by Faith Martin
‘Oh?’ Jenny said, her voice as light as one of her sponge cakes. ‘And why should I do that?’
Stan Kelton leaned back in his chair, his eyes glittering. ‘You know very well why I want you to do that.’
Jenny reached for a second piece of toast, and put a slice of bacon onto it, then folded the toast over to make a sandwich. She took her own sweet time about it. When she finally looked back at him, her eyes were like mirrors.
Bill had come up against that same phenomenon only last night, and now it was his father’s turn to look into the cook’s eyes and see nothing else but his own reflection there.
‘The murderer of Sid Kelton,’ Jenny said quietly, but in a tone of voice that sounded as if it could travel to the heavens themselves, ‘will go to prison for the rest of his or her life for it. We’ve had enough trouble in this house without adding vigilantism to it.’
Stan’s hands clenched into fists in front of him.
‘The state will see to justice, Mr Kelton,’ she assured him quietly. ‘Never you fear about that.’
* * *
Everyone was at the breakfast table (including Moulton, who’d come down to keep Sergeant Ford company) when the letterbox rattled, and for the first time since the very first fall of snow, the daily newspaper slipped through the door and thudded onto the mat.
Jenny, washing up at the sink, glanced through the window to see a young lad all but sprint for the rapidly clearing lane. No doubt it was not the gander this time that made him want to make such a hasty departure, but the desire to be as fast and as far away from Kelton Farm as possible. No doubt the villagers had been talking of nothing else but the murder since Christmas Eve. She could well imagine the paperboy’s friends teasing and taunting him about having to deliver a paper to the ‘death house.’
A moment later, Stan Kelton roared in outrage. The unexpected shout made everyone jump, including the cook, and it quickly became clear that the villagers of Westcott Barton had not been the only ones talking about it.
‘Look at this!’ Stan bellowed, his roar making the dog, currently hidden behind the cooker of all things, whimper in fright. Jenny quickly banged a pot lid to cover the tiny sound, but Stan had his mind on other things anyway.
‘The bloody vultures!’ Stan’s face was red, his blood vessels popping spectacularly. In his hands, the local paper shook in a frenzy of rage, and Moulton glanced sourly at the big blazing headlines.
LOCAL FARMER STABBED IN THE CHEST IN HIS OWN HOME. POLICE HAVE QUARANTINED KELTON FARM.
Moulton sighed. They hadn’t quarantined the farm, of course, but when had the truth ever stood in the way of a good story?
Regardless of its accuracy, one thing was for sure: once his chief saw it, he’d be given enough paperwork to paper the walls with, if Miss Starling didn’t pull her finger out soon and point out the killer.
If there was one thing his chief hated, it was to be made a fool of in the press. And if there was one thing Moulted hated, it was to be on the receiving end of his chief’s displeasure.
Stan indignantly began to read the article, which was by and large factual, but written in such a way as to make the very most out of innuendo and gossip. It also stressed that the police had been unable to find any evidence of a stranger having called at the farm to kill Sid, and speculated why two police officers were actually staying at the farm. And, they wondered out loud, and oh-so-innocently, how difficult it could be to unmask the killer, when there appeared to be such a limited range of suspects.
If only they knew!
Of one Jenny Starling, there was as yet no mention, and the cook felt a little guilty at feeling so relieved. But give them time, she thought grimly. Give them time.
The Kelton family listened to the recital in dour silence. Sid was described as a ‘gentle, well-liked man’ whilst Stan was the ‘very respected source behind the Kelton wealth.’ And for ‘respected’ everyone could read ‘feared’ with no difficulty.
The unnecessarily gory details of the murder were the worst, and Jenny’s guilt intensified. No doubt the reporters had questioned the villagers, who’d been only too happy to pass on to them what the Keltons’ cook had said. Oh well, it had always been inevitable. It only made things that much more uncomfortable.
For the killer as well, she hoped.
* * *
At just gone ten o’clock, Moulton put his head around the door, noted that the cook was at last alone, and beckoned Ford in after him. He shut the kitchen door carefully behind him, causing Jenny to look up over the mound of lamb she was washing under the tap.
