A Cold Treachery ir-7

by Charles Todd

  “All right, go on,” Rutledge said, but Drew shook his head.

  “As it is, it'll be well after dark before we reach the hotel again.”

  Reluctantly Rutledge heeded the warning. But there was the motorcar, and with that he could reach a handful of those outlying farms-he could try tomorrow himself.

  With a last look at the broad expanse of land all around him, the ranging hills and fells, he said, “What if the boy found shelter that first night, and survived? What then?”

  “We'd have spotted his tracks. He wouldn't have moved until the snow stopped.”

  “You're telling me that you believe Josh Robinson is dead.”

  Drew took a deep breath, and then let it out softly. “Aye.”

  The single word was as cold as the icy patches under Rutledge's boots and the chill wind that swept down from the heights.

  “Keep to my tracks going down,” the older man cautioned. “As the light fades, you'll miss your step.”

  And Rutledge did as he was told, well aware of the treachery of the blown snow waiting for an unwary boot. He stopped once and thrust a hand into one of those seemingly flat stretches crusted with ice after the melting during the day, and his fingers disappeared up to the elbow into a fold in the rock.

  A man, he thought, could dig deep and bury a handgun under a few rocks, and we'd never find it.

  And then he hastily caught up with Drew, watching the long shadows sweep down for an early dusk, and the lamps of Urskdale twinkling one after another as they were lit, like an untidy, bright necklace along the road.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dinner was late, but all the guests came to the meal, a somber gathering straining to make polite conversation and often falling silent before their own thoughts. Even Mrs. Cummins was there, toying with her food, listening to discussions no one else heard. From time to time she would interject a remark that had no bearing on anything being said.

  Once or twice she asked if anyone had seen her husband, adding, “Harry is always the first to table.”

  And Elizabeth Fraser would answer, “He'll be home soon, you know. He has been out with the search parties.”

  But they were already making their way home, each man without hope to buoy him further. Even the final effort had failed. Word had arrived by way of Sergeant Ward in Rutledge's absence. The note had simply read, We've come to the end.

  It also disturbed Mrs. Cummins that her guests were taking their meal in the kitchen, and more than once she offered to light the fire in the long dining room, where they could be comfortable. “It's such a lovely room-”

  Rutledge had stepped in there earlier, to see for himself. On the western side of the building where no sun reached it until late afternoon, it had been uninvitingly cold despite the graceful stone fireplace and the ancient but beautifully polished oak chairs around the oval oak table with its lion claw feet. On the sideboard, a pair of Staffordshire spaniels had stared forlornly back at him, and the china pheasant on the lid of the huge soup tureen seemed poised for flight in the light from Rutledge's lamp.

  The room hadn't been used, according to Elizabeth Fraser, in weeks: “Not since the middle of September-we haven't had any guests.”

  It would have taken hours of a roaring fire to defeat the winter chill in the walls.

  “Tomorrow night, perhaps, when your husband is here,” Rutledge replied, to distract Mrs. Cummins.

  “I wish Harry had sent news,” she answered fretfully. “Why do you suppose he hasn't? Do you think something could have happened to him? I always worry that something has happened. That there are more dead we don't know about-”

  And then it was as if the pent-up emotions in the room couldn't be held back any longer.

  Janet Ashton exclaimed impatiently, “Surely in all this time someone has seen something. A footprint, a depression in the snow where he could have taken shelter, even a lost glove. I mean, these men live here, they're supposed to know every inch of these fells in the dead of night in blinding rain! I've heard the sheepmen brag. How they found a lost ewe that everyone else had given up hope of finding. How they located an injured walker in heavy mist that filled Urskdale for days on end. How they can tell where they are by the feel of the stone under their feet or the smell of the wind.”

  Mrs. Cummins, alarmed, answered, “Are you saying that my husband and the others haven't done their duty? But surely that's not true. Mr. Robinson, do you feel that way?”

  Before he could answer, Janet glanced across the table at Hugh Robinson's strained face. “I'm sorry, Hugh. I don't mean to dash your hopes, but it's the waiting-spirits rising every time someone comes to the door-plunging when there's no news-I can't fall asleep without jerking awake at the slightest sound. You must feel it, too. It's making all of us edgy.”

