by Faith Martin
‘No,’ Jenny agreed thoughtfully. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me either.’ And wondered some more.
* * *
Mrs Jarvis skidded slightly on the last of the rapidly vanishing snow, and looked up as the courtyard of Kelton Farm came into view. She’d had her lunch, settled down to do some knitting and found the afternoon suddenly stretching interminably ahead of her, like a long wet weekend. She’d convinced herself that she really wasn’t going to go back to the farm — it wasn’t safe. She had common sense enough to know that. And yet here she was. She sighed as she opened the gate and walked in, ignoring the gander, which returned the insult by ignoring her. It was obviously beneath the bird’s dignity to terrify such a nonentity as the daily.
Her spine tingled and her steps slowed as she approached the side door, and she knew herself for being all kinds of a fool. None of the Keltons would be surprised if she stopped coming. She was just storing up trouble for herself, and no mistake. But she just had to know. What had they learned? It had been three days since Sid had died. If they’d found anything out, it was imperative that she discovered what it was.
She stiffened her backbone, opened the door and breezed in. And stopped dead. There, sat at the kitchen table and as large as life, was Janice Kelton. Moreover, Bert was leaning over her, looking as if he’d just been kissing her, and young Jeremy was grinning from ear to ear. Well!
Janice felt the cold draught and drew away. She glanced across and was immediately relieved to see that it was only the old daily, and not Stan Kelton returning from the sheep pens. ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Jarvis. How are you?’ she asked brightly.
Mrs Jarvis blinked. ‘Eh? Oh, I’m all right. My chilblains are giving me jip again though.’
‘Oh, what a nuisance,’ Janice said, then added craftily, ‘Why don’t you go through to the living room, where it’s warmer?’
Bert smiled at his wife’s genuine kindness and very useful tact, and watched as the old daily, very warily, walked past them, shot them an avidly curious look over her shoulder and disappeared into the hall. Jeremy laughed out loud at the exaggerated theatrics.
Bert, who’d also been watching their unexpected visitor, found his eyes swinging back to his son, and all the laughter in his own face fled. Unknowingly, his hold on his wife’s hand tightened. Janice caught the sudden, frightened look on his face, and her own heart leapt as a sudden shaft of panic swept through her. A cold sense of foreboding snaked up her spine and made her shiver.
What was wrong? What could possibly be wrong now, just when they’d got everything sorted out?
She’d told Bert all about how Sid had found her sharing a flat with an old school friend, and how he’d sounded her out about what she’d like to do with the rest of her life. She’d told him, thinking he’d only asked out of friendly curiosity, and had been shocked but delighted when he’d returned a month later with the papers all drawn up that made her the new half-owner of The Old Duke antique shop.
She’d gone on so happily to tell Bert how she’d turned the flat upstairs into a cosy little place for three, always hoping her husband and son would soon join her, and about how well the shop was doing. She’d also told him how Sid had insisted she say nothing to Bert about it all until after Christmas. It was all so totally out of character for Sid, and it had seemed like such a long time for her to wait, but, after all, Sid was giving them the shop. So, reluctantly, she’d agreed.
Then she’d gone on to tell Bert how nice it was to live in town. And just to make sure he was getting the message loud and clear, she’d gone out of her way to stress how much she was looking forward to him travelling the country with her, helping to buy up stock. For good measure, she’d also added how nice it would be to have someone warm beside her in bed again, and Bert had laughed, and kissed her, and his arms had felt so strong and safe and reassuring.
Life, in the last ten minutes, had become wonderful again. Bert had sworn he would leave the farm and join her there, along with Jeremy of course. Janice had been so happy. But now she was suddenly afraid again.
Because Bert was afraid.
‘Bert, what is it?’ she asked softly, and saw Jeremy’s happy face crease into a frown.
Jeremy shifted uneasily on his chair. His father really was looking at him in a most peculiar way. ‘Dad?’ he said sharply.
Bert dragged his eyes away from his son and returned them to his wife. There could be no dark doubts gnawing at him with her pretty eyes shining on him.
‘Bert, what is it?’ Janice whispered again. ‘You’re frightening me.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he said gruffly, wishing it were true.
