Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

“My good God!” was all he said, hurrying to his patient.

After a time he rocked back on his heels. “It was a near-run thing! But the bone here”-gesturing to the front of the throat-“hasn't been broken. And he was lucky his neck didn't snap.”

He turned back to Elcott. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing, man? The inspector here had ordered you released without prejudice. It was over-” He stopped and got slowly to his feet.

His eyes sought Rutledge's. “Or was this a confession of sorts?”

“It was meant to be.”

As the doctor had worked, Rutledge had retrieved a single sheet of crumpled paper stuck through by a pin to Elcott's pillow. He held it out now.

There were four words on the sheet, printed by a man under great stress-or duress. I did do it.

Jarvis said again, “My good God!” And then, “You shouldn't have stopped him. It will all have to be done again-”

“He didn't hang himself,” Rutledge said. “Did you, Elcott?”

The dazed man on the floor shook his head vehemently and struggled to sit. His limbs seemed to have a mind of their own, arms folding as if no longer able to hold his weight.

He tried to speak but his throat closed over the words.

Rutledge said them for him.

“It was Hugh Robinson, tidying up before Mickelson could dig into the past as I had done. It might not have worked twice, his act of grieving. He couldn't pretend to a second suicide attempt. Elcott?”

Elcott's eyes were on Rutledge's face. He nodded vigorously, a sound like a growl coming from his damaged throat.

Jarvis picked up the overturned chair and sat in it, his mouth open.

“Let's get Elcott to the bed,” Rutledge told the stunned doctor. But it was a moment or two before Jarvis could comply.

Elcott sank into the pillows, and tried again to find his voice. When it came it was no more than a harsh, raw whisper, hardly audible as words.

“Smoth-smothered me-pillow. Then left-dangling-toes on chair back. Could-couldn't-rise up-loosen noose. Lost my bal-ance trying. Fell off.”

It was a hard way to die, choking slowly to death.

Jarvis wiped the palm of his hand over his mouth. “ Robinson, you say?”

“Robinson. Carefully planned and executed, from the start,” Rutledge told him.

“He killed them all? But why? Why in God's name-they were his own children!”

“Revenge.” He stood by the bed. “And you were to be the scapegoat,” he said to Elcott. “I'd failed, but he was afraid the new man would be luckier.”

Jarvis got to his feet and went to the kitchen, rummaging in the dresser and the pantry. He came back with three glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Without a word he poured a finger for each of them, but had to hold Elcott as he sipped. The raw spirits sent him into a gasping fit.

Rutledge was saying, “Jarvis, I want you to stay here with him. I'll find Constable Ward and send him to keep you company. Don't leave until I've come back again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes. You'll find Ward sleeping in the back of the police station. Greeley has had someone there since the-er-murders.”

The doctor was right. Ward had prepared himself a cot in the cell, the door open, his shoes on the floor within easy reach. The constable's snores could be heard from the outer office.

He listened groggily as Rutledge briefly explained what he wanted done.

“With respect, sir, I've been told you're relieved.” He rubbed his eyes with his fists, then stretched to ease his shoulders.

“If you want to leave Jarvis and his patient to the mercy of the killer coming back to see the results of his handiwork,” Rutledge told him curtly, “by all means follow the rules. Meanwhile, I'm going to speak to Greeley.”

Ward was already shoving his feet into his shoes, and reaching for his tunic. “Then I'll be on my way, sir. Mr. Greeley did leave orders to be called if there was any new developments.”

R utledge sat in the prim Greeley parlor for half an hour, speaking rapidly and carefully to his counterpart.

Greeley, half asleep when he began, was wide awake by the end.

“I've never heard the like!” he said grimly. “But what put you on to him? Along the coast they swore no one had asked directions about the old road.”

“He didn't have to ask. He must have heard about it and spent some time during his summer holiday, searching it out for himself. It was useful, and even though he was caught in the storm, he'd have made some sort of provision even for that. He's not a man to leave much to chance.”

“And the bastard made me take him to see his dead. To count them, more than likely!”

“It was a good excuse for his staying in his room much of the time. Waiting for his son's body to be found.”

“Should we summon Inspector Mickelson and tell him what's happened?” Greeley asked. “As he's in charge…”

“If we go to wake Mickelson now, Robinson will hear us. His room is just across from the inspector's. He'll think we've found Elcott, and he may come out into the passage to ask if there's news. Better to wait until everyone has come to the kitchen for breakfast.”

“And you say Ward's with Dr. Jarvis and Elcott?” Rutledge confirmed it and Greeley went on, “We'll just step around to Sergeant Miller's house and put him in the picture. We'll not take a man like Robinson without trouble.” Greeley started for the door. Then he stopped. “Where's the murder weapon, then?”

But Rutledge was ready for the question. “It was Theo's revolver. I daresay Robinson disposed of it somewhere between Urskdale and the coast. There had to be a weapon that Josh could have used. Otherwise, no one would believe the boy had killed them all.”

“I'd like to be there when the bastard hangs!” Greeley said vehemently, and hurried away to fetch his coat.

A gray, overcast day greeted them as Rutledge, with Greeley and Sergeant Miller at his heels, walked down the street towards the hotel.

“We'll have to tell Inspector Mickelson,” Greeley was fretting. “Else it won't be done properly.”

“One look at your face, if he sees you in the passage, and Robinson will know what's afoot. We'll send Sergeant Miller around to the back. I'll try to find Cummins and have him make sure his wife and Miss Fraser are safely locked in their rooms. You must go as quietly as you can to Miss Ashton's room and tell her there's been a message for her from Carlisle, and she's to see Constable Ward at the station straightaway. She's in the same passage with Mickelson and Robinson. It's essential to get her out of there.”

“And Miss Fraser? Who's to see to her,” Miller asked, “if she's already in the kitchen?”

“That's your duty, Sergeant. Step into the kitchen and tell her there's been an accident at the neighboring house. Ask her if you can wheel her next door while you go for Dr. Jarvis.”

“But what about Mickelson?” Greeley asked again, anxious for the official stamp to his actions.

“First we must see to it that everyone is safely out of harm's way,” Rutledge repeated impatiently. “We can't trust Robinson! He's killed five people in cold blood and left a child to die of exposure. He's tried to hang Elcott. We don't know if he's armed-we don't know if he'll try to take hostages. Mickelson would give you the same order: Avoid any more bloodshed.”

“Makes sense, sir,” Sergeant Miller put in. “We ought to do as he says.”

They had reached the hotel. Miller strode purposefully to the back. Rutledge and Greeley entered quietly, and Rutledge made his way up the stairs to find Cummins and his wife.

He tapped lightly, and then turned the latch. Mrs. Cummins was just putting the cap back on a bottle of gin, and she stared at him angrily as he came through the door. “What are you doing in my bedroom?” she demanded. “Leave at once or I'll scream the house down!”