  Elizabeth Fraser, in an effort to distract her, put in, “Yes, and you must be in some pain, as well. Would you like me to send for Dr. Jarvis-”

  But Janet had already turned to Rutledge. “I wish I knew what you'd said to Paul Elcott. I wish I'd been there. You don't know him, Inspector! How sly and devious he can be. Gerald never listened, either. He felt sorry for Paul, and he cosseted him, just as his mother had done. And just look how that ended!”

  “Miss Ashton.” Elizabeth Fraser's voice was firm. “This doesn't do any of us any good!”

  Janet stared at her for a moment and then dropped her eyes to her plate. “I'm sorry. I've lost my sister. I know how afraid she was, and how Gerald thought she was just suffering from the melancholy sometimes associated with a difficult pregnancy. I just want Josh to be found! I want something of hers to hold and love. And I want justice for her, too. Inspector Rutledge hasn't lost someone to murder, has he? He doesn't understand what I-we-feel.”

  Rutledge, unwilling to be drawn into her arguments, said only, “We've all lost people we've loved, Miss Ashton. And it's natural to rail against what we can't prevent or change.”

  “I will tell you this.” Hugh Robinson set down his fork as if he couldn't go on pretending to eat. “He's alive. Josh. I can feel it! Whatever the search parties may tell me.”

  “If he is, it would be a miracle,” Rutledge warned. “You have to prepare yourself-in the event-”

  “No, he's still alive!” His eyes met Rutledge's, despair in them.

  “I don't see what Paul Elcott has to say to anything,” Mrs. Cummins interjected. “Josh was Gerald's son, after all! Dear Gerald, he was such a nice man-I miss him so terribly!” Her face crumpled.

  Elizabeth Fraser said hastily, “Josh is Hugh Robinson's son-”

  Confused, Mrs. Cummins looked around the table. “I never heard of it if he was! The boy lived with Gerald, didn't he? Well, then-”

  Rutledge caught Miss Fraser's eye and shook his head. In an attempt to shift the subject, he said to Janet Ashton, “I've been meaning to ask you. Didn't you believe the policemen stopping traffic in Keswick, when they told you that the roads were impassable going towards Urskdale?”

  He thought for an instant he'd read surprise in her eyes, but if it was there, she managed to cover it quickly. “I'm afraid I didn't believe them-I thought the storm would blow over. That I could make it to Urskdale, if I just rested the horse often and took my time.”

  Hamish said, “She didna' know they were blocking the road. She came through before word went out.”

  Elizabeth Fraser started to say something and then thought better of it.

  Janet Ashton flicked a look in the other woman's direction and then went on, “There's something more. Have you considered the possibility, Inspector, that Paul Elcott will worry about what I can tell the police? Or that Grace might have written to me about her fears? I don't even have a key for my door here. Paul's free to come and go as he pleases. I could wake up one night and find him standing over my bed!”

  Mrs. Cummins gave a little mew of terror.

  “She willna' let go of it,” Hamish said. “I'd wonder why she's pressing sae hard?”

 
Miss Fraser said, “If you'd like a key, I'll see that you have one. But I hardly think you have any reason to be afraid here.”

  Robinson spoke up suddenly. “I've met Elcott. I think you're wrong. I can't believe he's the man we're after. Unless there's some problem I'm not aware of?” He looked around the table.

  “Of course not,” Elizabeth Fraser answered. “Paul's very different from Gerald, but that's not unexpected. I'd say you and your sister were different as well, Miss Ashton?”

  Mrs. Cummins put in, “I don't see why a problem with a weak bone in his leg should make any difference to the Army. He could still shoot, couldn't he? Harry went to fight, even if they sent him off to Egypt instead. He didn't like Egypt, you know. But it was better than being cannon fodder in France.”

  Ignoring her hostess's digression, Janet Ashton turned to Robinson. “I'm sorry,” she apologized for a second time. “I can't help it. I lie awake at night struggling to find answers. And Paul is the only threat I knew about. But if you don't agree with me, if there's something I haven't thought of, I wish you'd tell me! Anything to stop the ache of wondering.”

