by Faith Martin
Because the reason Sid had been killed was just as obvious as the identity of his killer.
Jenny almost smiled. Almost, but not quite.
Blue eyes crying in the rain.
Even her subconscious had been trying to get her attention pointed in the right direction.
‘Of course,’ she said again.
And turned to look straight at Bill Kelton.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bill went pale.
He held the cook’s penetrating gaze for just a few seconds, then turned to look first at Bert, then Jeremy, and finally his father. ‘What are you all looking at me for?’ he asked aggressively, his chin jutting forward, his skin suddenly filling with colour again.
In her corner, Mrs Jarvis sank down onto the nearest chair, her heart thumping. She felt quite sick.
Moulton stood up. ‘Mr William Kelton, I am arresting you for—’
‘Inspector, please do stop that,’ Jenny said firmly, putting the mop to one side, and walking to the table to slowly pull out her chair.
Moulton blinked at her. ‘But . . . I thought you had it all sussed? You looked like you had,’ he accused her, his voice almost comically aggrieved.
Jenny sat down briskly, and folded her hands in front of her, laying them on the table and looking at them thoughtfully. ‘I do indeed have it all sussed, as you so quaintly put it,’ she said shortly. ‘But Bill isn’t the killer. He’s the reason why Sid was killed, yes, that I’ll grant you,’ she carried on, quickly marshalling her thoughts. ‘But please don’t jump the gun — if you’ll pardon the figure of speech.’
‘What?’ Bill roared, his fair brows drawing into a deep frown. ‘Now, look here, I don’t know who you think you are, or why everyone around here seems to think you’re the next best thing since the invention of the wheel all of a sudden, but I never had anything to do with poor old Sid getting killed. So you watch your mouth!’
‘You watch yours, my lad,’ Moulton snapped grimly, and turned to look at Miss Starling. He only hoped she knew what she was doing.
The cook, he noticed at once, was looking a little paler than usual, but her eyes were steady, as were the hands she held out in front of her. What’s more, she appeared to be perfectly calm, Moulton noted with growing relief, and best of all, perfectly rational. But more than all of that, she had a quality of stillness about her, Moulton realized with a little atavistic shiver, that was close to near supernatural composure. She looked somehow immovable, like a mountain.
Moulton, somewhat reassured, sat back down. Bill glowered at him.
‘I don’t understand.’ It was Delia who was the first to admit her ignorance. ‘You said Bill was the reason why Uncle Sid was killed. But why?’
Jenny lifted her head briefly in Delia’s direction, then slowly turned her head a few degrees. She was looking now towards the head of the table. ‘Would you like to tell them all why Sid was killed, Stan, or should I?’
It was the first time she’d ever used Stan Kelton’s first name to his face, and it would be the last.
Stan Kelton stared at her. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said flatly. But his eyes were shifting rapidly from side to side, unable to settle anywhere. And, under the table, Jenny distinctly heard his feet scrape sharply across the floor in agitation. His big body had jerked, on being asked such a simple question, but he’d brought himself rapidly under control and was now sitting quite, quite still.
Moulton and Ford exchanged glances. Neither of them spoke. Bill stared at his father. Delia stared at Bill. Jeremy began to bite his nails. Only Bert, it seemed, stared naturally ahead, looking almost easily from the cook to his father, his expression unreadable.
‘I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,’ Jenny contradicted him, her voice elevating just a little, her blue eyes becoming almost electric as she continued to meet Stan Kelton’s granite-faced gaze. ‘You killed your brother, and you killed him because of Bill.’
Bill shifted on his chair. He spared just a single glance for the cook, then kept his eyes fixed on those of his father. Suddenly, he knew he didn’t have to defend himself anymore. And it was a hideously wonderful feeling.
Stan Kelton’s big hands slowly clenched into fists as he assimilated the cook’s inexorable words, but — at the same time — a rather hideous smile began to pull at his lips. It made him look grotesque.
Delia shivered, and looked away. It was her father, and yet it was a stranger. She couldn’t, she realized a little wildly, even think of the figure at the head of the table as a ‘him’ anymore, so inhuman had he suddenly become.