‘It’s something,’ Janice insisted. She knew her husband well. ‘What? Can’t you tell me? We shouldn’t have secrets from each other, not now. We need to be strong.’ Stan, she knew, would not let Bert go without a fight.
Bert sighed. It seemed to come from the depths of his soul. ‘It’s just that all this talk of the future . . .’ he trailed off helplessly.
Janice’s heart plummeted. She should have known that it wouldn’t be so easy to pry Bert away from this damned farm, and the influence of that malevolent force, his father.
‘And none of us even know if we have one,’ Bert continued, almost in a whisper.
Janice paled even more. ‘What do you mean?’
Bert glanced at his son, then quickly looked away again. ‘That policeman — Inspector Moulton. He’s not going to give up, you know.’ Bert’s voice had a hard edge to it now, which was strangely at odds with the resignation so apparent in his face. ‘He won’t let any of us leave here until he knows who killed Sid.’
Janice almost laughed out loud as she wilted in relief. Was that all? For a moment there, she’d thought Bert was having second thoughts about coming back to her.
‘But he must find out who did it soon,’ Janice said, offering what she thought must be comfort, and saw instead a ripple of some unnamed but terrifying emotion cross her husband’s face. It was like watching a dark wave, a sinisterly dangerous current, rushing by beneath an otherwise placid-seeming pond.
Something, Janice thought, her mouth going paper-dry, was terribly wrong with her husband. A dread that she couldn’t give name to — or maybe didn’t dare give name to — clutched her heart, making her chest ache and sending a violent shiver down her spine.
Again, she noticed Bert’s eyes dart across to those of their son and then quickly, painfully, move away again.
And this time, Janice felt the bottom drop out of her world. Every vestige of colour bleached out of her face. She turned wide, panicked eyes towards her son. Jeremy?
Oh no. NO!
Jeremy, who’d become more and more fidgety, suddenly found his mother looking at him with stricken eyes. It was more than he could bear. ‘What?’ he demanded, his face becoming flushed. ‘What?’
Bert shook his head. ‘It’s no good,’ he said finally. ‘I know . . . I know, son.’ His hand left those of his wife, and moved to capture the cold hands of his son. He squeezed them hard. ‘It’ll be all right,’ Bert whispered in encouragement. But he knew, in his heart, that it never would be.
Jeremy transferred his stare to his other parent. ‘What? You know what?’ he demanded, exasperated and more than a little unnerved now.
Bert gave Janice an utterly despairing look. He shook his head. ‘I know Jeremy wasn’t in the fields when Sid was killed,’ he told her. ‘I went down to the lower forty to ask him if he’d noticed any fox tracks coming out of the spinney.’
He turned, finally, to look his son in the eye. ‘And you were nowhere to be seen.’
This time it was Jeremy’s turn to have his face fade to white. His lips fell apart. His eyes widened to enormous dark pools. ‘You think . . . All this time, you’ve thought that I . . . ?’ He swallowed hard, on the verge of tears.
Janice covered her hand with her mouth. Her son had lied to the police. He had no alibi. Sid . . .
‘I think I can help out there,’ a
cool voice suddenly cut into the scene, and Janice almost jumped out of her skin.
Bert swivelled round, his eyes narrowing on the cook. ‘You,’ he said, but whether it was a curse, a resigned statement or a benediction, she couldn’t tell.
‘If you ask him,’ Jenny said, very patiently, ‘I think you’ll find that he sneaked off to see Mandy. Her father, apparently, was out of the pub that day and they arranged to snatch some time alone. Isn’t that right, Jeremy?’
Jeremy was still staring at his father, his one thought still stuck in the same hideous groove. ‘You thought I’d killed Uncle Sid?’ he said at last, his young voice suddenly sounding ancient and tight with betrayal and disbelief.
‘No,’ Bert said, the word so full of despair and denial that it penetrated even Jeremy’s icy anger. ‘I never thought you might have done it!’ Bert wailed. But, he thought, pressing his lips tightly together so that he could not possibly speak his thoughts out loud, I was so afraid you might have seen who did . . .
And kept quiet about it.
