Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

“I'll be happy to see to it,” he promised. He cursed himself for not thinking of offering.

“My room is never warm. There must be something wrong with the chimney's flue. It can't be drawing well,” she fretted, clutching her shawl across her body as if needing something to hold to. “This used to be a fine hotel, before the war. I don't know what's to become of it now. Or us.”

“I'm sure,” Rutledge said gently, “that the climbers and walkers will return next summer.”

“I grew up in London. But my grandfather could find his way blindfolded over most of Cumberland and half of Westmorland. He told me more than once he could tell by the smell of the ground where he was. Like the sheep. He said if he ever lost his sight, he could find his way about without it. We had an old dog who was just the same. You could set her down anywhere, and she'd know her way home.”

“A gift,” Rutledge agreed.

“They say sheep are stupid, but they aren't.”

The silence between them lengthened. “Any word of the child?” she asked finally, her voice trembling on the last word. “Have they found the little Robinson boy yet?”

“No, I'm afraid not. But several of the search parties have yet to report.”

She continued to stand by the window, as if the wintry scene drew her. “I pray for him every night…”

“That's kind-” Rutledge began.

Her eyes flicked back to him. “Does anyone hear prayers, do you think? Really- hear them?”

“I'm sure someone does,” he answered.

“Oh-I can see the Long Back-our ridge,” she exclaimed suddenly. “The clouds have lifted.” And then with agitation she begged, “Look-there! Do you think that dark spot up there-over to the left, by The Knob-do you think that might be him?”

Rutledge came to stand behind her, picking up the faint smell of whisky, lavishly overlaid with rose water.

There was nothing where she was pointing except for a shallow depression that the sun had not found yet.

“Shadows play tricks,” Rutledge told her, moving on to the pump for a glass of water. “The boy can't have traveled this far.”

“No… probably not.” She turned, losing her animation, and walked to the passage doorway. “You won't forget about the coal, will you?”

“No-”

But she was gone, a ghost in her own house, flitting between awareness and stupor.

“A pity,” Hamish was saying.

And then the soft voice floated down the passage as the door swung closed. “What if he's hunting for the child too? What if he finds him first? I can't sleep for thinking about it! ”

I t was barely ten minutes later that Inspector Greeley came striding into the kitchen from the front of the house, his voice carrying, answering Elizabeth Fraser somewhere behind him.

There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his chin was patchy with missed beard, as if he'd shaved quickly, without a mirror. Lines of strain bracketed his mouth, aging him.

“I'm sorry,” he said, extending his hand as he introduced himself, “that I wasn't here earlier. I snatched a few hours' rest this morning.”

“You look as if you could use more,” Rutledge answered sympathetically. “A number of your men reported in when they could. I've noted the names and the areas they've searched. No luck, I'm afraid.”

With a nod Greeley walked to the map and glanced down at it. “Yes, that's what I'd expected, more or less. But we had to try, you see. Hard as hell to find your way out there, much less hunt for a veritable needle in a haystack. I don't know how to handle this any differently,” he added. “I've never had to deal with anything like it.”

He pulled out a chair, and sat down heavily. “I see you've more or less set up your headquarters here. Just as well. The chimney at the station hasn't been drawing worth a damn. Smoked me out again just last week! But I should think the parlor would be more comfortable.”

“Men coming and going here are less likely to disturb Mrs. Cummins in her room, and to be honest, it's the only truly warm part of the house.” Rutledge took the chair across from Greeley. “You've done what I'd have done,” he went on. “The most important task was to locate the boy. And to make certain there were no other victims. After that, to hunt down the killer.”

“A boy of ten couldn't survive this long, surely!” Greeley rubbed his face with his fingers, massaging stiff muscles. “It's hopeless.”

“It would depend on his resourcefulness and his knowledge of the land. He could have taken shelter somewhere-”

“We don't even know how he was dressed,” Greeley said. “Or which direction he took. By the time we got to the farm, any tracks had been well covered by several inches of snow. His and the murderer's.” His eyes veered away from Rutledge's. “I suppose you want to see the Elcott house.” The reluctance in his voice was only half concealed.

“I shall have to, yes.”

“I'd as soon never set foot in it again. I can't close my eyes without seeing them lying there. Shocking, that's the only word to describe it.” He heaved himself to his feet. “All right. Let's get it over with. Is that your motorcar in the yard? We'll take that. It's faster. The roads are wretched, but we can manage.”

“Let me tell Miss Fraser that I'll be leaving.”

Rutledge went down the passage and quietly called her name. She was sitting in the small, chilly parlor, a book in her lap, and the door open.

“I heard Inspector Greeley arrive,” she told him, closing the book. “I thought perhaps you'd like a little privacy.”

“He's-er-we're going to be away for a time,” Rutledge said, trying to spare her feelings. “I don't know if I'll be here for dinner. But don't worry about that. I'll manage well enough.”

“Thank you for telling me, Inspector.” She smiled, and he noticed again how it lighted her face from within.

From somewhere the thought came, Olivia Marlowe might have looked like this woman…

Elizabeth Fraser was saying, “Is there any message you'd like for me to give to anyone who needs you?”

“Just that I'll be back as soon as possible. And you might note on the map whatever information they've brought. If it's urgent, Inspector Greeley can be found at the Elcott farm.”

Her expression stilled. “Yes. I'll do that, Inspector.”

I t was a silent drive. Rutledge was nearly certain that Greeley had nodded off, his head down on his chest, his hat shadowing his eyes. But he could have been lost in thought. Or preparing himself for what was to come…

Following the map in his head, Rutledge was able to find the rough road on which the farm stood, but after that asked Greeley for directions.

They drove up a muddy lane and into the back of a tall whitewashed stone farmhouse with nothing to set it apart from dozens of its neighbors except for the traffic that had passed in and out of the yard over the past several days, churning the snow into black muck.

Hamish said, “A stalker couldna' find the lad's tracks in that.. .” He was referring to the Highland gillies who could follow the red deer over bare rock. Or so it was said. They had hunted snipers in France with equal skill and cunning.

Greeley got out stiffly, and stretched his back. More, Rutledge thought, to postpone the inevitable than to ease his tired spine. Then he turned to scan the horizon, almost a reflex action, looking for any sign of movement or activity. But there were no flares, no line of men on the heights. “This way,” he said finally, and Rutledge preceded him into the tiny stone entry that led into the kitchen.

It wasn't, he found himself thinking, so very different from the one where he had spent most of the morning. Large, square, with windows looking out on two sides and a great black cooker in one corner, it had been pretty once. Rose-patterned curtains hung at the windows, chintz cushions in a matching style covered the chairs, and the cloth on the table had roses embroidered in the center, great cabbage roses in cream and pink.