‘You killed your brother,’ Jenny said again. Her voice was so flat, it was a mere statement of fact, not even an accusation.
‘Prove it,’ Stan said, equally as flatly.
And something in the room shifted. Until that moment, the Kelton offspring had not quite believed it. They’d wanted to believe it, yes. He was a tyrant, after all — but a murderer? But when Stan finally uttered those flat two words, which might just as well have been a confession, none of them were able to deny it anymore.
An almost inaudible sound echoed around the kitchen, a communal hiss of reaction. Delia let out her breath on a trembling sigh. Jeremy’s teeth miscalculated the length of a thumbnail, and his two sets of molars came together in an audible click. Bert’s chair creaked as he slumped against the back of it. Bill made the loudest noise of all — a kind of low, rumbling growl.
Jenny glanced at Moulton, and frowned. Knowing who the killer was and proving it were two very different things, after all. And the only piece of evidence she had was so flimsy as to be a defensive lawyer’s dream. But it was not her job to prosecute — merely to uncover. She shrugged the worry off, like a duck shedding water off its back.
‘There were so many things that pointed to you, and to the motive, that at first I couldn’t see them,’ she began — somewhat confusingly. ‘Not being able to see the wood for the trees is one of my failings, I’m afraid,’ she admitted.
Ford hastily got out his notebook and began to take down every word she said in rapid, precise shorthand. His face was pinched with excitement.
‘But all the pointers only came together in my mind just now,’ she added, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘When I was mopping the floor.’
Moulton glanced briefly at the mop, then away again. He didn’t want to miss a single nuance of expression on Stan Kelton’s face.
‘You see, ever since I came here, I’ve been mopping that dratted floor,’ Jenny continued, her voice almost dream-like now, as her thoughts rallied together. ‘The very first thing I did, in fact, on the very first day I came here, was to mop the floor.’ She paused and looked up at Delia. ‘You probably remember that?’
Delia nodded. ‘And when Dad came in, you told him off, and he told you that you’d better get used to it.’ She glanced just once at her father as she spoke, then hastily shifted her gaze back to the pepper pot on the table.
Jenny nodded. ‘Indeed he did. He told me that the kitchen door led straight out into the courtyard, and that nobody was going to take off their boots outside, getting their socks wet and their feet cold, just so that I wouldn’t have to mop the floor. Even I had to admit, he had a point.’
The cook allowed a slight, whimsical smile to cross her face. ‘So, every time the men came in from the fields, I had to mop the floor. I mopped it the first day. I mopped it the second day. On Christmas Eve.’
With the last few words, everyone suddenly perked up, and paid greater attention. Even Moulton had been wondering why she was going on about mops. Now his eyes sharpened — but not on Miss Starling. He still had his gaze fixed firmly on Stan Kelton’s face, so he didn’t miss the sudden shifting in the man’s dark brown eyes. Nor did he miss the telltale movement as Stan’s jaws clenched tighter together.
She’s on to something, he thought, excitedly. By gum, she’s actually on to something!
‘You probably remember, Bill, Bert, that
the floor was clean and dry that morning? The morning Sid had breakfast with us for the last time?’
Bill looked at Bert, who was already nodding his head. ‘Yes. I remember,’ Bert confirmed simply. ‘None of us had been out and brought back any muddy footprints yet.’ There was something much stronger about Bert now, she noticed with satisfaction. He was quietly confident and competent.
‘But, Inspector Moulton,’ Jenny turned to the inspector, forcing him to shift his gaze back to her, ‘when you came to the farm for the first time, the floor was once again as muddy and wet as ever.’
Moulton nodded. ‘Of course. When I got here, all the Kelton men, and Miss Delia, were already here, having come in from outside.’
‘And the floor was wet and dirty because of it,’ Jenny confirmed. ‘Yes.’ She rearranged the salt pot, which was slightly out of alignment, and frowned thoughtfully. ‘You see, all along I felt that I was missing something. Whenever I thought back to that morning, and went over it, I knew, I just knew there was something I had overlooked. And it was only a moment ago, as I was mopping the floor, that I knew what it was.’