Jeremy threw himself against his father, burying his face against his shoulder, everything suddenly all too much for him. He was still so young, after all, and had felt so miserable for so long. Bert caught him, his big burly body wilting with the release of tension. Janice gave a dry sob, and rested her hand against her son’s shoulder. She gazed at her husband, amazed at all that he must have gone through, since Sid’s awful death.
Over the boy’s head, Bert met the cook’s narrowed thoughtful eyes. And he hoped, oh he so fervently hoped, that she wasn’t really the mind-reader she so often seemed to be.
* * *
In the living room, Mrs Jarvis fidgeted on the sofa, and periodically gave the policemen a penetrating gaze.
The cook had just gone to make her some tea, after the inspector had said, rather enigmatically, that he thought ‘they’ had had enough time. ‘They’ being Bert and Janice, Mrs Jarvis surmised accurately. But, enough time for what? Had they arrested Bert of all people? Bert! Was that why Janice was there?
Jenny came back five minutes later, tea tray in hand. ‘I think Mrs Kelton is about to leave,’ she said to Moulton, her voice totally neutral and giving no hint as to what had taken place in the kitchen.
Moulton rose, wandered into the hall, saw Bert kissing his wife on the doorstep, and felt abruptly embarrassed. He half turned his back. Sometimes, although eavesdropping was a vital part of the job, he found it extremely distasteful. Not that people had a right to expect privacy during a murder investigation. But still . . .
‘But why can’t you stay here?’ Bert was wheedling, the longing in his voice carrying clearly across the distance and making Moulton colour slightly. Ford, who’d also risen with his superior, very thoughtfully looked elsewhere. It wouldn’t do for Moulton to catch him smiling.
‘Because you know what it would be like,’ Janice Kelton’s pretty, rather lilting voice also carried clearly to the two policemen. ‘Stan would . . . well . . . it would be very awkward. No, it’s far better if I go back to the flat and get it ready for you. And Jeremy. He will come too, won’t he?’
Bert murmured something Moulton didn’t quite catch, and a few moments later he heard the front door shut quietly.
Moulton turned, nodded at Bert, and went back into the living room. He glanced at the daily. Now why, he wondered, momentarily distracted, had she been in such a hurry to return?
‘I think Miss Starling could do with a hand in the kitchen, Mrs Jarvis,’ he said, anxious to get her out of the room so that he and Ford could confer. Not that he could see what Janice Kelton’s turning up had added to the puzzle, but you never knew.
Jenny easily took the hint, and stood up. ‘Come on, Mrs Jarvis, you can bring your tea. I’ll cut you a nice piece of my Christmas cake.’
Mrs Jarvis sniffed. ‘I’ve still got plenty of my own cake left,’ she pointed out. But, five minutes later, as she took a large bite out of the fancy cook’s cake, she had to admit that it really did taste very nice. And it was so beautifully iced.
* * *
Ford pulled the curtains across the window and sighed. These dark winter days were so depressing. It was only five o’clock, but it was already as dark as midnight outside. He made his way to the kitchen, his spirits soaring as he sniffed the air. ‘Lamb,’ he murmured, his stomach rumbling. He came up alongside Delia in the hall, who was also making her way down for dinner.
‘Hungry?’ he asked her cheerfully, and then felt instantly deflated as she gave him a miserable look.
‘Hardly,’ Delia said coldly, and put a spurt on, no doubt in order to get out of his orbit as quickly as possible. The police, she thought angrily, could be so insensitive at times. As if she was hungry! She wondered, sometimes, if she’d ever feel hungry again.
Moulton was already at the table, Ford noticed a shade sourly, and Jenny checked her watch as she saw Ford and Delia take their own places. Mrs Jarvis, busy scrubbing out the shelves, heard her own stomach rumble, but she knew instinctively that the cook would put out a plate for her, too. Jenny Starling was the kind that would.
‘They’re late,’ Jenny remarked, but no sooner were the words out of her mouth than the door opened and Stan Kelton walked in, a heavily scowling Bill right behind him. Bill shut the door with a nice, reverberating slam.
Upstairs, Bert and Jeremy heard it clearly and made their own way down. They’d packed a lot of their stuff already, anxious to make the move to Woodstock as soon as possible. Bert had felt the need to do something positive, and packing was as positive as it got. He would leave the farm and the packed suitcases now lining his bedroom walls proved it.
