by Faith Martin
Moulton again nearly jumped out of his skin and glanced furtively around the kitchen. The cook, who was reaching for the bread, seemed not to have heard it. He looked over his shoulder, but the door to the hallway was firmly shut. There was nobody in the kitchen but the two of them. He felt the hairs begin to rise on the back of his neck. He didn’t believe in haunted places, he reminded himself staunchly. And nobody but a fool would think, for even one minute, that a murdered man hung around the scene of his demise, sighing mournfully. That was nothing more than an old wives’ tale, or something out of a Victorian Gothic novel or ghost story.
‘There’s an echo in this place,’ Moulton said uneasily.
‘Humph,’ Jenny took up her earlier theme, and sounded distinctly unimpressed. ‘What did the forensic people find out yesterday?’ she suddenly shot at him.
Glad to get back to more mundane matters, Moulton quickly told her. No footprints had led from the village to the farm, so that was out. And the footprints made by Stan, Bert, Jeremy and Bill were all consistent with them hunting for buried sheep. ‘Of course, several tracks lead to the farm and back again, from several directions, but that hardly helps us. We already know the men had to come and go from the farm to the fields. And would have done so all morning, I expect.’
Jenny sighed. ‘No fingerprints on the knife?’
‘No,’ Moulton sighed back. And waited for it.
Sure enough, a deep, mournful sigh seemed to echo from the direction of the table. And — slowly he turned his head, his neck hairs playing the last few strands of ‘Colonel Bogey’ — the sigh definitely did seem to come from Sid Kelton’s chair.
The dog, who was actually sitting in his usual seat next to Sid’s chair, chose that moment to let rip with another sigh just for good measure.
Moulton licked his lips. They felt distinctly cold.
‘That settles it then,’ Jenny said, dragging the policeman’s attention back to the matter in hand. ‘Nobody has a motive, nobody has an alibi and nobody left any evidence.’
Moulton’s heart sank. ‘You’re not giving up, are you?’ he asked, appalled. His first murder simply couldn’t be tossed onto the ‘unsolved’ pile. He’d never live it down.
‘Of course not,’ Jenny said crossly. Give up, indeed! ‘I’m merely saying that the only way to find out who killed Sid, is to find out why someone would have wanted to kill Sid.’
Moulton blinked, slowly and thoroughly thinking it over. ‘You don’t think somebody could have mistaken Sid for his brother?’ he eventually asked. ‘It would all make some sort of sense then.’
Jenny, the bread sauce made, was now in the middle of making the (very potent) brandy sauce for the Christmas pudding. One thing she abhorred was wishy-washy brandy sauce.
‘Humph,’ she said thoughtfully, but after a pause shook her head. ‘I don’t see how he could have been. Sid was a clapped-out poor old soul. Stan is a bull of a man. Besides, Sid was stabbed from the front. No, whoever did it had to have known exactly which brother it was that he or she was killing.’
Moulton sighed, then promptly wished he hadn’t. He got to his feet noisily, and moved very smartly out of the room as the dog let rip with a really gusting sigh that must have started from the very pads of his paws.
Jenny watched the policeman go, her lips twitching. She promptly fished out a giblet from the giblet gravy, blew on it to cool it, and ducked under the table with it. The animal deserved a treat; that was the best entertainment she’d had in years.
‘Merry Christmas, Pooch,’ she said, giving the startled dog the best treat of his life. She watched him get his slavering chops around it, and nodded once, briskly, before straightening back up. She liked to reward diligence.
* * *
It was nearly one o’clock, an hour before lunch was due to be served, when someone came through the outer front door. Jenny craned her neck, and waited. Whoever the caller was, he or she was actually pausing to remove their boots. And the Junoesque cook’s heart warmed: someone with thoughtful manners at last.
A few seconds later a youngish girl appeared, unwinding her long knitted scarf from around her neck to reveal a nipped red nose and large pansy eyes. Her hair was a wild nest of raven-dark curls. She would have made a perfect model for a Romany princess by one of those pre-Raphaelite masters who actually knew how to paint. The girl stopped when she saw that there was a stranger in the kitchen and gave an uncertain smile.
