘You’ll be wanting some grub then, I expect?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Eating me out of house and home. And expecting me to keep a cook on when I don’t need her no more.’
Stan took his customary seat as Jenny brought the frying pan to the table, and dished out a huge breakfast for the two men, and a slightly (but only slightly) less huge breakfast for herself.
She put some bread under the grill to toast, and returned to the table.
Moulton nodded at her. ‘Miss Starling is helping us with our inquiries,’ he began, ignoring the way the cook winced, and enthusiastically cut into his bacon. Just as he liked it: crispy but not so crispy that it shattered under the fork. ‘As a matter of fact, Miss Starling has helped a lot of policemen with their inquiries,’ he added, casting Stan a sly glance from under his hooded lids.
If he was pleased to see the way Stan Kelton gaped, Jenny supposed she couldn’t really blame him.
‘Eh?’ Stan asked, somewhat inelegantly. ‘What do you mean?’ He glared at his cook, who was just opening a jar of marmalade. ‘She doesn’t look the criminal sort to me. If she is—’
‘Mr Kelton, Miss Starling is certainly not the criminal sort,’ Moulton cut in, unwilling for some strange reason to sit by and let the Junoesque cook be insulted. It was not as if he liked the woman, of course. He didn’t. Nor was it male gallantry. In fact, if asked, Moulton couldn’t have said why it was that he was so eager to leap to her defence. He just was.
‘Miss Starling happens to have been involved — strictly as an observer, of course — in a few of the most puzzling murders this country has seen in the course of the last few years.’
Stan’s lower jaw literally dropped. ‘Eh? She what?’
Moulton sighed but opened his mouth to continue to spread the tales of her prowess, and Jenny wondered despairingly if she really could consider herself justified in giving his shins yet another hearty, well-deserved kick. But she supposed not, and sighed.
‘Miss Starling has several times, er, helped the police to ascertain the identity of the guilty party,’ Moulton confessed.
Very policeman-like language, Jenny thought, her lips twisted into a grim smile as she collected the toast. He certainly wasn’t going to say that the police had been baffled (that phrase so beloved of the tabloids) and that she had as good as handed the culprit to them on a silver platter. On the other hand, it was what he didn’t say that made it so obvious that that was exactly what she had done.
And now, Stan Kelton would be on his guard.
Thanks a bunch, Inspector Moulton, she thought with a sigh. She glanced up as she returned to the table with a plate of steaming golden toast, and noticed Stan watching her with a new light in his eyes, and a very firm line to his lips.
Wonderful!
Moulton, perhaps aware of having upset the cook in some strange way — women could be very odd at times, he knew — had enough sense to eat his breakfast quickly, and without another word, and then took himself off to Ford’s room. He was anxious to fill his sergeant in on what Miss Starling had told him last night.
When s
he had knocked on his door, at an hour well past midnight, and he’d awakened to see her standing over him, his heart had lurched. For one awful, yet oddly exhilarating moment, he’d thought . . . but of course, he wilted now in remembered relief, she had only had business on her mind, and what she’d told him had certainly been interesting. But for now he quickened his step, anxious to get free of the tense atmosphere in the kitchen.
Jenny watched the great big booby disappear into the hall and sighed. She glanced across at Stan, who slowly leaned back in his chair. ‘So. We’re in the presence of a clever-Dick amateur detective, are we? I thought those only existed in novels and on the telly.’
Jenny shrugged. ‘I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and needed to get myself taken off a suspect list. To do that . . .’ she shrugged again and trailed off.
Stan’s slightly sneering smile began to slide off his face. Slowly, he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. ‘You mean you really have solved murders before?’
Jenny buttered her toast, speared her fried egg with a very savage prod from her fork, and reached for the salt. ‘Yes,’ she admitted shortly.
Stan stared at her for a long while, but she said nothing more. Angry at not forcing her to buckle under, the farmer glanced over his shoulder, but no one else seemed to be stirring just yet. Slowly, he leaned even further forward across the table, his hands coming together to lie in a twisted knot in front of him.
When Jenny reluctantly looked up into his eyes, she didn’t — but most definitely didn’t — like the look in them.
‘When you find out who killed Sid,’ Stan said, his voice for once held way below its natural bellow, ‘I want you to tell me before you tell the cops.’ His brown eyes bored into hers; his face had lost all colour and his chest heaved, as if he were having difficulty breathing.
