by Charles Todd
He had been buried alive in that nightmarish dawn when Hamish was shot. He had felt the earth shift and tilt under his feet as the shell exploded, then he'd dropped far down in the pitch dark of the erupting hole as mud and bodies and debris thundered down on him. All that had saved him was the bloody tunic of one of his men, his face pressed against the still-warm cloth where a tiny pocket of air survived between the living and dead. Deaf and blind, his extremities pinned by the weight of earth, the taste of blood in his mouth, and slow suffocation setting in, he had seen the dying face of Hamish MacLeod. Eyes begging him for the coup de grâce to stop the pain, a thread of a whisper that seemed to be burned in memory. Fiona MacDonald's name . . .
By the time the frantic rescue party had dug down to him, the damage had been done.
He could no longer endure a place from which there was no escape. A shut door, a small room, a crowded train carriage, a throng of people pushing against him. But he hadn't anticipated—he hadn't been prepared for the sense of walls around him here. Blinding snow and darkness and that nearly invisible presence above his head cutting him off from retreat.
“Aye, there's only one way in,” Hamish reminded him mercilessly. “Ye saw the map for yourself.”
The urge to turn around, to go away while he could, swept over him.
Rutledge swore. He didn't need Hamish to remind him that he was a serving policeman. That there was duty to be done. God knew he'd done it in France. At what cost to himself and to others . . .
“I can't change it,” he said aloud. “I can't build new roads.” Swallowing hard against the panic, he told himself, Tomorrow when the sun is out, it will be different. Please God, I can carry on until then—
And then the rough roadbed demanded all his attention, wiping out every other thought.
He drove on, tense, watchful.
The fingerpost offering directions at the next turning had been shifted by the wind, leaning at an odd angle and pointing skyward. But instinct told him he'd found the right place. The track rose and fell with the land, forged by centuries of traffic: hooves of countless flocks, cart wheels, shod feet. He prayed the sheep had been penned up before the storm. Or were hunkered down among the rocks where they could find shelter, out of the cruel wind. They were allowed to roam freely, sometimes clogging the roads, and tonight they would be nearly invisible until he had driven straight into their midst. Even a single animal on these icy tracks could spell disaster for a motorcar.
Herdwicks were a sturdy breed, well suited to the fells, and could survive without fodder all winter, scratching for their own sustenance. Since the time of Edward I, a thriving weaving business had made the North famous. The coarse, wiry fleece yielded a variety of cloth.
There was nothing in his headlamps but the snow-rutted road, the occasional low-lying hump of a stone farmhouse hugging a curve, or the silhouette of an upright box of a house sitting on the slope above. And always trees that somehow seemed determined to thrive in spite of the harshness of Nature.
Ordinarily Rutledge liked the darkness, the isolation, the silence. But now he was fighting fatigue. And keeping himself alert with the image of a lost child huddled in the lee of a wall or crouched in a shallow crevice, terrified and alone.
Urskdale couldn't be much farther. . . .
The road narrowed again just as a heavier snow squall was passing over, obscuring everything.
Rutledge bit back his exasperation, concentrating on maintaining what speed he could, only to find himself defeated by the weather. Already the verge was hardly visible, and in the darkness to his right, there was a black void indicating a long drop and a nasty slide into grief.
He took his foot from the pedal, letting the motor slow his speed as he reached a curve, his eyes fixed on the bright swath of his headlamps. Then his wheels began to lose traction and he fought to accomodate the skid, finally bringing the heavy motorcar back to the crown of the road.
Hamish, behind him, scolded sharply, “It willna' help the lad, if you wreck the motorcar and kill yoursel'. It's no' the time to be sae foolish! There's no' a house in sight.”
There hadn't been for some time.
His shoulders ached now, and his face burned from the force of the wind sweeping through the motorcar. His wits were slower, his reactions not as fast. The engine's output of heat, hardly more than a breath of warmth, was losing the battle—his accelerator foot was already growing numb. And beneath it all, the panic of claustrophobia was still there, like a weight.
As the cold penetrated even the heavy clothing he was wearing, he braked, stopping in the middle of the road to drink more of his dwindling store of tea.
“'Ware!” A sharp hiss of warning from Hamish just as he was reaching for the Thermos.
A little beyond the reach of his headlamps, Rutledge could just make out the telltale marks where a carriage wheel had spun across the road in front of him and veered straight for the drop that lay to his right. Snow had nearly filled in the tracks—he couldn't judge how long they'd been there or where they were heading. Or whether the person holding the reins had recovered in time and driven on, as he himself had just done.
It would have been impossible to see the marks, if he hadn't stopped—
“We havena' met anyone since we left Keswick,” Hamish reminded him.
“He may be ahead of us . . . if he got himself righted again.”
