Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

She lay against his chest quivering, and he could see the tears of pain running down her face.

“I must get you somewhere with a fire. I don't know how far that will be. But first, we've got to make some headway in warming you up.”

It took another ten minutes to stop the most violent shivers, and then she seemed to fall asleep against him. He woke her, urging her to fight the cold.

More tea, and then he set her back where she belonged, and took off the brake.

“We can't wait any longer. Talk to me,” he commanded. “I don't care what you say, nonsense if you like. Verse. Songs. But talk. Concentrate on that, not the pain.”

“I never knew it could hurt so to breathe,” she said finally. “I can only-”

“Yes, I understand. And that's all right. Go on,” he said again.

“I can't feel my feet-”

“They'll be fine, as soon as we find help. Do you know this part of the country? Is there a farmhouse near here?”

“I-I can't remember-”

He took one hand from the wheel and gripped hers where they were clenched under the blanket. They were still cold, her leather gloves wet through.

“Take off your gloves, and if you can bear it, tuck your hands under your arms…”

She did as she was told, cradling her body. “That helps-” she told him. “Except for my p-poor feet.” She had twisted herself in the seat to shut the wind out of her face and ease her ribs. He couldn't see her features except as a blur against the dark rug.

“Have you come far? It's foul weather to be on the road!”

“I-I drove down from Car-Carlisle-”

He eventually came upon a lane with wind-drifted snow blocking it, and got out to plow his way up the hill to the porch of a house, his shoes thickly encrusted. Although he knocked with his fist, no one came to the door, and there were no lamps lit. He stepped back, and could see no smoke in the chimney.

“Empty as a drunkard's purse,” Hamish grumbled as Rutledge started back down the drive.

“No one at home,” he told his passenger as he climbed once more behind the wheel. “We'll find another soon enough.” And hoped that he was right.

The road rose over a hill and then dipped again. Off to his left Rutledge could see a turning with a fingerpost, and a hundred yards beyond that, the rough shape of a house. The wind carried the heavy scent of woodsmoke to him, and he said cheerfully, pointing, “Over there. You'll be by a fire soon!”

The lane came up so quickly he nearly missed it-no more than a long rutted bit of track that twisted up to the house and around to the yard.

He took it carefully, testing the snow depth with his wheels. But the tires were able to find purchase, and he went up the slight rise with less difficulty than he'd anticipated, the powerful motor coming to his aid.

A dog began to bark with savage ferocity as Rutledge approached the yard behind the house. It was not on a chain and ran bounding beside the motorcar, lips drawn back in a snarl. Even after he'd come to a full stop, it put its forelegs on the motorcar and dared him to step down.

“Set your foot within range, and he'll clamp his teeth on it,” Hamish warned.

Rutledge blew the horn. Once and then again.

A lamp flared in an upstairs window. The sash went up and a gray head looked out.

“Who are you? What the hell do you want, waking the family like that?”

“Call off your dog and come down. I'm a policeman, and I have a woman here. There's been an accident. She needs help and she needs it quickly.”

“You're no policeman I'm familiar with!”

“Inspector Rutledge, from London. I've come north at the request of the Chief Constable to assist Inspector Greeley in Urskdale.”

“And I could call myself the King of Siam, if I was of a mind to. I'm not opening my door this night to any man without proper authority.”

The dog was growling deep in its throat, reflecting his master's truculence.

Rutledge shifted the motorcar into reverse. “Please yourself. Inspector Greeley will be expecting you at Urskdale gaol tomorrow at noon.” It was the voice of command. “The charge will be obstructing a police officer in the course of his duties.” The vehicle began to move.

“Stay where you are!” Cursing, the man withdrew his head and after several minutes, he appeared again at the yard door. He was in no hurry, weighing the situation with the hardheaded prudence of the North. Rutledge waited impatiently but said nothing, nearly certain that there was a shotgun somewhere within easy reach.

“Here, Bieder,” the farmer at last called to the dog, and with a final challenging glance at Rutledge, the animal turned obediently to his voice.

Pulling on a pair of Wellingtons, the man came out into the yard, a lantern in his hand. Holding it high, he stared from Rutledge to the pale face of his passenger.

“An accident, you say?” he demanded suspiciously. “Miss?”

“My-my-carriage-went off-the road,” the woman managed, her teeth chattering as she raised her head out of the nest of blankets. In the lantern light the blood on her lip was a dark and ominous smudge. “Please-I don't think I can bear the cold much longer. L-Let me sit by your fire for ten minutes, and we'll b-be on our way.”

“Ah.” He lowered the lantern and said to Rutledge, “Can she walk, then?”

“Her ribs are bruised-possibly cracked. Her feet are numb.”

Rutledge got out, walked around the bonnet, and came to the passenger door. Opening it, he said gently, “It will hurt, to help you out. Can you manage?”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the strained face. “If there's a fire-”

The farmer, a burly man, said, “Come along, lass. I'd lift you myself but for the ribs, now. Between us, we'll have you in the kitchen in the blink of an eye. My wife already has the kettle on!” His accent was heavy, the words gruff, but his intentions were kind.

They got her down, and between them on their crossed wrists, to the house, the dog sniffing at their heels. A heavyset woman with a red face, cheeks permanently windburned, was waiting for them in the kitchen, her hands tight together.

As they came through the door, her expression softened. She said, “My sweet Lord! Oh, the poor lass! Bring her here, by the stove!” Over the injured woman's head she said to Rutledge, “What's happened to her?” He could see the shadow of alarm in her eyes, as if the older woman expected him to say his companion had been attacked by a murderer.

He explained again as his passenger was urged into a chair, her blankets hastily settled around her like cushions. She tried to lean back and gasped.

The farmer's wife, tightening the sash of her robe about her thick waist, said, “Jim, take the inspector into the sitting room, if you please. I'll just have a look at this young lady.”

Rutledge followed Jim into a small sitting room. It was already losing the evening's heat but was still comfortable, compared to the raw night outside. The man lit a lamp on a table, settled the chimney in place again, and motioned Rutledge towards the best chair. The fire on the hearth had been banked for morning, but the farmer stirred it into life, still holding the poker as he turned back to his unexpected guest.

“If you're a policeman, you'll have something to show me.”

Rutledge reached into his coat and withdrew his card. The farmer examined it. “Scotland Yard, is it, then? You've made rare good time!”

“I was in Preston when the summons came.”

The farmer set the poker back in its place, shaking his head. “Bad business, this! There was a search party come through early this morning. I asked if they needed me as well, but they said they had enough men for this part of the valley. They hadn't found the boy-more's the pity.” He sat heavily in the next chair. “Tonight I put the dog in the barn, with the door ajar. A precaution, belated though it was! I don't put much faith in anyone except myself, out here. There's a shotgun in the entry, behind the pantry door. If I'd needed it.” He held out a rough hand. “James Follet.”