Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

In stark contrast, blood marred everything-the floor, the walls, the furnishings-as if flung there by a mad painter. No longer a bright red, but an ugly black. The bodies had been removed, but the tracks of men who had carried them out had of necessity marked the splatters of blood with heel-prints in different sizes.

Hamish said, with feeling, “It brings back the war…”

Rutledge thought: “The refugees we found in that cellar-”

There were plates of food on the table, and covered pots on the stove. One glass overturned. A stained fork lying on the floor. A chair on its side. The unexpectedness of the attack witnessed by such insignificant things…

Greeley was explaining, as if by rote, “Gerald Elcott was there, by the cooker. From what Jarvis told me, it took him nearly a minute to die. The little girl-Hazel-was lying by the door-She died quickly, thank God. And the twins were close by the table, beside their mother. She was half draped over them, as if to shield them. Jarvis thinks she saw them shot before she herself died. It was ruthless-venomous-”

Rutledge could picture the scramble as the family realized what was about to happen. The father too far from the outer door to stop the killing-the little girl racing to reach safety in another room. The mother flinging herself towards the infants. Shouts and screams-the deafening sound of the revolver-and then silence. And Josh? Where was Josh?

“How many shots were fired?”

“As far as we can tell at this stage, there were six. One in each of the dead, and one there in the wall. It must have missed the boy as he ran out the door. We haven't found the revolver. We've searched the house top to bottom, and the outbuildings. Our man is still armed, wherever he is.”

“And the killer stood where?”

“Here, where we are. It would give him command of the room, an open field of fire. No one had disturbed the scene. The murderer made no effort to find out if all of them were dead. He didn't care. Paul Elcott never approached the victims, either. I don't think he could bear it-” Greeley broke off and then blurted, “You know the worst of it? I helped Sergeant Miller carry them out. And I think if I'd had their murderer within reach, I'd have killed him myself!” He cleared his throat in embarrassment before going on in a steadier voice. “It seems to me that he came in from the yard and caught them all off guard. There was no way to tell if there was any exchange before he began shooting. But it must have happened very quickly. Gerald Elcott-the father-was shot first, before he could put up a fight to save his family. That would make sense. And it would have been less than two minutes before the killer turned to go after the boy. Not much of a head start, really.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “I have to ask myself if the parents knew why this was happening. Or if it was as senseless to them-”

“Whoever it was, if he came into the kitchen as we did, he must have known the family.”

“That's possible. But here in the North, the kitchen is always the warmest room in winter, and we generally go round to the yard door rather than the front of the house. I don't think it signifies. And a stranger would have come to where the lamp was lit.”

“Still, Gerald Elcott was standing by the stove. That means the son opened the outside door, and must have known the killer at least well enough to allow him to step inside. Otherwise, Elcott would have been here, where we are, in the murderer's way. Think about it.”

Greeley sighed. “Yes, I agree. Not a stranger, then…”

“But not necessarily someone you may know,” Rutledge pointed out. He recognized the propensity of local police to prefer outsiders, not their own.

Brightening, Greeley said, “Yes, that's possible.”

“How many members of the family live close enough to call in without notice?”

“Only Gerald's brother, Paul, lives here in Urskdale. Grace has a sister, who sometimes visits in the summer. I've never known her to come in winter. We haven't been able to reach her, but the wires were down for a day and a half. And there's the father of the two older children. Robinson. He lives in London.”

“Any close friends, then?”

Greeley shrugged. “Anyone from Urskdale might stop in. And be welcomed.” He turned away and stumbled out into the air. “I can't stand the smell in here.”

Hamish said, “It's no' the smell-”

Rutledge barely heard him. He stood there in the doorway for a moment longer. Even without the presence of the victims, the force of helplessness and terror lingered, like a miasma, as heavy as the acrid taint of blood. He could sense it, and with it, something else.

Surely it hadn't been done without an attempt at justification, the killing. There would have been no satisfaction in that, surely.. . only a massacre.

With a last look at the kitchen, he followed Greeley out into the cold afternoon.

T hey walked around to the front of the house, where the snow was beaten down by foot traffic.

“It was smooth as glass when we got here,” Greeley was saying. “And this door was tight shut.” He opened it and they stepped into a small hall, where wet, muddy tracks marred the smooth floor.

Rutledge thought, “Grace Elcott wouldn't care to have strangers see her floor in this condition…”

The style of the furnishings in the parlor was Victorian, but the polished wood was a measurement of pride, and the small touches, a plant on a stand by the window, the coal scuttle filled, matches upright in a narrow blue vase beside it, a collection of picture frames with yellowing photographs of at least two generations, and the spotlessly clean chimneys of the lamps, indicated that Grace Elcott was a good wife. But what else was she?

They climbed the stairs to find that the twins shared a room, while the boy and girl had their own. Each was neat as a pin, with a wooden chest for the collection of toys and games in the boy's room and a small shelf for dolls in the girl's. Clothes were tidily folded in drawers or hung in the wardrobes.

There was a photograph by Hazel's bed, and judging by the Victorian style of dress, it had been taken around 1900. A young girl stood squarely facing the camera almost as one would face an enemy, straight on. Dressed in a plain white gown, her hair pulled back with a ribbon, she seemed to resent the photographer's intrusion, as if she had other things she'd rather be doing. At her feet lay a tennis racket, as if thrown there in anger. The little dog half hidden in her skirts looked up at her in adoration, unmindful of her mood, but Rutledge, holding the frame, could read the stormy face very well. Grace Elcott as a girl?

The master bedroom boasted a great carved bedstead, early Victorian, with a matching washstand and chest. On that was a set of silver-plated brushes with GLR on the backs. Mrs. Elcott's, from her first marriage?

If so, it might indicate that her present husband was a tolerant man, or that they were too expensive to be replaced easily.

Hamish said, “He accepted the children of the first marriage.. .”

Perhaps the initials didn't matter, or the brushes were kept for the daughter.

On the dressing table was another photograph. Rutledge found himself looking down into the faces of the dead. A man of middle height, fair-haired and exceptionally handsome. Beside him a woman who smiled with noticeable joy, her face tilted, her eyes alight. There was something about her that suited her name-Grace. Slim and leaning a little towards her husband, she appeared to be deeply in love. In her arms she held the twins, swathed in blankets, hardly more than tiny features blinking at the sun. Barely a month old when the photograph was taken, Rutledge judged. Grace Elcott had grown from a sulky child into a confident wife and mother.