Rutledge let in the clutch, slowly moving forward a dozen feet, and now could see what appeared to be a jumble of rocks some distance down the slope. Or, no, not rocks! A horse lying quietly in its traces, a good twenty yards below the road's edge. It had thrashed a wide area into a muddy mix of black and white, half obscuring itself as well.
Where there were traces, there must also be a carriage—
Again he pulled carefully to a stop, leaving the engine running and setting the brake.
Feet and legs stiff with cold, he got out slowly, holding on to the motorcar's frame as he tested his footing. The icy crust was slick, but the weight of his body broke through to firmer ground. No longer blinded by the brightness of the headlamps, he could pick out a shadowy tangle of reins and harness and broken shafts. Taking his torch from the pocket of his greatcoat, he shone the light down the sharp incline, sweeping the snow.
A small carriage, its shape already distorted by a shroud of white, was just visible. It lay like an irregular boulder, only its sharper lines betraying the fact that it had been man-made.
Using great care, Rutledge scrambled down to the horse, and laid a gloved hand on its hide. Dead. Still warm . . . but already cooling.
He slipped and nearly lost his footing as he reached the overturned carriage and shone the torch beyond its upturned side.
It was then he saw the woman's form, curled into a knot on the ground, her back pressed against the seat.
She responded so lethargically to the glare of his torch that he thought at first she must be dying, then as she stirred, he realized she was alive but very likely badly injured.
When she tried to turn her head to look up at him, he could hear a soft mew, of pain and pleading.
He moved around the footboard of the carriage, careful not to disturb her body, and came to kneel beside her.
“Can you tell me where you hurt?”
She lifted a white face to him, her eyes so dark they seemed sunken in the sockets. “I—” She was shivering violently and could hardly speak, her teeth clicking together involuntarily. “Ribs,” she said, after a moment, “I th-think—ribs. But my f-feet are numb—”
She'd used the blanket to wrap herself, and the seat of the carriage offered some protection from the wind, but she was very, very cold, rigid with it.
Rutledge reached down to touch the hand pressed to her side, and it felt icy through his glove. The woman shook her head, as if afraid he was going to lift her.
“I must get you out of here. Do you understand me? If you stay where you are, you won't live through the night!”
; “Please—no—!”
With the snow deep enough and treacherous enough to make carrying her nearly impossible, he said, “There's nothing for miles—no house, no barn. There's no help.” He could feel the wind sucking at his breath, as it had sucked at her will.
“No—I must—I must—” She shook her head again, as if her mind refused to work clearly and tell her what it was she must do.
Making certain, he said, “Were you alone? In the carriage? No one has tried to go for help?”
“Yes—alone.”
“I'm going to lift you to your feet. I'll be as careful as I can. And then you must walk, with my support. I can't carry you. But I have a motorcar on the road—”
After a moment she nodded. With enormous effort she tried to get her feet under her, and finally, with her hands on his shoulders as he knelt to brace her limbs, she was able to stand. He was afraid to bring any force to bear on her arms or shoulders because of her ribs, and instead took her hands. But it wasn't enough to help her climb. Her feet stumbled in the snow as he pulled her upward, and she cried out again from the pain even that induced.
The road might as well be on the moon, he thought, casting a despairing glance in the direction of his headlamps. With nothing and no one to help them.
Hamish, carrying on a running argument in his mind, urged him to hurry.
In the end, he had to wrap his arms around the woman and almost walk her like a child leaning on its father's legs and body, her shoes on the toes of his boots. It was like dealing with a puppet, no will of its own, yet its very awkwardness seeming to defy the puppet master at every step. The effort exhausted both of them.
She bit her lip until the blood flowed, a dark line running down her chin, and fought not to cry out. But her legs were stiff with cold, and it was almost an act of will on both their parts to climb to the road again.
Once he got her there, in the light from the headlamps, he released her for a moment to see if she could stand on her own. She nearly crumpled, and then managed to hold herself erect, swaying. He went to the motorcar, found the Thermos of tea, and brought her a steaming cup. And had to hold it to her lips because her hands trembled too badly to keep it there.
She took the first sip as if it had burned her, jerking her head away, even though the tea was far from scalding. Then she managed to swallow a little. And the sweet liquid ran through her with life-giving warmth. Not enough to stop her from shaking, but enough to bring her back to her senses. And her pain.
He took the empty cup from her, replaced it on the Thermos, and set it back in the floor of the car under his feet. Fumbling in the rear, without looking in the direction where Hamish always seemed to be sitting, he could feel the fringe of his rug, and he set that in his seat as well.
Going back for the woman, he asked, “Can you walk as far as the car?”
But she was looking back down into the darkness. “My horse—we must do something—I see him there—”
“I'm afraid the horse is dead.”
“Oh—a pity—” She went with him docilely then, and with his help was able to lift herself into the high seat. Her own rug was damp with snow, but he left it around her, and added his to cover her.
Hamish said, “She's lost more warmth than she can make.”
