Charles Todd - A Cold Treachery

Rutledge acknowledged the introduction, but couldn't stop himself from casting a glance towards the kitchen.

“Don't worry about the lass,” Jim Follet told him. “The nearest medical man is a good twenty mile from here as the crow flies. Jarvis, his name is. My Mary's been doctoring the family and the animals for thirty year or more.”

Rutledge believed him. In such isolated farms, the wife was usually the first and sometimes the only help to be had in an emergency.

Follet stretched his legs out to the hearth. “Where did she go off the road?”

Rutledge told him what he could. Follet said, “Aye, I know the place. She's not the first to come to grief there! Even heavy rains make that stretch hazardous. Well. I'll have a team up there at first light. A pity about the horse.”

“I don't know if there's any luggage in the back. But if she drove from Carlisle…”

“There'll be a valise of some sort. Yes, I'll look.”

Follet reached across the table to a pipe rack and began to fill one, tamping it carefully before lighting a spill at the hearth and holding it to the tobacco. His hair was iron gray, his skin toughened by wind and cold. The blue eyes squinting through the pipe smoke were sharp. Rutledge noticed that he'd hastily pulled on his trousers and a sweater over his night clothes, his braces hanging down to his hips.

“Nasty business,” Follet said again, referring to the murders. “Not the sort of thing we're used to. An entire family, by God. It makes no sense to me!”

“Did the search party bring any other news?”

“As far as I can tell, Inspector Greeley has no idea who's behind these killings. To be honest, that question's plagued me as well. Ever since the men left here. And for the life of me, I can't come up with a satisfactory answer. It isn't as if the Elcotts were troublesome, the sort who'd rub people wrong and make enemies! And Cummins-who keeps the hotel-did tell me it appears nothing was taken. That rules out thievery. The best I can think of is a chance encounter-someone quietly passing through, and Elcott spotted him. Once the man was seen, he might've feared word would get out. But even that's far-fetched! It smacks of something vile, to my mind-killing those children.”

“How well did you know the family?”

“Well enough. The Elcott farm lies across Urskwater from us, and I doubt I've been there more than a dozen times over the years. Henry-the father-I knew best, of course. We'd served on church committees together. I'd meet Gerald now and again in Urskdale. He's the older brother, and High Fell went to him when Henry died. Good sheep man. His wife came here in the third year of the war-at the end of 1916, I think, or first part of '17. A war widow, she was, with two children. Late last summer she and Elcott had the twins. Nice enough woman, from all reports. Kept her house well, and Mary claims she was a good cook. A neighbor bought a packet of her sweet cakes at the last church fair, and told Mary they was particularly fine. If the boy's dead, it's a kindness, in a manner of speaking. What's he to do, on his own at that tender age? Besides, I don't see how he could have survived for long out in that storm!”

But what if the boy could identify the killer? What if the killer and not the storm had already reached him and left him dead? A sixth victim?

There was nothing to be done tonight, Hamish reminded him. Except to make all haste to Urskdale.

But Rutledge was considering the homey accolades. They were the measuring stick of small towns and villages all across England. The state of a man's stock and the state of a woman's kitchen told neighbors whether they were dependable or slovenly, careful or spendthrift, reliable or slack. Perhaps more so here, where isolation made a knowledge of one's neighbors rudimentary. To stop next door for a cup of sugar often meant a walk of several miles. Still, a man learned soon enough who was to be trusted and who wasn't… Had Elcott had any suspicion at all that he and his family were in danger? Or had Death simply walked in one evening? A knock at a random door. ..

Hamish, who had grown up in another isolated and independent world, the Highlands of Scotland, said, It's a verra simple life, this. But it can still breed jealousy and murder. Greed, even.

Rutledge, fighting the tiredness that was nearly overwhelming him as the fire's warmth began to seep into his cold sinews, caught himself in time or he would have answered the voice aloud, from habit.

Instead, he said to the farmer, “I think we ought to see what Mrs. Follet has found. I must be on my way again as soon as possible. There's still some distance to travel.”

“The lass can remain with us. It's for the best, if she's bad hurt. And in your shoes, I'd wait until morning myself. But you know your own business-”

He was interrupted by his wife, poking her head around the door and saying, “The ribs don't appear to be broken, but they're badly bruised. I've wrapped them as well as I can. And she's warmed up a bit. If you'd want to speak to her, sir-”

As the two men got to their feet, Mrs. Follet added shyly, “And there's a cup of tea for you as well, if you'd like one.”

He followed her down the passage to the kitchen, and found the woman he'd rescued still huddled by the fire. Her face was very tired, her eyes looking into an abyss, as if she had finally realized how close to death she'd come.

Her wet clothes had been replaced by a flannel nightgown, two sizes too large, and the heavy quilt around her served as a robe. Her carriage blanket and his rug had been draped over chairs by the stove to dry, the odor of damp wool strong in the comfortable room. A glass of warmed milk stood at her elbow, half empty. She looked like a child, with the thick dark hair that fell down her back in a braid. A towel around her shoulders had been used to dry it.

Turning her head as the two men came in, she stirred and began to pluck at the edges of the quilt, as if in modesty.

Mrs. Follet handed Rutledge a cup of tea, and he realized with the first swallow that she'd added a little something to it. Grateful, he smiled at her. Then he nodded to his passenger and asked gently, “Feeling better?”

She said, “Yes.” But her voice was a polite thread in the quiet room.

“What's your name?”

As if surprised that he didn't know it, she answered with more strength, “Janet Ashton.”

“Can you tell us what happened, Miss Ashton?”

That seemed to alarm her, and Mrs. Follet put her hand on the quilted shoulder, comforting her.

“The horse lost the road,” Mrs. Follet answered for her. “And dragged the carriage a bit before it went over and pulled him down. He injured himself thrashing about in the shafts and finally was still. She couldn't reach him or coax him to his feet.”

Miss Ashton blinked, as if awakening from a dream. “Yes… I-it was frightening, I thought he'd crush the carriage -but I couldn't get out, not at first-” She shuddered, and took a deep breath, trying to shut the experience out of her mind. Then she looked up at Rutledge. “You said-you did tell me the horse is dead?”

“He is.” Rutledge pulled a chair away from the table and sat down close to hers. “Is there someone I can contact? Your family must be worried about you.”

“No-there's no one. No-”

“What brought you out in this weather?” Follet asked on the heels of her faltering answer. “It was foolishness, a lass like you!”

But she buried her face in the quilt, refusing to answer.

Mrs. Follet scolded, “Don't fret her, now! She's that tired. I'll take her up to bed. Jim, there's a warm bottle for her feet. If you'll bring it up in five minutes.” With a soothing croon that would have comforted a child, she coaxed Miss Ashton across the kitchen and down the passage, her arm around the thick wrapping of quilt.