by Charles Todd
“And Gerald?”
“Ah, yes, Gerald. He wasn't at all like Ronald, and yet if I watched, sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of Ronald in him. His fairness, the way he walked, that sparkle in his eyes when he was excited about something. I took such pleasure in that! Even, sometimes, Gerald's laughter would catch me unprepared. I would hear it in a shop, and turn quickly- Have you never lost someone, and then looked for them in other people?”
He'd lost Jean, even though he'd come back alive from France. She had been terrified of him, sitting irrational and suicidal in hospital. And he'd seen her only once afterward, in London just before her marriage to someone else. Had he looked for Jean in other women? Or found in other women the traits that he had missed in her? In Aurore-or Olivia Marlowe? Even Fiona…
“I don't know,” he answered simply. “I expect I haven't loved as deeply as you did.”
Elizabeth Fraser smiled, but it was more with sadness than humor. “I never want to love anyone again. It hurts too much. Am I free to go now?”
“Yes-”
But when the door closed behind her, Hamish said, “Did you believe her, then?”
Rutledge found he couldn't answer the voice in his head.
T he screams brought Maggie up out of a deep sleep. For a moment she lay stock-still, disoriented and uncertain. Then she found her shawl and threw it around her shoulders, hurrying to her father's room without stopping to light the lamp.
He was sitting up in bed, on his knees, his eyes wide but unseeing.
She stood there for an instant, then awkwardly put her arm around the boy's heaving shoulders.
But her touch was shocking to him and he whimpered as he curled himself into a ball in among the bedclothes, his screams rising in pitch as if afraid of what she would do to him. Yet she thought he didn't recognize her in the middle of whatever nightmare held him in its grip.
“Sybil!” she called to the dog, but it was already on the floor by the bed, hunched and whining.
She could hear words now, incoherent but terrified.
“What is it?” she asked him, her own voice shaking. “Tell me what's wrong!”
He lifted his face out of the coverlet and stared at her, and she thought this time he was wide awake, no longer in the throes of his dream.
“I killed them,” he whispered. “I watched them die. There was so much noise. And then I ran. I didn't want to hang.”
He pointed his finger as if he held a gun. “Bang! Bang-bang, bang! Bang! Bang-”
She had to reach out and shake him to stop the sound, recognizing it for hysteria.
Afterward he just sat there and cried.
Sybil jumped on the bed then and tried to comfort him.
S itting at the kitchen table in the dark, staring at nothing, Maggie could feel the cold settling in. The stove had been banked for the night, and she didn't have the energy to make herself a cup of tea.
“What am I going to do?” she asked the shadows. “Papa, what am I going to do?”
But her father was dead and buried on the hill.
After a while, when her feet felt half frozen and her head had begun to ache along with her leg, she heard a voice saying aloud, “Nothing has changed. I don't see that anything has changed.”
She was startled to realize that it was her own voice.
Soon after that she got up and went to her bed. But it was hours before she finally fell asleep again.
T he next morning he didn't seem to remember anything about his outburst in the night.
And when he was washing up the dishes, she surreptitiously took out the gallows drawing he'd made and burned it in the stove.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
T hat night, Rutledge drove down the Urskdale road towards South Farm, where the Petersons lived. Leaving his motorcar on the road, he walked partway up the lane, and found a bare patch of rock where he could stand and watch the long outline of the ridge that rose to The Knob and then leveled off as it fell to The Long Back and dwindled towards the south. It was cold, wind whipping down the lake and scudding clouds sailing overhead, obscuring the stars.
From here he was invisible to anyone on high ground, and he could still reach the village faster in the motorcar than anyone on foot. The question was, would this be another nightwatch that failed to bring him any answers?
Turning to look across the mere, he could just see the ragged outline of the fells blotting out the sky. Somewhere in the distance to his right, the clank of a bell told him where sheep were on the move. He could hear his own breathing. And then a rock, dislodged by a careless hoof, rolled and bounced for what seemed to be twenty feet or so.
“If I cough,” he thought, “it will be heard for miles…”
The feeling of claustrophobia settled around him again. Pinned where he was by the fells, isolated and lonely, he was one man in a wilderness of stone that seemed to press in on every side. He couldn't push it aside and escape, he couldn't choose his way out. Not without wings.
Shaking off his bleak mood, he pulled his collar up against the wind, and shivered in his heavy coat.
After a time, he had to stamp his feet to keep them warm, and the stars swung across the sky with silent precision that measured the minutes. He kept time by them instead of his watch as the hours crept by.
And then, faintly, across the Saddle, he could see the pinprick of light as a lantern bobbed slowly across the ground.
There was no way to intersect the path the walker had taken. But Rutledge was, this time, perfectly positioned to track the small glow as it moved.
For a long time it seemed to follow an erratic course, and with the map in his mind, Rutledge could tell when it veered off to stop at the sheep pens, the deeper crevices, and the old ruins.
Searching for what? A revolver? A child? Or perhaps some other bit of evidence that the police were not aware of?
But Rutledge wanted to find out.
