Charles Todd: A Cold Treachery

THE NORTH OF ENGLAND DECEMBER 1919

He ran through the snow, face into the swirling wind, feet pounding deep trenches into the accumulating drifts. Rocks, their shapes no longer familiar under the soft white blanket, sent him sprawling, and he dragged himself up again, white now where the snow clung, and almost invisible in the darkness. He had no idea what direction he had taken, enveloped by unreasoning panic and hardly able to breathe for the pain inside him. All he could hear was the voice in his head, shouting at him “You will hang for this, see if you don't. It's my revenge, and you'll think about that when the rope goes round your neck and the black hood comes down and there's no one to save you-”

The sound of the shot was so loud it had shocked him, and he couldn't remember whether he had slammed the door behind him or left it standing wide.

He could still smell the blood-so much of it!-choking in the back of his throat like feathers thrown on a fire. He could feel the terror, a snake that coiled and writhed in his stomach, making him ill, and the drumming wild in his head.

They would catch him. And then they'd hang him. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. Unless he died in the snow, and was buried by it until the spring. He'd seen the frozen body of a dead lamb once, stiff and hard, half rotted and sad. The ravens had been at it. He hated ravens.

Half the countryside knew he'd been a troublemaker since the autumn. Restless-unhappy-growing out of himself and his clothes. They'd look at what lay in that bloody room, and they'd hate him.

He was crying now, tears scalding on cold skin, and the voice was so loud it seemed to be following him, and he ran harder, his breath gusting in front of his face, arms pumping, pushing his way through the snow until his muscles burned.

“You'll hang for this-see if you don't-!”

He would rather die in the snow of cold and exhaustion than with a rope around his neck. He'd rather run until his heart burst than drop through the hangman's door and feel his throat close off. Even with the ravens eating him, the snow was cleaner…

“ You'll hang for this-see if you don't-!

That's my revenge… my revenge… my revenge…”

Paul Elcott stood in the kitchen beside Sergeant Miller, his face pale, his hand shaking as he unconsciously brushed the back of it across his mouth for the third time.

“They're dead, aren't they? I haven't touched them-I couldn't-Look, can we step outside, man, I'm going to be sick, else!”

Miller, who had come from a butcher's family, said stolidly, “Yes, all right. The doctor's on his way, but there's nothing he can do for them.” Except pronounce them dead, he added to himself. Poor souls. What the devil had happened here? “We might as well wait in the barn, then, until he's finished.”

Elcott stumbled out the door. He made his way to the barn, where he was violently sick in one of the empty horse stalls. Afterward he felt no better. He could still see the kitchen floor-still smell the sickening odor of blood And the eyes-half closed-staring at nothing the living could see.

Had Gerald looked at Hell? He'd said the trenches were worse He sat down on a bale of hay, and dropped his head in his hands, trying to regulate his breathing and hold on to his senses. He should have sent the sergeant back alone. He'd been mad to think he could face that slaughter again.

After a while, Sergeant Miller came across to the barn, and the doctor was with him, carrying a lantern. Elcott lifted his head to nod at Dr. Jarvis. He cleared his throat and said, “They didn't suffer, did they? I mean-no one lingered-”

“No. I don't believe they did,” the doctor answered quietly, coming to stand by him and lifting the lantern a little to shine across Elcott's face. He prayed it was true. He couldn't be sure until the autopsies. Without moving the bodies, he'd been able to find only a single gunshot wound in each, to the chest, with resulting internal trauma. Sufficient to kill. A surge of sympathy swept Jarvis and he reached out to press Elcott's shoulder. The bloody dead were this man's family. His brother, his brother's wife, their children. An unspeakable shock…

The doctor himself had been badly shaken by the scene and found it difficult to imagine how he would answer his wife when she asked him why the police had come to fetch him in the middle of his dinner. Nothing in his practice had prepared him for such a harrowing experience. It was, he thought, something one might see in war, not in a small, peaceful farmhouse. At length he said gently to Elcott, “Let me take you home, Paul, and give you something to help you sleep.”

“I don't want to sleep. I'll have nightmares.” Without warning Elcott began to cry, his face crumpled and his chest heaving. His nerve gone.

The doctor gripped the weeping man's shoulder, and looked to Sergeant Miller over his head. “I wish I knew what's keeping Inspector Greeley-his wife told me he'd gone to see if the Potters needed help getting out. I hope to God he hasn't stumbled on anything like this!”

“We'll know soon enough,” the sergeant replied.

They listened to the sobbing man beside them, feeling helpless in the face of his grief.

“I ought to take him home,” Jarvis said. “He's no use to you in this state. You can wait for Greeley. When you're ready for me, I'll be with Elcott.”

Miller nodded. “That's best, then.” He glanced at Elcott, then jerked his head, moving to the door. Jarvis followed him. The two men stood there in the late afternoon light, gray clouds so heavy that it was difficult to tell if dusk was coming, or more snow. It had been a freak two-day storm, fast moving with a heavy fall, and the skies still hadn't cleared. The roads were nearly impassable, the farm lanes worse. It had taken Miller a good hour to reach the house, even following in the ruts left by Elcott's carriage.

“There's one still missing.” Miller pitched his voice so that Elcott couldn't hear him. “I daresay Elcott's not noticed. I've walked through the rest of the house. He's not there.”

“Josh? By God, I hadn't-Is he in the outbuildings, do you think?” Jarvis shivered and glanced over his shoulder at the unlit interior of the small barn, with its stalls, plows, barrows, tack, and other gear stacked neatly, the hay in the loft, filling half the space. Two horses and a black cow watched him, ears twitching above empty mangers. “Gerald Elcott was always a tidy man. It shouldn't take long to search.”

Miller counted on his gloved fingers. “Elcott penned his sheep, against the storm. I could see them up there to the east of Fox Scar. Stabled his horses, and brought in the cow. At a guess, then, he was alive this time Sunday, when the snow was coming down hard and he knew we were in for it. But the cow's not been milked since, nor the stalls mucked out, nor feed put down.”

“That confirms what I saw inside. I'd say they've been dead since Sunday night.” Jarvis frowned and stamped his feet against the cold, torn. “I should stay until you've found Josh. In the event there's anything I can do…”

“No, take Elcott back. If the rest are dead, the boy is as well. I'll manage.”

The doctor nodded. He was moving towards Elcott again when Miller cautioned, “Best to say nothing about what we've seen”-he gestured to the house-“in the village. Until we know a little more. We don't want a panic on our hands.”

“No. God, no.” Jarvis handed the lantern to Miller and settled his hat firmly on his head against the wind. Raising his voice, he said, “Now then, Paul, let's take you home, and I'll find something to help you get past this.”