She looked straight at Stan Kelton.
‘After I’d collected the eggs, and took my coat and boots off in the hall, I came back into the kitchen and walked all over this floor.’ For a moment, both of them glanced down at the tiles in question. ‘I went to the sink to fill the kettle. I went to the stove to get out the mince pies and finally I went to the table, where Sid was. And that’s what I should have remembered,’ she finished, as if it must all be perfectly obvious now.
‘You walked to the table?’ Bill asked, fascinated now in spite of himself. ‘I don’t get it. What’s significant about that?’
Moulton was wondering the same thing, but since he was once more back to watching Stan Kelton like a kestrel hovering over a mouse, he saw at once the expression of rising panic creep into the man’s eyes. Whatever the significance was, Stan Kelton understood it only too well.
‘What’s significant, Bill,’ Jenny said, ‘is that I was walking about in just my socks. And my feet didn’t get wet. They stayed perfectly dry.’
Bert slowly leaned forward, a light of understanding dawning in his eyes. He nodded. ‘The floor was still dry,’ he repeated slowly, turning to stare at his father. ‘If one of us had come in from the fields, or Delia from the Brays’ place, in order to kill Sid, we’d have left a trail of wet and muddy footprints on the floor. But that day . . . that day . . .’ he couldn’t go on.
But by now Bill, and both policemen, had also caught on. ‘You were in the tack room,’ Bill said, taking up the tale, his eyes turned to the door that led off to the corridor that opened out onto the stables. ‘You never had to go out in the snow that morning. Your feet would have stayed dry. And yours were the only ones that would have.’
‘And did,’ Jenny confirmed. ‘You know the stables well, Bill. Could Stan have seen me pass by on the way to the hen house?’
‘Easily,’ Bill said quickly.
‘Then that’s what he did,’ Jenny nodded. She turned her chair just enough so that she could face Stan Kelton head on without having to keep on swivelling her head. ‘You saw me leave, took your chance and came in through that door.’ She pointed to the little-used door.
Everyone else quickly turned to look at it.
‘You came in, perhaps said “hello” to Sid, and went across to the knife drawer.’ As one, heads swivelled to the knife drawer. They could all see it playing out in front of them. Delia wanted to cry out at her ‘stop it, stop it,’ but her mouth was too dry. Instead, just like all the others, she forced herself to listen in grim, painful silence, as the recital went on.
‘Sid wouldn’t have thought anything of it,’ Jenny speculated. ‘You were working on the bridles or what have you. You might have needed a sharp knife, or even one of the skewers that I noticed you keep in there to pierce the leatherwork. I don’t suppose he was even alarmed when you turned and came back here, to this table, with the knife in your hand. Was he?’
Stan Kelton said nothing, but his big body began to move forward, towards the edge of the chair. Moulton, too, instinctively moved forward. If the man was going to make a run for it . . . He glanced at Ford, still busily scribbling away in his notebook, and relaxed a little. He was a good man, Ford. Together, they’d keep Stan Kelton in his place.
‘The actual stabbing itself didn’t take long,’ Jenny went on remorselessly. ‘The police doctor confirmed that it was a single blow. You’re a strong man, Mr Kelton, and Sid . . . well, there wasn’t much flesh and blood to Sid,’ she said sadly.
Delia gave a trembling sob. Bert reached up a hand and gently stopped his son from nibbling yet more of his nails.
‘And that’s it, is it?’ Stan Kelton asked at last, his voice mocking. ‘That’s your so-called evidence. Any one of them,’ he waved a meaty paw at his tense family, ‘could have taken off their boots outside, then put them on again after the killing.’
‘And risked wasting all that time?’ Jenny asked sceptically. ‘I don’t think so. They’d want the deed over and done with and to get well away from here in the shortest possible time. Nobody in their right mind would want to dawdle outside, taking off or putting on boots, when they might be seen at any moment either by myself, coming back from the hen house, or any other chance caller or even Mrs Jarvis. Besides, habits are hard things to break. By their very nature, people indulge in them without ever realizing it. It wouldn’t have occurred to any of you, yourself included, to stop and take off your boots first, before coming inside. Even if you were coming inside to commit murder. You wouldn’t even have given it a thought, you’re so used to just coming right on in.’