Jeremy, too, had been more than happy to pack. Although he now had a car, and he’d propose to Mandy at the very next opportunity, he was realistic enough to know that the wedding was still a long way off yet. He’d need to get another job, and would need to find a place to live whilst he did it. And he couldn’t see his grandfather letting him stay on living at Kelton Farm once he knew that he had no intention of continuing to work on, or inherit it, in due course.
Besides, the thought of living in a town was exhilarating. Even if it was only good old Woodstock.
Jenny watched the seats around the table steadily fill up and reached for her oven gloves, then found her eyes falling to the wet and muddy floor. She shot a dirty glance at Stan and Bill, who were too busy trying to out-scowl each other to notice the mess they’d made, and reached for the ever-ready mop, throwing the oven gloves back down onto the table.
Jenny resentfully hoped that they all felt starving, and she set to with the mop as slowly as she could possibly manage. It would do them good to sit with empty growling bellies, whilst she was forced, yet again, to clean the damned floor!
She continued to mutter darkly under her breath as she worked. Her eyes absently followed the progress of the mop head. It was one of those grey, raggedy sort of mops, and as she slowly swept it rhythmically from side to side, the material absorbing the melted snow and mud on the tiles, her movements began to wind down and, finally, stop altogether.
She felt a tingling start, somewhere deep in the back of her mind. Something . . . something . . . something about that morning, when she’d returned to find Sid stabbed through the chest. Something about the state of the floor.
Moulton, who’d glanced casually her way, suddenly sat bolt upright. Ford, catching the movement, followed the line of his sight, and his own eyes narrowed on the cook.
Jenny Starling had such a tight, strange look on her face that Ford felt his own heartbeat pick up a pace.
Jenny didn’t notice their attention. She was too busy going back in time, and was once more coming in from collecting the eggs on that crisp Christmas Eve morning. She took off her hat, coat, scarf and boots in the hall. She came into the kitchen and crossed over the floor . . .
She looked down at the mop, at the dirty and wet footprints. She had crossed over the floor in just her bare socks, to put the kettle o
n and get the mince pies out of the oven. And Sid was sat there, dead.
Jenny felt herself sway and closed her eyes. ‘Of course,’ she whispered. Of course!
By now, everyone in the room had become aware of the two policemen’s sudden taut silence, and now, almost as one body, they too began to stare at the cook. Everyone seemed to hold a collective breath.
And one heart in particular began to pound. Sickeningly. The silence was so complete, even Jenny’s whisper reached them all clearly.
Moulton licked his lips. At last. At last! It was coming. He could feel it. He felt his body strain, wanting to move, wanting to dance with excitement, but he forced himself to be still. Nothing must break her concentration now.
But, for a long moment, the cook did nothing more dramatic than continue to stare at her mop.
Her mind leapt and churned as images, thoughts, conclusions and finally the truth, the so clearly self-evident truth, all tried to cram into her mind at once.
How stupid she’d been. It was so blindingly obvious now who had killed Sid. There was only one person it could have been. All this time, she’d been on the wrong track, thinking she had to find out why Sid had been killed, when the evidence of who had killed him had been right under her nose all this time!
She almost groaned out loud.
The Kelton family sat frozen at the table. Each and every one stared at the cook, waiting, waiting, knowing as instinctively as Moulton had known that the moment was now here.
Some of them were surprised that it was the cook, of all people, who had somehow discovered who the killer was. Some, Bert among them, was not surprised at all.
Like racers poised at the starting line, trembling, every nerve straining, waiting for the pistol to fire, the Kelton clan waited for the cook to speak.
Jenny, however, was totally unaware of them. Her mind was whirling like a dervish on ice skates. So, she knew who. But she still didn’t know why. It seemed to make no sense at all.
And yet it must. And suddenly, it did.
Once again the images flashed in her head as more of the truth, until now held back, came flooding into her mind in a dizzying deluge. And, once again, once you understood how to look at things, it all became so obvious. There had been so many clues. So many obvious pointers. And she’d been blind to them all. Blind!