‘Inspector,’ she said, rinsing the meat. ‘Lancashire hotpot for dinner, with plenty of onions mixed in, with cauliflower and carrots. And I thought I’d do a raisin and—’
‘I don’t care what’s for dinner,’ Moulton said quickly, knowing how lyrical the cook could wax when it came to food. Ford, who’d been licking his lips in anticipation, stiffened his backbone contritely.
Jenny sighed and nodded to the table. ‘Let’s sit down then, shall we? Delia’s off to the Brays’ and Mrs Jarvis hasn’t come in yet.’ She wondered, privately, if Mrs Jarvis would ever come back to the farm. ‘The men are all out in the sheep pen, so that’s something to be grateful for. Bert muttered something about dyeing the pregnant ewes blue and the others red.’
But Moulton was even less interested in the daily running of a sheep farm than he was in what was for dinner. Well, not quite. He did have to admit that Miss Starling was a cook who could make even a fasting monk think twice, but . . .
‘Look, what do you really make of all these strange Christmas presents of Sid’s?’ Moulton dragged his thoughts firmly back to the matter in hand. ‘Ford and I were saying only just now that in quite a few murder cases, it’s usually the way that the victim has behaved oddly in some way before he or she is killed. And, more often than not, it’s usually the reason why they acted queerly that got them killed.’ Moulton, aware that he’d been rather less than clear, grappled for an example. ‘I mean, I was reading about a case last summer where a man suddenly started coming home late, smelling of perfume, and making excuses to his wife. She knew he was having an affair, and killed the poor sod with his own garden spade.’
Jenny sighed. ‘Men can be very stupid sometimes.’
Moulton flushed. ‘That wasn’t the point I was making,’ he gritted. ‘I’m saying that Sid Kelton had been acting strangely lately.’
‘Hmm,’ she agreed. ‘But I don’t see why that would have got him killed. After all, he wasn’t exactly doing anything nasty was he? Quite the opposite, in fact. Why would Delia want to kill the man who was giving her escape money? Or Bert kill the man who’d been so good to the wife he obviously still adores? Do you really think Jeremy was so angered by his new car, he took the steak knife to his uncle?’
Moulton sighed, then suddenly perked up. ‘But none of them knew, did they, that they were going to get such generous gifts?’
‘Agreed,’ Jenny said. ‘But how much farther forward does that get us?’
Ford sighed. ‘But it has to be significant,’ he whined. ‘Sid had been acting out of character. Somebody for some reason must have taken exception to it.’
‘Granted, but why exactly?’ she wailed in frustration.
* * *
The men had returned for lunch. Jenny had happily prepared leeks stuffed with ham and cheese and baked in the oven. With it, she’d served freshly baked bread rolls, and brought out the Christmas cake for afters.
Delia, it seemed, had, for once, been invited to stay on for lunch at the Brays’. Perhaps even Cordelia felt obliged to offer the grief-stricken girl a few crumbs of comfort.
The cook was just clearing the table when her sharp hearing detected a somewhat timid knock at the front door. Since thick walls, shut doors and general conversation had kept it from the others, she wiped her hands on the towel and went out into the hall. There she opened the door to a tall, thin woman, with a very nice complexion and lar
ge, anxious eyes.
The visitor was obviously surprised by the cook’s appearance and blinked in evident confusion. ‘Oh. Er, hello. I was wondering . . . er . . . if my husband, Bert Kelton, was home?’
Jenny smiled widely. ‘You must be Janice? I’m the cook, hired by Stan for the Christmas holidays. Please, do come in.’
Janice smiled nervously and walked in with some trepidation. And who could blame her for being unsure of her reception, Jenny thought. She took the other woman’s coat, scarf and gloves and lent her much-needed support by following her into the lion’s den. In the doorway Janice abruptly halted, the sight of Stan Kelton’s broad back having that effect on a lot of people.
It was her son who saw her first. Jeremy leapt to his feet, his face alight with happiness, and Jenny instantly saw that the lad had inherited his slim build from his mother. His rather pretty face, too, for that matter. ‘Mum!’ he cried, beaming at her, and Bert instantly lifted a white face to that of his wife. It was as much movement as he could manage, for after that he sat, seemingly frozen, in his chair.