And everyone at the table knew she was right. But Moulton and Ford knew something else.
It was not enough.
Stan Kelton seemed to know it too. ‘You’re just whistling in the wind,’ he jeered.
Jenny smiled. ‘If that was all, perhaps.’
She didn’t miss Moulton’s look of glee, even seeing it out of the corner of her eye, and Stan, face to face with him, had no chance of ignoring it. His big hands jumped, and he made a great show out of folding his arms arrogantly across his chest.
Not so confident as you’d like to make out, are you, matey? Moulton thought silently. He now had no doubt that Jenny Starling had picked the right man. Again. But they needed more evidence. Much more. And he still didn’t know why Bill Kelton should have provided the motive. Come to that, he still had no idea what the motive was.
As if he’d somehow plucked the inspector’s thought from out of the airwaves, Bert looked across at his father. His face was blank, except for a look of pain, set deep in the back of his eyes.
‘Why did you do it, Dad?’ he asked simply. And spoke for all of them. For now, nobody in that room doubted that Stan Kelton was a killer. It would take some getting used to — to have a murderer for a father. Bill shuddered; he felt sick to his stomach. Tainted blood. That’s what he had. The thought was like a black sucking mud, making him sweat all over.
Stan Kelton blinked at Bert, angry colour rising into his face. He opened his mouth, then quickly closed it again.
‘He’d like to tell you,’ Jenny said coldly, ‘that he did it all for you. Just to see your face.’
And from the fulminating look of loathing Stan gave her, it was obvious that her words were as accurate as hitting a bullseye.
‘I thought you said Bill was the reason,’ Jeremy, for the first time, spoke. His voice sounded hopelessly young and lost in the tense silence of the room.
Bill frowned, but said nothing.
‘And so he is,’ the cook said, confusingly. ‘Isn’t he, Mr Kelton?’ she goaded softly.
Stan gave her a look filled with fear and hate, but he was not so far gone that he didn’t know enough to keep quiet. She didn’t have enough to convict him and they both knew it. So the less he said, the better.
But Jenny was relentless. ‘At first,
I was totally puzzled by the lack of motive in this case,’ she mused, sounding so policeman-like that Ford smiled over his notes. ‘Everybody hated Stan, but everyone loved Sid. Yet it was Sid who was killed. It made no sense. It made me feel, and continued to make me feel for a long time, as if I was investigating the wrong murder.’
Moulton gave a slight nod. He remembered saying the same thing to her, not so long ago.
‘But all the time the clues were right under my nose,’ the cook continued, her self-disgust plainly evident.
‘If they were under your nose all the time, Miss Starling,’ Bert said gently, ‘they were under ours as well. But I never saw them. And I still don’t.’
‘Me neither,’ Bill said. ‘I wish you’d get on with it,’ he added, but not harshly. The truth was, the strain was beginning to tell on his nerves.
Jenny sighed. She was feeling tired now. ‘Yes. Of course. Well, the first thing that struck me as odd was the way that Stan was treating his two sons so strangely. From what Mrs Jarvis said,’ Jenny glanced in the daily’s direction, only to see the old woman glance back at her. She had an ugly look of glee and triumph on her face as she contemplated her hated enemy’s downfall, and Jenny looked quickly away. ‘Yes. Er . . . Mrs Jarvis told me that Stan had previously been all for Bill, and all against Bert. And that made sense.’
She paused, glanced apologetically at Bert, but carried on. ‘It was obvious to me that Bill was the dominant brother, and that Bert was much more easygoing. I could quite see why a man like Stan Kelton would be proud of Bill, a go-getter, and rather scornful of Bert, who seemed rather placid by nature. But now, suddenly, things had turned full circle. It was Bill who was the despised one, and Bert who’d become all important, in Stan’s eyes, at least. In fact, Bert was so important that Stan even destroyed Janice Kelton’s letters to him. It was obvious he was determined to keep them apart, and make sure that Bert stayed here. And it was just as obvious that he wanted Bill out. Now that just didn’t make sense.’
