Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

With a last spurt of effort he clambered up and over the rough stone wall and slipped in among them. Snow-covered himself, he could crouch here and be safe for a little while, until he got his wind back and the snow slacked off. If anyone came, the sheep would know it before he did.

The shapes closest to him sneezed in alarm as they caught his scent. But they were accustomed to men, and when he made no move to drive them out into the wind, they accepted his presence. Sidling back towards him seeking the shelter of the wall on their own account, they surrounded him and eventually included him as one of their own. Unthreatening and in need, in this storm.

Their warmth as they pressed around him in the lee of the wall saved his life.

T he house creaked with the cold wind. The rooms were chill and damp. Rutledge wandered into the little parlor reserved for guests, and considered lighting the fire laid ready on the hearth.

But the kitchen was warmer, Elizabeth Fraser seemed comfortable enough in his company, and the men sent to report came by habit to the kitchen door, their heavy boots and rough clothes unsuitable for the parlor.

He stepped into the cold street, leaving the front door ajar, and looked out at the lake. It lay perhaps a quarter of a mile away. Ice and snow rimmed the edges, and the water seemed dark and secretive in the uncertain light. From the Elcott farm it would be impossible for the boy to reach Urskwater… but it was a place where a small body could be carried, weighted with whatever the killer had to hand. How long would it take for a child to float back to the surface?

Where was Josh Robinson?

Was he a red herring, already long dead, his body hidden while the killer slipped back into the ordinary life of Urskdale? Or had his murderer disappeared over the fells and into safe havens where no one would think to look?

What could the boy tell the police, if he were found alive? An eyewitness…

Or had he come on the scene long after his family had been shot, and simply lost his way in the snow trying to find help?

It was easy to make assumptions… but there would be no answers until Josh Robinson was found.

Terrible questions remained. Would there be other killings? What had set a man on the road to such destruction? What had been done to him, real or imagined, that lighted the dormant fuse of such anger? And would he turn on another neighbor next, when some small slight or uncertainty began to haunt him again? Or was he simply a man with a secret to be protected at any cost? Had Gerald Elcott stumbled onto something too vile to be overlooked? The storm might have given even a reluctant killer the perfect excuse to be absent-the perfect timing for murder.

“I'll just go and have a look at the sheep, before it's any worse out there…”

But that would mean someone reasonably close by, within reach of the Elcott farm. It might even be someone who had no need to explain his absences. Or-someone who lived alone and was accountable to no one?

Rutledge remembered what Elizabeth Fraser had told him about the people of Urskdale only a few hours before.

“They don't have much to give, except perhaps trust, and when that's betrayed, they do know how to hate-”

Whose trust had Gerald Elcott betrayed? What had he done that would drive a man to kill Grace Elcott and her children as well?

Until he saw that farmhouse kitchen for himself, his experience and intuition had nothing to work with, except the reactions of others. And secondhand knowledge was never to be trusted.

What was keeping Greeley? Why was he avoiding the Yard man he had so urgently sent for in the beginning?

Elizabeth Fraser had gone to make the beds. In the silence of the kitchen, Rutledge stood over the map, hands spread on either side, studying what he'd been told by the men reporting to him.

There appeared to be no farms close enough to the Elcotts to offer the child safe haven, even if Josh Robinson could have found his way to one of them in heavy snow and darkness. And the boy hadn't been born here, bred to the tracks and landmarks that his stepfather would have known by heart. But that might also mean that the killer wouldn't have stumbled across them, either, if he had found the Elcotts only by chance.

The first priority of Greeley's search parties would have been to reach these farms, and make certain all was well.

All right then. Where could Josh Robinson have gone, if he was still alive?

Rutledge ran a finger across the face of the map. In fact, Urskdale itself was closer, if one came over the shoulder of the ridge. So, why hadn't the boy tried to reach the village? His uncle, Paul Elcott, was here. No, that wasn't quite true. Elcott wasn't an uncle by blood.

If Josh Robinson didn't know Elcott well enough, then why not the rector? Or his schoolmaster?

Even Inspector Greeley or Constable Ward? Or the sergeant-what was his name? Miller.

Or had the child been cut off from the village, and forced to strike out into the darkness without knowing where he was heading?

There was another possibility. Rutledge turned to stare out the window. Josh might have been terrified of coming to the village. Afraid he would run into the murderer here. It would mean that someone Hamish objected, “It doesna' signify. He didna' have the time.”

Yes. In spite of all their hopes, the boy must be dead. Rutledge bent over the map again. Perhaps the question now was where a body could be concealed?

But why hide it? Why not leave it in plain sight, to show that the killer had wiped the slate clean Lost in thought, he didn't hear the door from the passage open. The woman's voice startled him.

“Good morning…” Her hair was crimped and straggling, and her clothes seemed to have been made for another woman, thinner and younger. She cast a glance around the room with an air of vague confusion, as if uncertain if this was where she ought to be.

He straightened, looking up into drained eyes, a pale blue that seemed to be painted in place under paler lashes.

“Good morning. Er-Mrs. Cummins? I'm Inspector Rutledge. Thank you for putting me up while I'm here in Urskdale. It was kind of you.”

“It was my husband decided that,” she replied. “But I'm glad you're here. It isn't safe for two women to be in a house alone. I told my husband as much before he left. I told him if he didn't worry about me, he should worry about Elizabeth. She's helpless-” After a moment she added in a whisper, “He killed the babies, too, you know. This murderer.”

“I'm afraid it's true-” he began, but let his voice trail away, for she appeared to have forgotten him.

Unable to settle, she walked to the sideboard, her hands busy folding a pile of freshly ironed serviettes lying there. When she'd finished, she stood staring at them, as if unable to think where they ought to go now.

Hamish remarked, “It isna' any wonder she needs a minder. The lass in the invalid chair canna' have an easy time of it!”

Rutledge had seen other women like her. Driven to despair by fear and long months of uncertainty, they had taken comfort in the bottle. And more than one man had come to him to beg for compassionate leave, when a wife or fiancee had been taken up as a common drunk.

Unaware that she was the subject of this silent exchange, Mrs. Cummins smiled distractedly at him. “Is there anything you need, Inspector? Would you like some tea?” Her attention was drawn back to the serviettes. She picked them up, put them in a drawer, and then took them out again. Finally she simply smoothed them once or twice and forgot them.

“I've been well taken care of, Mrs. Cummins. Thank you.”

“You might bring in more coal,” she said, walking unsteadily across to the window. “That's difficult for Elizabeth.”