Stan Kelton reared up to his feet and spun around. Janice would have taken an instinctive step back, but Jenny had positioned herself right behind her, and a bulldozer would have something to do to shift Jenny when she’d made up her mind to do something, much less a mere willow of a woman like Janice.
‘Mrs Kelton, I’d like to introduce you to Inspector Moulton and Sergeant Ford,’ Jenny said, a little louder than need be, and stared tellingly at Stan as she did so.
Stan slightly subsided. Even he felt inhibited when it came to family feuding in front of a police audience.
‘Hello, everyone,’ Janice said, her voice small and unsure in the suddenly silent room. ‘I—’ She stopped, looked at her son, looked at her husband and said in a quiet, deeply pained voice, ‘I read in the papers this morning about Sid. I had to come.’
That simple.
Jenny knew that, normally, the police would have been to see Janice long before now, and she wouldn’t have had to read about Sid’s death in the newspapers. But being Christmas, and so short-staffed, she supposed they hadn’t yet got around to it. Similarly, she supposed Janice had spent a rather lonely Christmas, so wouldn’t have heard any local gossip about Sid’s murder.
Bert, at last, slowly rose to his feet. ‘Janice,’ he said, his eyes drinking her in like a man that had been crawling across the Sahara for a week, just sighting his first oasis.
Janice took a tentative step forward. ‘You haven’t been in touch — all my letters, my Christmas cards, my gift for Jeremy . . .’ She looked hurt and confused. ‘Did you not get them?’
Before Bert could explain, Stan growled, ‘I thought when you left in such a high and mighty dudgeon, my girl, that you said you wouldn’t ever set foot in this house again!’
‘Oh for Pete’s sake!’ Bill roared, before anyone else could jump in. ‘Janice loved Sid, just as much as the rest of us. And it’s Christmas! Why shouldn’t she be here?’
Moulton coughed. ‘Please, sit down, Mrs Kelton,’ he said politely.
And Stan was forced to watch, helpless and outmanoeuvred, as Janice Kelton walked into the room and went straight to the empty chair beside her husband. Slowly, with tears in her eyes, she reached out to take his hand. Bert, hardly able to believe his luck, squeezed his fingers around hers.
Jenny watched them, and wondered. In fact, she wondered very much.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jenny went straight to the stove to put the kettle on. If Janice Kelton could work up the courage to come back to Kelton Farm, the least, the very least she could expect was a good cup of tea and some warm mince pies with clotted cream.
Stan Kelton glared at his daughter-in-law, scowled at Bert, saved the most dirty of his looks for the two policemen, then very firmly sat down again. He was not about to leave Bert alone with Janice, a fact that was surely now obvious to everyone.
‘Mum, Uncle Sid gave me a car for Christmas,’ Jeremy broke the awkward silence first, his youthful enthusiasm making even Moulton smile. If it weren’t for the fact that the lad might be a killer, Moulton wouldn’t have a thing against him.
Janice half laughed, no doubt feeling overwhelmed at being with her family again, and relieved that the first awkward moments were now behind her, even if the presence of the silently fuming Stan could hardly be ignored. ‘Did he? That was nice of him. But I thought, I mean the papers said that Sid died on Christmas Eve.’ Her voice was puzzled, as well it might be.
‘He did,’ Stan said flatly.
Janice’s eyes flickered in his direction, then away again. She looked at Bert, who was still holding onto her hand and not about to let go. He still looked as dazed as a bear that had stumbled into a honey factory. A slightly silly grin was beginning to spread over his face. His eyes ran over her features hungrily, and he was breathing in deep, almost panicky gulps.
Bill gave Janice a happy nudge in the ribs, and winked at her when she smiled at him.
‘I opened the present yesterday,’ Jeremy was forced to explain, his youthful zest becoming flatter and flatter. He looked from his mother to his father, then at his scowling-faced grandfather, and wondered, rather belatedly, if there wasn’t a fresh disaster just looming on the horizon. In his joy to see his mum again he’d forgotten, for one lovely, giddying moment, just how bad things really were here.