  He turned his head away, unable to look at her. Rutledge, beside him, could sense the rising tension in the man. The hand holding his serviette clenched and he cleared his throat as if he found it hard to breathe.

  “Hugh? Please help me. You've hardly spoken to me since I got here-did Grace tell you something-” Her voice broke on tears.

  And then almost against his will, Robinson blurted, “God knows I'd rather have it be Elcott than Josh-”

  There was a stunned silence as everyone stared at him.

  Robinson's face was drained of feeling, as if he had reached the bottom of despair.

  “What do you mean, rather Elcott than Josh?” Rutledge asked slowly.

  “I'm afraid-Josh hated his stepfather. I can't believe he'd have touched his mother. Still, once the shooting began-I don't see how he could have stopped. And I keep asking myself why he didn't die with the rest of them-how it was he got away. And there's only one answer I can think of. He'd planned it quite carefully. He killed them all and escaped under cover of the storm. I can't sleep for wondering if he was trying to get to London and to me. That it's my fault, indirectly, that they're dead. Because, you see, I wouldn't take him to live with me, however much he begged. God help me, I felt he was better off with his mother! ”

  He began to weep inconsolably.

  Janet Ashton gasped, hands over her mouth. And for once she was speechless.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Elizabeth Fraser was the first to recover. “For shame!” she exclaimed, a flush of anger rising into her cheeks. “You can't believe such a thing-he's your son!”

  “No, Hugh, that's nonsense. You can't believe that! Grace would have told me if he was that unhappy! And he wouldn't have touched his mother-or Hazel-he loved his sister-” Janet Ashton's words spilled over each other as she leaned forward across the table.

  Mrs. Cummins, flushed with shock, got to her feet, overturning her chair. “No, please-I can't bear any more of this.” She hurried out of the kitchen, almost the scurry of a timid and frightened animal.

  Robinson pressed his hands to his face, as if the very bones ached. “If you want to know, that's why I came to Urskdale. Rather than send the gifts by express. Don't you see? Josh had been telling me all the autumn that he hated it here in the North, that his mother no longer had time or patience for him, that she loved the twins best because she loved their father best. I thought it would help if I talked to him, face to face. That's why I have to find Josh now, to help him, protect him. Whatever he's done.” He drew his hands down, his eyes haunted. “Do you think I like the idea? Do you think I don't want to believe in someone-anyone else-killing them? The doctor said it must have been someone they trusted. Please God, let it be anyone but Josh!”

  Janet Ashton said, “Did you tell Grace what you're telling us? Did you talk to her about it?”

  He shook his head. “I didn't need to. She assured me he'd outgrow it, that he was still struggling with the fact that I'd come home. And I told myself he was far too young to come and live with me-”

  He broke off as Janet Ashton got up from the table.

  “I won't hear any more of this-I was here when the twins were born, I would have seen for myself that he was troubled-”

  But Hugh Robinson answered the thought behind what Janet was saying. “Gerald had been good to Josh. I don't think it was something Grace wanted to discuss with anyone but me.”

  “Grief has turned your mind, Hugh,” Janet declared. “You should never have gone into that house or asked to see their bodies-it was not something you should have done!”

  J anet walked quickly out of the kitchen, as if afraid their voices would follow her.

  Robinson turned to look after her. “Grace wrote me, just before I was taken prisoner, telling me how Janet had stepped in after I'd been shipped to France. How she'd helped with Hazel and Josh, even going to London to find work and make sure the children had everything they needed. It was Janet's spirit that kept my family together. I owe her more than I can ever repay. But there are things between a husband and wife that no one else shares.” He folded his serviette with shaking fingers and got to his feet. “If you'll excuse me-”

  As his footsteps faded down the passage, Elizabeth Fraser said into the silence that followed, “I wish I hadn't heard any of that. It's too horrible even to think about!”

  “They're grieving. You can't always heed what someone says in the first hours of grief.” Rutledge had lost his appetite, the rest of his meal untouched on his plate.

