Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

“Sheep fall into different lots. Can you tell a ewe from a gimmer shearling? Or a tup from a hogg? A wedder from a wedder shearling?” She could read the scorn in his face. “Of course you can,” she answered her own question. “Still, it never hurts to learn the skills of the man you're taking on to work for you.” She asked him a question or two about the wool clip, and saw that he understood her.

Finally, as if it were of no importance, Maggie said, “I don't think he'll be back. I've seen to it. The man from London who keeps coming here. But we'll give it a night or two before we take any chances with bad luck.”

The relief in the drawn little face touched her heart.

But later in the evening after the fire had burned low and she was sitting at ease in her chair, her leg for once comfortable, she remembered another expression on his face, as he held the heavy ax in both hands.

And she found herself wondering what he would have done with it.

“You're a fool, Maggie Ingerson!” she scolded herself. But a twinge of pain in her leg reminded her that beggars couldn't be choosers.

W hen night fell, Rutledge moved again, taking up a position in a sheep pen. The grazing animals moved silently along the slopes, hooves scraping away the snow for whatever nourishment they could find. A ewe stared at him briefly and sneezed before moving on. Finally they settled for the night, lumps of dirty white were hardly different from the snow around them. One was near enough that he could hear it breathing, and he found the sound comforting.

There were stars overhead, great sweeps of them, and he picked out the winter constellations one by one. His feet were nearly numb now, the icy crust under them offering no warmth. And the wind picked up an hour later, the soft whistle of it coming over the western fells promising a deeper cold by morning.

It was nearly three, he thought, when the square of lamplight brightened the yard door of the Ingerson farm. He brought up his field glasses and thought he could just define Maggie's bulk in her old coat, standing against the light.

She seemed to be sniffing the air, almost like a cornered animal searching for danger. And then she moved away from the door.

The dog leaped out into the yard, and scrambled towards the pen by the shed where Rutledge had seen some dozen or so animals kept safely while they healed or regained their strength. Behind the dog, stepping out the door came an oddly shaped figure that seemed to be half gnome, half monster.

A superstitious man, Rutledge thought, would have a wild tale to tell about what was living in Maggie Ingerson's house.

The Norwegians had their share of small monsters, and the Irish, too.

But Rutledge didn't need Hamish to tell him what was walking up to the pen, bundled in a man's coat that was as long as he was tall, Wellingtons that were too large scuffing through the snow, a pail of some sort in both hands.

It was a boy, and unless Maggie had more secrets than he'd guessed already, the boy was Josh Robinson.

R utledge spent a very uncomfortable night in the shearing shed, once he'd reached it again. He thought about the feather bed he'd left behind at the hotel, with a warm bottle at his feet and a dying fire in the kitchen that wrapped its heat around cold shoulders and frozen ears.

But the elation he felt kept him from sleeping.

Tomorrow he would brave the ogre in the farmhouse and ask Maggie Ingerson what she thought she was about.

It was Hamish who kept bringing up the question of what would become of Josh Robinson once the fact that somehow he'd survived was known.

What do you do, if a child has killed?

And what could he tell the world about what had happened that Sunday evening when the snow was thick and the door had opened on Death?

B y morning the house was hushed. Smoke coiled from the chimney, but there was nothing else to indicate whether the people inside were asleep or awake.

Rutledge made his way down the slippery, icy rocks towards the farm. He was stiff with cold, and in no mood to brook obstruction. By the time he had reached the house, he was sweating under his heavy coat.

But he knocked with firmness on the door, rather than pounding.

After a time it opened and Maggie stepped out to confront him, almost close enough to him there in the little space between her and the shutting door to touch him.

“I know the boy is here. I'm cold, tired, and I need to come in and warm up. It would be better if you didn't make a fuss.”

She stared at him, her face hard, revealing nothing. “I don't know what you're talking about. And I know my rights. You can't come in without a warrant to search.”

“I'm here as a private citizen. Not a policeman. Open the door, Miss Ingerson. You can conceal the boy, but not his tracks.” He pointed to the scuffed prints that crisscrossed the yard. Then he handed her the flat black cap. “You shouldn't have shown me this-”

Before he could stop her, she'd caught his arm in a grip as strong as that of any man he knew. She pulled him after her away from the door, determined and menacing.

“Step through that door, and you'll step into an ax,” she told him.

He felt colder than he had on the hillside in the night. “Then it's true,” he replied, feeling depression sweep through him. It was the answer he'd least wanted to hear. Josh Robinson was a killer.

“I don't know what's true and what's not,” she said angrily. “But that lad is in no condition for a rough policeman to badger him. He'll do you an injury, and I'll be held to blame!”

“If he's dangerous, why have you harbored him all this time? Miss Ingerson-his father is waiting for him in Urskdale village. His aunt is there. They will do all that's possible for him.”

“You don't understand! He's not speaking, he lives in terror of being found, and he's come to trust me. Leave him alone!”

“You know I can't do that. You have no right to him!”

“He was half dead when the dog found him! He'd have been dead in another hour. By rights he's mine. And I won't let you touch him.”

He remembered what he had once thought concerning Janet Ashton. That in many cultures when a man saved the life of another man, he was owed that life.

“Miss Ingerson-”

“No. Go away and leave us in peace. I won't let you have him!”

She dropped her hand from his arm and turned towards the door, her mind on the ax, praying the boy hadn't moved it. She wasn't afraid of this man, and she could put an end to it. Even the hard, cold soil could be scratched away enough to leave his body where it would never be seen again. She was not going to be deterred, and if the boy had been her own flesh and blood she wouldn't have fought any more fiercely for him.

But Rutledge had turned as swiftly as she had, his hand on her shoulder. “Let me talk to him. Otherwise, Paul Elcott will be blamed for what happened. Let me at least ask him-”

She stopped so short that he bumped into her. “What's Paul Elcott to me? Where's he when the sheep need to be brought in or feed dragged up to the high pens? Where's he when the pasture grass isn't green in April for the lambing, and I have to take the cart and hunt for fodder to keep them alive? He'll outlive me, this boy, and see to what I can't. He's got no one else to care about him and neither do I!”

“He has to go to school-he has to live with his father-he can't be enslaved to fetch and carry for you or anyone else! You can't keep him like a lost dog you found in the snow!”

“I haven't enslaved him! I've given him a bed and food and Sybil to hold on to when the nights are dark and he cries out. I've given him work to take his mind off what he's seen. All you want him for is to hang him or lock him away in an asylum where he's got nothing. Tell me that's better! ”