Hamish, standing watch with him in his mind, kept up a running commentary, reminding him that time was short and that Mickelson could arrive the next morning, or in the afternoon. “Better to finish what needs to be done, before the wrong person is hanged.”
“I'm doing my best-”
“You havena' used your eyes, they're too blinded by the woman.”
“I tell you, there's no key!”
“Aye, but there is. Think, man, you're no' this puir a policeman!”
“All right, then. Tell me what I've missed!”
“Go back to the woman!”
“She's not a suspect. She was acquitted.”
“Aye, and you're too blind to see what I'm saying-”
The disembodied lantern had come some distance from town now. Rutledge swiftly retraced his own steps to the motorcar and cranked it. Getting in, he heard Hamish say, “The headlamps.”
But Rutledge hadn't turned them on. Driving blind in the darkness, praying not to plow into a ewe on the roadside, he pushed his speed as much as he dared. For a moment Urskwater shimmered in a white sheet, before the moon raced under another bank of clouds. He could understand, he thought, why the Norse and the Danes had woven Nature into their stories, giving it a sinister life of its own. He'd been told on one of his visits to the region with his father about the Old Man who haunted the fells of Urskdale, and he wondered how many people like Mrs. Haldnes kept their shades lowered at night and never looked out. If Henderson hadn't been driving his son to the doctor's surgery The village loomed ahead, dark and quiet. Long before he reached the hotel, he stopped the motorcar and left it standing, striding quickly the rest of the way. Once he stumbled in a rut left by a cart, and cursed under his breath.
He made his way around to the back of the hotel, letting himself in the kitchen door, as he'd come out.
Elizabeth Fraser was there in the darkness.
“Dear God,” he said, startled.
“I heard you go out,” she said softly. “I thought you'd like something warm to drink when you came in.”
; “There's-business I must attend to first. But thank you.”
He went past her chair into the passage. When he reached Hugh Robinson's room he stopped to listen to the low roll of snores inside. Opening the door silently, he looked into the room. Robinson was sleeping on his side, his face turned away towards the only window. But there was no mistaking him.
Rutledge went on to Janet Ashton's door. He couldn't hear anything beyond the panels and gently opened it half an inch. She lay with her face turned to a long streak of moonlight coming through the window. As he watched, the light faded and there was only the slim shape under the blanket and a pale oval framed in dark hair.
He shut the door again, and made his way silently out of the house to where he'd left the motorcar. He drove it into the hotel yard and left it there. Then he walked down through the town. There was a lamp lit in the doctor's surgery as a night-light, but the rest of the house was dark. Shops were shuttered, and the streets were empty. The ghostly shape of the church tower was lost against the bulk of the mountain behind it. Across Urskwater, a dog barked, and the sound traveled to him clearly. Another answered closer to the village.
He might have been the only man left alive in this alien world, he thought. But try as he would to walk softly, his boots crunched on the ridges of dirty snow and icy mud under his feet, and anyone lying awake could hear the sound of his footsteps echoing in the night. The last thing he wanted were lights coming on as curious heads lifted shades to see who was about.
The Ram's Head was dark, but he tried the door. Locked. In Urskdale, until the murders, almost no one locked his door. Either Paul Elcott was cautious, or he'd made certain no one would be able to find him gone, his bed empty.
Rutledge crossed the street to where a baker's shop offered some shelter against the wind. He pressed into the frame of the door, making himself all but invisible.
It was a long wait. From time to time the creaking of the sign over The Ram's Head could be heard, and he thought, “Rusty and uncared for.” It was in a way, a description of Paul Elcott's view of himself and life.
Stiff from the cold and from standing so still, he shifted his position finally and nearly betrayed himself when his heel struck the lower part of the door with a resounding thud.
A light came on in the floor above his head, shining out into the street. The window sash went up. A voice, angry and hard, called, “Who's there? What do you want?”
Rutledge stood stock-still. It was impossible for the man in the window to see him where he was. After a time he heard the voice saying to someone inside, “It's the blasted wind. Nothing more. I can hear it rattling the door.”
The window shut with a bang, and the street was once more quiet.
A cat walked by, carrying a mouse in its mouth. The moonlight, fitful at best, played tricks with shadows, and Rutledge thought of the nights in the trenches when tired eyes could read movement in the wire when there was none.
Hamish said, “Whist!”
Rutledge listened. A crunch of steps. He thought it must be nearly five o'clock. Time enough for whoever had been out on the heights to reach Urskdale again-before an early rising farmer saw the silhouette of an intruder in his pasture or sheep run and came out with his shotgun.
The lonely figure walking down the street kept to the center, as if fearful of ambush. It moved wearily, as if burdened by its thoughts as well as lack of sleep.
Rutledge stood where he was, waiting.
The figure was perhaps five shops away, and still coming towards him.
Even though he knew for a certainty that he couldn't be seen, Rutledge kept his breathing light and shallow.
If it was Paul Elcott, he would soon turn towards The Ram's Head.
Two shops away now…
And then the unknown night walker was even with the licensed house that stood as a monument to Elcott's failure in life.
But to Rutledge's surprise, he didn't go in. He kept on walking.