‘Hello,’ Jenny greeted her cheerfully. ‘Would you like some mulled wine? I’ve just this second finished a batch.’ She indicated a vast punchbowl, full of gently steaming wine, awash with spices, lemon and orange segments and the warming smell of melted honey.
‘Oh, yes please,’ the girl said, instantly winning approval. ‘I wondered if . . . if . . . Jeremy was around,’ she added, as Jenny, ladling out the beverage, handed her a cup. And with those few tentative words, Jenny was able to place her.
Mandy, the infamous landlord’s daughter, she mused with an inner smile. No wonder young Jeremy was so smitten. ‘He’s with the family at the moment,’ Jenny said, then paused discreetly. ‘There’s been a family tragedy.’
Mandy nodded. ‘I know. Mrs Jarvis told my mum yesterday.’ And she would tell anyone else that she could find, no doubt, Jenny thought ruefully. She glanced thoughtfully into the large, anxious eyes, and smiled.
‘I’ll see if I can smuggle him out for you,’ she said, and was rewarded by a beaming smile of gratitude.
Jenny tapped on the parlour door and gingerly poked her head in. Her eyes fixed on Jeremy. ‘I was wondering, could I borrow young Jeremy to help me bring up one of the large jugs of cider from the cellar?’ she asked sweetly. She was, in fact, perfectly capable of lugging about much heavier objects, but nobody here had to know that.
Stan, who’d been staring into the fire, looked up at the interruption, and waved his hand in vague consent. The quickness with which Jeremy fled the tensely silent room was hardly surprising. Bill returned to his day-old newspaper. He’d been on the same page for the last half hour. Bert and Delia returned to playing their desultory game of cards. Neither of them knew which one was winning.
Christmas Day it wasn’t. Even the presents under the tree remained unopened.
Jenny led Jeremy to the kitchen, smiling when he jerked to a halt at the sight of his sweetheart. ‘Mandy!’
Mandy flew into his arms like a cooing homing pigeon and Jenny hastily turned back to her Brussels sprouts. She gave a discreet cough. ‘I really do need that cider jug, young Jeremy,’ she said, thinking of baked apples stuffed with mincemeat and cooked in cider for tomorrow’s pudding.
Jeremy’s young face flamed. ‘Oh, er . . . right you are, Miss Starling,’ he said, and tugged Mandy’s hand. ‘You can come and help me find it,’ he said, his eyes speaking volumes.
Mandy followed him eagerly to the pantry door that led off down into the chilly cellar. ‘Jerry, I just had to come. When I heard what had happened . . .’
‘Ssshhh,’ Jeremy said, glancing over his shoulder. He was not quick enough, however, to see Jenny’s shoulders stiffen with suspicion. ‘Come on, we’ll talk down here,’ he whispered, and led the way down to the dark dampness beneath.
Jenny walked slowly over to the pantry door that gave access to the underground room and nudged it open. Like most cellars, sound echoed off the thick walls, and a ghostly conversation could be clearly heard, wafting up the dark staircase.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she heard Mandy say, her voice, even muffled, sounding obviously upset.
‘We don’t have to do anything,’ Jeremy said, his own voice anxious to soothe.
‘But, what if people find out?’ Mandy all but wailed.
‘How can they find out, Mand?’ At this point, Jenny felt herself becoming extremely uncomfortable, and roundly cursed Moulton. If he’d been anywhere near halfway competent, she wouldn’t be forced into snooping at doorways like this. It made her feel distinctly grubby. But someone h
ad to get justice for poor Sid.
‘But there are policemen everywhere in the village,’ Mandy said, her voice becoming tearful. ‘They’re asking everyone all sorts of questions. Did they see any strangers? Did they leave the village, and if so, did they see anyone along the roads? And you’d be surprised how many people were out and about yesterday, Jerry, in spite of the snow and everything. Mr Dorrell was out walking to Ashcroft’s place to get his turkey; Dad, as you know, was out with Fred getting in the beer. He didn’t want to be left over the holidays without stocking up. Everyone was doing last-minute shopping . . .’
‘Mand, Mand,’ Jeremy stopped her. ‘You worry too much.’
‘And you don’t worry enough,’ Mandy shot back, her voice sharp and cross now.
Jenny nodded her head in approval. Much better. It was often far better to take the offensive.