  Hamish stirred. “Then you didna' believe the man.”

  “Children don't always think about the aftermath of an action. Only about what they want,” he answered, this time silently, for Hamish's ears only. “But I find it hard to believe that a child of ten could aim and fire a revolver accurately, six times.”

  “It's no' difficult in sae small a room. He couldna' miss at that distance. If he was fashed-”

  It was true, anger could have given a child the steadiness of purpose and the strength he needed. It would be over with quickly, surprise carrying the day for him, and only then would he begin to realize the horror of death. But where had he found a weapon?

  “If Josh killed his family, then he's better off dead on the mountainside.”

  “There was the lad in Preston. He was only eighteen.”

  “Arthur Marlton was driven by voices-no one has said that Josh was anything but sane-”

  Rutledge became aware that Elizabeth Fraser was speaking.

  “-It must be hard to listen to such things. Even a policeman can't be inured to that kind of suffering!” She began to collect the plates, but he could see that her hands were trembling.

  He thought of all the suffering he'd witnessed, in the war-in the course of his duties. He was abruptly tired of judging, of looking at the cruelty of violent death. He was tired of probing into the souls of people and digging out the nasty secrets he found there. This kitchen, with its cozy warmth, its small pleasures, shouldn't be the forum for questioning the motives of murderers.

  He found himself longing for the ordinary life that most men lived, with a wife-children-a house with a small garden. But what could he bring to such domestic scenes? A haunted mind, an overfamiliarity with death, a burdened conscience…

  Hamish said, “You were never a man for self-pity.”

  “No. Not self-pity. Loneliness.”

  Rousing himself, he moved to help Miss Fraser. “I'm sorry dinner was ruined-”

  She bit her lip. “Why couldn't it have been a stranger? It wouldn't hurt as much, somehow. You could hate a stranger and what he'd done.”

  “If it is a stranger,” Rutledge told her, “then he's still out there. And if it wasn't a grudge against the Elcotts-if it was something else, madness even-he could very well kill again. Don't you ever lock your doors? People come in and out of this
house at will!”

  “And I'm helpless to defend myself? Or Mrs. Cummins?” she finished for him. “I can't think of anyone with a grudge against us.”

  “I expect the Elcotts didn't know of anyone with a grudge against them,” he answered curtly. “Until the door opened and their murderer stepped into the room.” He thought of something. “Did the Elcotts own a dog?”

  “In the summer Gerald had had to put down his sheepdog. She was twelve, and failing. A beautiful animal. He named her Miata. Strange name for a dog, isn't it? He said he'd read it somewhere and liked it. I asked if it was Irish, and he said it wasn't-”

  “I thought you didn't know the family very well?”

  She had the grace to blush. “I knew Gerald to speak to. Everyone did. On market day most people come in to Urskdale for supplies and news. And he was that sort of man, open and friendly. Not just with me, because I was confined to my chair. It was a gift he had. Small wonder that Grace fell in love with him. A woman can judge a man sometimes.”

  Paul Elcott had said that even Elizabeth Fraser had been attracted to his brother.

  “Then how do you judge Paul?”

  Miss Fraser shook her head. “He was the younger son. And not easy to know. Often in his brother's shadow. But that doesn't make him a murderer!” She turned to look up at Rutledge, her blue eyes full of unhappiness. “Do you think Hugh Robinson is right-that Josh could have done such a thing?”

  “God knows,” Rutledge answered her. “But Robinson believes it. For now. And it's tearing him apart.”

  T he boy was never comfortable wherever he sat. His body, tense as a spring, seemed to be unable to rest. He moved from chair to chair, and then to the floor next to Sybil. Up again and around the room, only to huddle once more against the dog's warm body. His eyes darted in the direction of any unexpected sound, galvanizing him to run. Sometimes it drove her to distraction, this constant prowl.

  Maggie watched him without appearing to: scanning the face that seemed pared down to skin over bone, the eyes looking inward at something too dark to bring out into the light of day. It was, she thought, like sharing a house with a shadow. Silent, no substance, hardly companionable. A burden rather than a gift from the snowy night.