Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

The truth was, he would much have preferred going out on his own, starting at the Elcott farm. Surely there would be something there to tell him which way Josh Robinson had fled! But Greeley was right: It was treacherous on unfamiliar mountainous terrain where weather could be unpredictable, landmarks were half hidden in snow, and daylight was short. There was no guarantee he would be any more successful than the local people, and he could well become another problem for the already exhausted search parties.

Hamish retorted, “As yon lassie last night discovered, to her misfortune.”

“Will you show me the Follet farm?” Rutledge asked Ward, remembering Janet Ashton.

Ward glanced at him. “Know them, do you, sir?”

As Ward located the square on the map that represented the farm, Rutledge briefly explained. “There was a carriage accident near there last night.”

Ward's pencil stopped moving and he asked quickly, “Not our murderer, by any chance?”

“A woman. I left her with the Follets. Bruised ribs.”

“Ah. Mary'll see to her then.” His pencil began to move again. “A good sheep man, Jim Follet,” Ward went on, echoing Follet's comment about Gerald Elcott. “And in fact, that's how the doctor can pinpoint the time of death, sir. Gerald Elcott brought his animals in before the storm. But he hadn't fed the cow or horses after that. He was either dead, or in no case to see to them.”

Rutledge calculated. “Four days dead now, at the outside. The Elcotts. I understand they were shot.”

“Revolver, large caliber. Whoever it was just stood there and cut them down. One at a time. Paul Elcott, who discovered the carnage, didn't look for the boy, but Inspector Greeley did, and Sergeant Miller. No sign of him in the house or the outbuildings. We can't be sure how long the lad has been out in the weather-whether he managed to hide until he saw it was safe to move, or took off straightaway.” He paused, and glanced up at Rutledge. “My guess is, the boy wasn't at home. He came back, and ran straight into the murderer. He didn't stand a chance, sir. And the body hidden, likely enough, to keep us searching while that devil made good his escape.”

“I'd like to see the farm straightaway,” Rutledge commented, but Ward shook his head.

“Mr. Greeley wishes to take you there himself, sir.” And Rutledge was bound by courtesy not to argue.

“What about enemies? Anyone who might have wanted the Elcotts dead?”

“I've tried not to consider that, sir.” Ward's voice had turned cold. “It's not pleasant, searching through one's acquaintance to see who might be guilty of a monstrous cruelty!”

“All the same, we've got to address the possibility that he's local. There can't have been many outsiders in Urskdale, not this time of year.”

“True enough. Still, who's to say one wasn't keen on being noticed? But he hadn't counted on the storm, had he?” Ward answered stubbornly. “Has London looked to see if a lunatic escaped from an asylum or a prison? What were the Elcotts to him, if he was desperate and needed sanctuary for a bit, somewhere to stay until the weather had passed?”

Hamish reminded Rutledge that the farmer Follet had made a similar comment.

“Or perhaps he used the storm to his own advantage.”

Ward met his eyes squarely. “Shall I leave the map, sir? I shan't need it myself. It might be more useful to you. Inspector Greeley said I should ask.”

“Leave it, if you can spare it.”

And Ward was gone, brusquely thanking Miss Fraser for his breakfast and pulling on the heavy boots he'd left by the yard door.

After a moment, Rutledge opened the outside door again and walked out into the snow. The small back garden was pretty in a pale light that filtered through the clouds. The humps and arcs of last year's vegetables were etched in white now, a magical landscape in miniature.

This was not agricultural country. The season was brief, the ground stony. Root crops did poorly, but a few hardy varieties such as cabbages and whatever else could be coaxed into growing in the shelter provided by the house survived long enough to be harvested.

The well and then a stable led the eye to the barn that stood at the end of the yard. A stone feeding trough ran along one side of a large pen, a shed next to it. An outbuilding provided cover for a farm cart and a carriage. Beyond a patch of raspberries and gooseberries, bare-branched now, a track made its way out into an open field. Looking up, Rutledge could see the faint outline of the fell behind the inn, a long slope that climbed to a ridge and ran, humpbacked, in both directions. Shadows carved rocky defiles and boulders, tricked the eye with deceptive smoothness where loose scree or crevices lay waiting for the unsuspecting foot, and then changed shape again as the clouds thinned, presenting a different face entirely. Except for the wind, there was only silence.

Now that he could see the open sky, Rutledge found the mountains less oppressive than they had been last night. But there was still that uncomfortable sense of being shut off. A sense of claustrophobia.

“They're treacherous, the fells,” Miss Fraser said at his back, startling him. “That's probably their attraction. And Wordsworth, of course, with his belief that pristine Nature holds secrets civilized people have lost. I don't think he tried to make a living here-he never saw how hard life can be for those who do. It's harsh country, demanding, and it seldom offers a second chance. I wonder, sometimes, if their roots didn't run so deep here, holding them back, whether people in these valleys wouldn't rather live in Kent or Somerset or Essex. If there was any choice at all.” Her voice was sad.

He turned to see her in her chair, shawl over her hair against the cold air, looking out at the long run of fell faintly outlined against the gray sky.

When he said nothing, she went on, “That child must have been terrified. I can't help but agree with Constable Ward, that the killer had better luck finding him and disposing of him that awful night. That's why the search parties have come up empty-handed. How can a ten-year-old boy outrun a grown man? I want to hope-and dare not! It would be too cruel to have hope dashed.”

“Is there any other way out of the valley? From the Elcott farm?”

“There's a track farther to the south that runs over the mountains and is said to meet a road coming up from the coast. Sheep were driven to market that way, a long time ago, or so some of the older men claim. I doubt if many people outside Urskdale know how to find it.. .” She looked up at him, her blue eyes troubled. “Do you suppose he-whoever he is-escaped that way?”

“It's possible. I'm sure Inspector Greeley sent a party in that direction to look for traces of him.” But what would bring a man over such rough terrain to kill and then vanish again? There would be easier opportunities along the coast. A lunatic…

“You'll never find him, if he got out of Urskdale. And that brings up the question of whether or not he'll-come back. Whether he's finished-satisfied-or still has other business here…”

“We'll find him,” he told her. “It may take time, but we will. You needn't worry.” But Hamish was not as certain. Rutledge could feel the resistance in his mind. A comforting lie…

They could hear a raven high on the ridge, the deep call echoing.

Elizabeth Fraser tilted her head to listen. As if following up on an earlier thought, she said, “This is such an isolated valley. Sometimes I find it very lonely. Just now I find it very frightening.”

“Why do you stay?” he asked, and then wished he could bite back the words. For all he knew she was dependent on the Cumminses for her keep. A companion-housekeeper of sorts to a drunken woman.