‘You don’t know the police like I do,’ Mandy said, suddenly sounding sixty, rather than sixteen or so. ‘They dig and dig and get to the bottom of everything. What if Mr Dorrell noticed that you weren’t in the far corner of Dingle field yesterday, like you said you were? He has to pass it on his way to the Ashcrofts’ place, you know. People have a way of finding out about lies.’
The cook nodded in agreement. Good point, Mandy, she thought sadly. Somebody already has.
‘Mand, you’ve got to stop this,’ Jeremy said, but his own voice was less confident now. ‘We don’t know what time old Dorrell went to get his damned turkey. It could have been hours before or after I was supposed to be in the Dingle field. And even if it was at the same time, all I’ve got to say is that I must have been bent over, digging out a ewe, and old Dorrell didn’t see me because I was below the hedgeline. And who’s to call me a liar?’
Me, for one, Jenny thought gloomily. If it came to it. But if you weren’t out and about in the fields, my lad, she mused grimly to herself, just where were you? And what were you up to?
‘I’m scared, Jerry,’ Mandy said miserably. ‘If my dad finds out, or if your grandfather finds out . . .’ she trailed off, and Jenny could see in her mind’s eye the way the young girl had probably shuddered at the thought.
In fact, Jenny could well imagine that both of them were shuddering down there in the darkness, thinking about what Stan Kelton would do if he found out — well, whatever it was that the youngsters didn’t want him to know about.
‘Well they won’t,’ Jeremy said, trying to sound very brisk, very sure and very grown up, and failing in all three departments. ‘Now, let me get this cider for old cookie, and then you must get off back home. Granddad mustn’t know you called in.’
Old cookie indeed, Jenny thought, lips twitching, as she smartly nipped back to her oven.
The two lovers emerged, a suspiciously long while later, both sets of eyes shining like stars. It was amazing, Jenny thought whimsically, looking at Mandy’s glowing face, what a few stolen kisses could do for a girl’s complexion.
* * *
At two o’clock precisely, Christmas dinner was served. In deference to the family, Jenny had arranged for her dinner and that of Inspector Moulton to be taken on trays in the parlour, whilst the family sat down at the kitchen table.
She’d done her best to eradicate the memory of Sid, and felt guilty even as she’d done so. She’d removed his chair, and placed in his setting a large holly, ivy, mistletoe and laurel table-piece that she’d made yesterday, winding pretty and festive red ribbons amongst the greenery. The range of vegetables in vast dishes and the gravy boat steamed gently. She’d lit the Christmas candles, put the goose at the head of the table for Stan to carve and stood back to watch the proceedings.
Stan was the first in, as always, and stood looking at the table. His face was unreadable. Bill and Bert smiled their thanks at her, both efforts rather strained to be sure, but a nice thought for all that.
Delia stared at the flickering candles, her eyes swimming with unshed tears as her father cut and dished the meat. Jenny and the inspector hastily helped themselves to their portions and left the family in peace.
Nobody had spoken a word.
In the parlour, the inspector dug into his dinner, his face registering his delight. The goose was cooked to perfection and the stuffing . . . he almost sighed with bliss, but restrained himself.
He’d gone off sighing.
Jenny cut through a roast potato, crisp and golden on the outside, white, piping hot and fluffy on the inside. And left it untouched on her plate. It was only the fourth time in her life that she’d failed to have an appetite.
‘Not much of a Christmas for them, is it?’ Moulton said, with obviously genuine sincerity, and for the first time since this whole sorry mess began, she felt herself warming to him. Just a little.
She shook her head. ‘No. Not much.’
It was not much of a Christmas for any of them.
And, if she could help it, it would not be much of a New Year either for whoever had murdered Sid.
CHAPTER TEN
Boxing Day dawned bright and sunny. Outside her window, the icicles clinging to the eaves began a noisy and annoying drip-drip-dripping that Jenny wasn’t too sure that she appreciated very much. On the other hand, if it presaged a thaw, it meant that she’d have no difficulty in leaving the farm when she’d completed the time she’d agreed to cook for the Keltons.
And she’d hardly have been human if she wasn’t looking forward to being able to go.
