Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

A shy girl stood between Gerald and Grace Elcott, and Gerald's hand was on her shoulder, as if in reassurance. Hazel. Her eyes were looking up into his face. Next to the woman stood a boy, all legs and arms, scowling at the camera, his chin tucked into his chest, as if in protest. Josh Robinson. In the background was a church door.

Greeley said to Rutledge, “Taken by the rector, after the christening. Mrs. Elcott was that happy, that day. My wife remarked on it, how happy she was.” He shrugged his shoulders deeper into his heavy coat, as if to shut out the cold.

And only months later Grace Elcott's happiness had ended abruptly in a whirlwind of destruction. The kitchen was still all too fresh in Rutledge's mind. Here in the bedroom, Grace's bedroom, the house no longer warmed by fire or laughter or the ordinarily sounds of a family's life, he could feel the emptiness, and the pervasive silence that would never be filled again. It was, in a sense, far more horrible because in his hand he held the faces of the living family. Did you know why you became a victim? Or had his imagination run away with him?

Hamish said, “There had to be hatred behind such murders…”

Rutledge set the photograph down, and without comment turned to finish his search.

The contents of the wardrobe were what he'd expected to find-mostly daily wear, with dark coats for market day and for church. One of the hats on the shelf had been worn by Mrs. Elcott the day of the christening, with frivolous silk roses still pinned on the brim. His sister Frances had told him once that a woman's choice of hat revealed her mood.

Hamish reminded him of Elizabeth Fraser's words: “We see each other at market or at christenings and weddings, more often at funerals.” And the same clothes served for each occasion, but the hats could define the moment.

As if mirroring his thoughts, Greeley said, “The Elcotts were no richer than the rest of us. There's never money for frills here in the North. Still, we're grateful for what we have. And through the war, we managed. We were used to making do. Nobody went hungry.”

It was a comment Rutledge had heard often enough. We managed… . The hardships of war and the ensuing peace had left many families struggling to survive. Few of them complained, making an effort to cope and rebuild their shattered hopes. But there were those who had prospered, and for whom there was no looking back.

Hamish said, “It's no' money, then, that's at the back of this killing.”

Rutledge, before he could stop himself, answered aloud, “There's the land-”

Greeley nodded, as if the comment had been directed at him. “We found Gerald Elcott's will. Here's how it stood. The farm has been in the family for generations. There's no one left to inherit now save his brother. Gerald was generally the one who worked with his father, and so Henry passed the land to him. Paul was set up in business as part owner of the licensed house in Urskdale. Of course when Gerald was away in France, Paul came back here to run the sheep. The Ram's Head had all but gone under, anyway, with no one coming of a summer to keep it afloat.”

“What does Paul Elcott do now?”

Greeley went back to the head of the stairs, saying over his shoulder, “He's trying to reopen The Ram's Head. On his own. Frankly, it's an uphill struggle.”

The inspector was eager to get away from the house, and it showed.

Rutledge followed Greeley back to the motorcar. A watery sun was strengthening, and the snow was beginning to melt. It was slushy underfoot, the first sign of thaw.

As they came around the corner of the house, Hamish said, “Why did yon brother come out to the farm on Tuesday?”

Rutledge asked Greeley as he cranked the motorcar.

“I expect to see if they needed anything. I looked in on two other families myself. One an elderly couple, and the other with very young children. The storm came through in a hurry, and there wasn't much warning. No time to come into the village for lamp oil or staples. There was barely time to bring in the stock.” Greeley stepped into the passenger's seat.

“Has it occurred to you that Paul Elcott could have killed his brother and his brother's family?”

Shocked, Greeley simply looked at Rutledge as he drove out of the yard.

“Paul Elcott would inherit the farm,” Rutledge pointed out. “There's your motive. And he must have visited the house often enough. Any signs of his presence at the murder scene could easily be explained by that fact.”

“That's foolishness! You didn't see him after he'd found them. He was sick as a dog in the barn-” He broke off, his eyes on the road.

A horse and carriage was coming swiftly towards them, moving far faster than conditions on the road warranted.

Greeley said, his voice rising with excitement, “There must be news! By God, they must have found the boy!”

Rutledge pulled on the brake, drawing the motorcar to the side of the rutted verge, out of the path of the horse galloping straight at them.

“No, that's the doctor's carriage,” Greeley declared, squinting at the oncoming vehicle. “Gentle God, you don't suppose there's been another slaughter -!” He leaned out of the window to shout “What's happened?”

The carriage was near enough now to see the man holding the reins. He wore a heavy gray coat, and his face was half hidden by a hat pulled down tightly against the wind. Greeley swore. “That's not Jarvis or one of my men. It's Hugh Robinson! Grace Elcott's first husband-”

The horse thundered to a stop ten feet short of the motorcar, eyes rolling, as a slender man with a strained, haunted face drew rein. “My God-” he began, and his voice choked. He shook his head wordlessly. “It must be true!”

As the lathered horse sidled in such close proximity to the vehicle, Rutledge switched off the motor. He and Greeley opened their doors and stepped out into the lane.

“Mr. Robinson-” Greeley began.

“I came as soon as I heard-” Robinson was saying as the horse steadied. “Why in God's name didn't anyone contact me in London!”

“The blame is mine,” Greeley said, with a tiredness in his voice that spoke of something else besides exhaustion. “We've been out looking for your son. All our energies have gone into searching for him. I'd hoped to have-”

“I should have been here- I should have been out with the searchers -” Robinson's thin face contorted in grief.

“Mr. Robinson-” Greeley began, and then found nothing to say.

Rutledge said, “If you'll come with us back to the hotel-”

“No! I want to go to the house. I need to see-”

“I don't think it's a very good idea,” Rutledge began, but Robinson stared at him with angry eyes.

“It's my family, not yours.” He took up the whip and lashed at the horse, sending it flying down the lane.

Greeley flinched as if he'd been struck instead, and ran after him, leaving Rutledge to turn the crank and then catch them up.

Robinson was already in the kitchen when Greeley reached him, leaning against the open door as if poleaxed.

Rutledge was in time to hear Robinson mumbling over and over again, “Dear God-dear God-dear God…”

And then he was outside and bending down by the cellar stairs, vomiting as if all the contents of his stomach were being forced out by the horrors he'd just seen.

Greeley looked across at Rutledge, pleading for understanding. Hamish was saying, “I wouldna' be in his shoes-!”

Rutledge said with some authority, “Mr. Robinson. I'm from Scotland Yard.”

Robinson fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. He stopped to stare up at the man from London, his eyes dazed.

“When did they summon you?” Robinson asked.