After a time he was lost in the shadows of the churchyard yews. Rutledge could hear the church door open, the heavy wood dragging on its iron hinges.
Who the hell – Rutledge cut short the thought and strained to listen.
“Ye'll lose him if you wait here!”
“I'll lose him if I walk to the church. I can't open the door without making noise.”
“He may no' come back this way.”
And after ten minutes, it appeared that Hamish was right.
Rutledge stepped out of the baker's shop doorway and, keeping to the shadows, moved on to the church. He walked softly, watching his way.
And still no one came out of the building.
When he reached the door, he hesitated, but this was a small church with only the one entrance. There was no other way in-or out.
For another ten minutes he waited on the church porch, and in the end did his best to open the door silently, only wide enough to allow him to pass through.
Inside he let his eyes adjust to the deeper gloom, for the stained glass window let in very little light.
No one stirred. He began to wonder if his hearing had betrayed him and the church was empty. Or had it been a trick all along, and the walker had only opened and closed that door before vanishing in the direction of Drew Taylor's house?
Taking out his torch, he swung it from side to side, slowly and quietly making his way down the aisle. He had to be certain.
It wasn't until he had reached the front of the church and the altar rail that he found his quarry.
Paul Elcott lay on the floor, where he had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion as he prayed-or waited in vain for peace.
R utledge took Elcott by the shoulder, and the man all but leaped to his feet, shocked and terrified, lashing out as if to drive away a ghost.
“It's Rutledge. Wake up. This place is cold as the tomb. Come back to The Ram's Head. I want to know what you were doing out there on the fell tonight.”
“I swear, you nearly gave me an apoplexy!” He was still breathing hard. “Good God.” And then, “What the bloody hell are you doing here at this hour!”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“I must have fallen asleep. I didn't hear you come in. I didn't think anyone would be in the church-where were you hiding? And why are you spying on me!”
“Hardly spying. I saw you come back into the village. Where have you been?”
“Out, walking.” He retrieved his shuttered lantern and fumbled to light it. Shadows raced around the stone walls as his hands shook.
“Beyond South Farm. Hardly an evening's constitutional!” Rutledge switched on his torch.
“If you must know, I've been looking for the boy. If he's dead, there's no one to speak up and tell what happened that night at the farm. He's my salvation, that boy. Whether I like him or not, whether he killed them or not, my life's in his hands.” He set the lantern on the seat of a chair and looked up at the altar. “I can't sleep. I work all day, and then I walk at night. It's taking its toll. I began hallucinating tonight. I could see the boy, but I couldn't tell where he was. I went stumbling after him, and then I realized it wasn't a child after all, only a ewe.” He faced Rutledge again. “If I can find out what happened at the farm, I could sleep again. Instead, I shut my eyes and see them lying there. I didn't even realize the boy wasn't among them. It was so-grisly. I'd never seen anything like it.”
There was a ring of truth in his voice, but Rutledge wasn't convinced.
Elcott must have read his reaction on his face. “I don't understand why you won't take Janet into custody. Is it because she's a woman, pretty and persuasive? Or do you know something I don't? Why have I been left to my own devices to defend myself? No one cares what becomes of me! Except perhaps the Belforses.” A note of self-pity had crawled into his voice. “There's no money for a fine barrister from London or even Preston. I'll hang, if you put these murders off on me.”
“And you claim you've been out looking for the boy?”
“Yes. Hell, you just missed me the other night. I'd heard from Robinson that you'd found some candles or something up in the old ruin. I went to see if there was anything else. I know this land better than you. If he'd been living rough, I thought I could find out where it is he's hiding. Track him. I told myself he'd come to me. Out of desperation if nothing else. His father hadn't searched for him, after all. I thought he might be glad of me.”
“You think Robinson could have found him, if he'd gone to the farm, called his name-made some effort to lure him out?”
“Who could say what a terrified child might do? And it's hard to blame Robinson for not trying overmuch. He's afraid he'd only be delivering his son to the police and the hangman. Better for him to be dead, quickly, painlessly, of exposure. You can tell it's eating the man alive, this waiting for answers!”
“You might just as easily have put paid to the boy yourself, if you'd come across him.”
“I tell you, he's my salvation! Why in hell would I want to kill him!” He stirred uneasily. “All right, you've found out it was me walking about in the night. God knows how. But you did. Now go home to bed and leave me alone. If you can't take me into custody, then have the decency to leave me alone!”
A s Rutledge walked back to the hotel, Hamish said, “He makes his case verra well.”
“If he's not guilty, then he has. If he is guilty, then he's built himself a very fine defense. Tomorrow morning-this morning-I'll have Greeley take him into custody.”
“Because ye're satisfied?”
“No. Because among other things, I want an excuse to search his rooms.”
E lizabeth Fraser had gone to her room when Rutledge returned to the hotel. But there was a warm bottle for his bed ready on the table.
As he closed his door, he realized how tired he was. He took off his coat and hat and set them in the armoire. For the last time?
Twenty-four hours, he told himself. It was not long enough to finish what had to be done.
As he fell into a deep sleep, Rutledge heard Hamish's voice.
You havena' found the key!