Jenny very firmly put a mug of steaming tea down in front of the visitor, and a plate of nicely warmed mince pies. Janice helped herself to two sugar lumps from the bowl and a generous dollop of milk. ‘Those look wonderful,’ she said, nodding at the mince pies.
Jenny beamed. What an obviously nice and good woman Janice Kelton was.
Bill rose determinedly to his feet. ‘Well, Dad, we’d better get back to them ewes. It’ll be dark by four, you know, and we’ve still got a good three score to do.’
Stan’s lower lip curled nastily. ‘I know when it gets dark, boy, and I can count.’ His voice was so filled with contempt that Sergeant Ford actually winced. Janice’s face paled in shock. She gaped at Bill, who was red-faced and breathing hard, like a bull that had just spotted a red cape. She hastily transferred her surprised glance to Stan. Obviously, when she’d left, Bill had still been very much the blue-eyed boy. But Stan’s lip curled even more in distaste. It gave his face such a hateful expression that Janice felt all her old antagonism and despair rise up to fill her throat.
‘The ewes won’t dye themselves,’ Bill’s voice gritted past his teeth, and he took a determined step towards his father. It was almost as if he was willing to physically manhandle his father out of the room, to give Bert and his wife time on their own. Moulton, for one, was convinced that Bill was about to attempt to pluck his father from the chair right there and then.
Stan obviously thought so too, for he suddenly lurched to his feet, looking ready to kill his younger son if he tried it.
Janice’s jaw dropped.
Moulton said firmly, ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mr Kelton, I would like to talk to your daughter-in-law and your son, Bert, alone for a few minutes.’
Stan’s murderous gaze swivelled in the policeman’s direction. He glanced briefly at Bert, still sat firmly beside his wife and still holding onto her hand like a drowning man holding onto a lifejacket, and a very odd look passed over his face.
Jenny, who just caught it, thought for one insane moment that it was a look of fear, but at the same time, almost a look of love.
She immediately thought she must have imagined it, but then, after he’d stomped out, a triumphant Bill fast in his wake, she wondered. Why wouldn’t Stan Kelton love his eldest son? Even a man such as himself could be afraid of losing yet another member of his family. It was only natural, after all. She really mustn’t let her dislike for the man influence her thinking.
When the door slammed shut behind the two men, Janice turned to Bert, her face still showing her shock. ‘I thought Bill was his favourite,’ was the first thing she sa
id, and Bert smiled wryly.
‘He was. Now I am. Neither of us knows who’s coming or going. It’s Dad at his best.’ There was a world of defeat and hate in his voice.
Janice blinked, then shook her head. She didn’t like to see Bert, her easygoing, good-hearted Bert, like this. Quickly, she changed the subject. ‘I really am sorry about Sid,’ she said softly, and looked across at her son. ‘I know how you both loved him. So did I.’
At that point, Moulton took over, and began a rather pompous but undeniably official interrogation, but Janice could tell him nothing new. She herself had been in her shop all day Christmas Eve, and quoted the name of an assistant who could corroborate it. She also offered the name of two regular customers whom she’d served in the shop that day, one who’d bought an eighteenth-century Toby jug at around 11:30, and one who’d bought a Victorian jet mourning ring at just before one o’clock.
Not that Moulton had seriously considered her as a suspect, of course. But it paid to be thorough.
He sighed at Ford, nodded at the reunited couple and their son and caught the cook’s slight nod towards the hall door. Mumbling excuses, they all left Bert Kelton and his family alone, and went into the living room.
‘Well, that’s one in the eye for Stan Kelton anyway,’ Ford said, with just a hint of satisfied malice in his voice. ‘You think Bert will leave now?’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ Jenny answered. ‘He’s been so miserable without her. And now that they have another place to live, and another business to keep them going, I can’t see him letting his father keep them apart for a second time. And neither,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘can Stan.’
‘You caught that look on his face then, eh?’ Moulton asked, but without his sergeant’s spite. He too could feel sorry for a man who was about to lose, through his own cruelty and injustice, his oldest son and heir.
‘Hmm,’ Jenny murmured. ‘I wonder if Sid’s happy — wherever he is.’
‘When this is all over,’ Ford mused, ‘it wouldn’t surprise me if our young Delia and big brother Bill also swanned off into the sunset.’