With a sigh, she rose and dressed quickly in her cold bedroom, yawning slightly as she traipsed downstairs to the kitchen. Once there, she lit the fire, let in the mutt and started breakfast. Moulton was the next down, the dark circles under his eyes mute testimony to his own sleepless night.
‘Morning,’ he said without enthusiasm, slumping down into the chair and managing to look even greyer than usual, a feat which, hitherto, Jenny would have thought was nigh on impossible.
She laid out the first round of sausage, bacon and eggs, and sat across from him, sipping her tea, watching him eat with automatic and instinctive approval, and thinking.
‘After the others have come down, I think we should pay a visit to Mrs Jarvis,’ she finally said.
Moulton, in the act of dunking his fried bread into his egg, glanced up, his eyes suddenly wide and alert. ‘Oh? And why’s that?’
Jenny smiled grimly. ‘For the simple reason that, at the moment, she has to be our prime suspect.’
Moulton blinked. ‘The domestic?’ He sounded doubtful. ‘Why her?’ He began to wonder, on a rising tide of panic, if Miss Jenny Starling’s reputation as a sleuth wouldn’t, after all, turn out to be one of those modern urban legends that were more whimsical than factual. The thought was enough to send him into a funk so blue as to be very nearly black.
Jenny feloniously speared one of his sausages onto her fork and took a bite. ‘Hmm, I know. I don’t like it either,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I can’t really summon up much enthusiasm for the assumption that Mrs Jarvis is our killer, but that doesn’t alter the fact that she is the most likely. And more often than not, it is the most likely one who turns out to be the murderer. Haven’t you found that?’ she asked, shooting him a genuinely curious look.
Moulton, who’d only ever been involved on the fringes of a homicide case before, frowned. ‘If you say so,’ he said, patently unconvinced, and not about to tell her just how new he was to all of this.
Jenny leaned back in her chair, and waved her sausage casually in the air. ‘First of all, you have to agree that motive is everything in this case. Right?’
Moulton thought about it for a moment cautiously and then decided that it wasn’t a trick question, and nodded. ‘Right,’ he agreed, albeit still a little warily.
‘And you have to agree that the only possible motive that seems to be going is one of resentment against Sid for not standing up to his brother. After all, if Sid had stuck to his guns, been more of a man if you like, then everyone would have had a much happier life around here. That’s true to
say, yes? I mean, Sid was fairly wealthy, but he had no tangled love life that we know about, and he wasn’t the sort of man to make enemies that would hate him enough to want to kill him just for the pleasure of relieving him of this mortal coil. You agree?’
Moulton slowly nodded. That made sense. Life on Kelton Farm would have been a lot happier for everyone if Sid had been in charge. ‘I still don’t see how that puts Mrs Jarvis ahead of the others, though. I mean, she only worked here — she didn’t have to live and breathe the bad atmosphere around here, twenty-four seven, like all the others.’
Jenny took another bite of sausage then slipped it off her fork. To the policeman’s utter astonishment, she then thrust her hand under the table. He heard a distinct ‘slurp’ and when her hand re-emerged, minus the sausage, he finally remembered the dog. And a wave of utter relief washed over him. For a moment there he thought he was having another one of his nasty nightmares, and he was really still asleep upstairs.
‘It’s all a matter of degree,’ Jenny said, dragging Moulton’s mind back from the verge of boggling.
‘Huh?’
‘Bert lost his wife, but has to know, deep in his heart, that it’s as much his fault as his father’s. If he’d just gone with her or stood up to Stan, things might have been different. Bill is angry at being treated badly all of a sudden, but he’s a grown man — he can either lump it or leave it. Delia and Jeremy are young, and can, if they can work up the courage, simply leave. It would be hard, but not impossible. And, don’t forget this, because I think it’s important: all those who live in this house were genuinely fond of Sid, as far as I can tell. Now Mrs Jarvis, on the other hand, has suffered the greatest and most irreparable loss of all. Her husband, the sanctity of her home, her independence and her dignity, are all gone. Of them all, she has the biggest potential grievance against Sid. And she might not have been so fond of Sid as she’s always claimed. And he’s not her blood relation either, is he?’
She was taking it for granted that Moulton had run a background check on all the suspects, and now knew all about the daily’s tragic past. In this, she was quite right, and Moulton’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.