It was true. Rutledge gave her a little more of the tea, and finally, with great difficulty, got her into his arms, and himself into the passenger's seat.
She lay against his chest quivering, and he could see the tears of pain running down her face.
“I must get you somewhere with a fire. I don't know how far that will be. But first, we've got to make some headway in warming you up.”
It took another ten minutes to stop the most violent shivers, and then she seemed to fall asleep against him. He woke her, urging her to fight the cold.
More tea, and then he set her back where she belonged, and took off the brake.
“We can't wait any longer. Talk to me,” he commanded. “I don't care what you say, nonsense if you like. Verse. Songs. But talk. Concentrate on that, not the pain.”
“I never knew it could hurt so to breathe,” she said finally. “I can only—”
“Yes, I understand. And that's all right. Go on,” he said again.
“I can't feel my feet—”
“They'll be fine, as soon as we find help. Do you know this part of the country? Is there a farmhouse near here?”
“I—I can't remember—”
He took one hand from the wheel and gripped hers where they were clenched under the blanket. They were still cold, her leather gloves wet through.
“Take off your gloves, and if you can bear it, tuck your hands under your arms . . .”
She did as she was told, cradling her body. “That helps—” she told him. “Except for my p-poor feet.” She had twisted herself in the seat to shut the wind out of her face and ease her ribs. He couldn't see her features except as a blur against the dark rug.
“Have you come far? It's foul weather to be on the road!”
“I—I drove down from Car-Carlisle—”
He eventually came upon a lane with wind-drifted snow blocking it, and got out to plow his way up the hill to the porch of a house, his shoes thickly encrusted. Although he knocked with his fist, no one came to the door, and there were no lamps lit. He stepped back, and could see no smoke in the chimney.
“Empty as a drunkard's purse,” Hamish grumbled as Rutledge started back down the drive.
“No one at home,” he told his passenger as he climbed once more behind the wheel. “We'll find another soon enough.” And hoped that he was right.
CHAPTER FIVE
The road rose over a hill and then dipped again. Off to his left Rutledge could see a turning with a fingerpost, and a hundred yards beyond that, the rough shape of a house. The wind carried the heavy scent of woodsmoke to him, and he said cheerfully, pointing, “Over there. You'll be by a fire soon!”
The lane came up so quickly he nearly missed it—no more than a long rutted bit of track that twisted up to the house and around to the yard.
He took it carefully, testing the snow depth with his wheels. But the tires were able to find purchase, and he went up the slight rise with less difficulty than he'd anticipated, the powerful motor coming to his aid.
A dog began to bark with savage ferocity as Rutledge approached the yard behind the house. It was not on a chain and ran bounding beside the motorcar, lips drawn back in a snarl. Even after he'd come to a full stop, it put its forelegs on the motorcar and dared him to step down.
“Set your foot within range, and he'll clamp his teeth on it,” Hamish warned.
Rutledge blew the horn. Once and then again.
A lamp flared in an upstairs window. The sash went up and a gray head looked out.
“Who are you? What the hell do you want, waking the family like that?”
“Call off your dog and come down. I'm a policeman, and I have a woman here. There's been an accident. She needs help and she needs it quickly.”
“You're no policeman I'm familiar with!”
“Inspector Rutledge, from London. I've come north at the request of the Chief Constable to assist Inspector Greeley in Urskdale.”
“And I could call myself the King of Siam, if I was of a mind to. I'm not opening my door this night to any man without proper authority.”
The dog was growling deep in its throat, reflecting his master's truculence.
Rutledge shifted the motorcar into reverse. “Please yourself. Inspector Greeley will be expecting you at Urskdale gaol tomorrow at noon.” It was the voice of command. “The charge will be obstructing a police officer in the course of his duties.” The vehicle began to move.
“Stay where you are!” Cursing, the man withdrew his head and after several minutes, he appeared again at the yard door. He was in no hurry, weighing the situation with the hardheaded prudence of the North. Rutledge waited impatiently but said nothing, nearly certain that there was a s
hotgun somewhere within easy reach.
“Here, Bieder,” the farmer at last called to the dog, and with a final challenging glance at Rutledge, the animal turned obediently to his voice.
Pulling on a pair of Wellingtons, the man came out into the yard, a lantern in his hand. Holding it high, he stared from Rutledge to the pale face of his passenger.
“An accident, you say?” he demanded suspiciously. “Miss?”
“My—my—carriage—went off—the road,” the woman managed, her teeth chattering as she raised her head out of the nest of blankets. In the lantern light the blood on her lip was a dark and ominous smudge. “Please—I don't think I can bear the cold much longer. L-Let me sit by your fire for ten minutes, and we'll b-be on our way.”
“Ah.” He lowered the lantern and said to Rutledge, “Can she walk, then?”
“Her ribs are bruised—possibly cracked. Her feet are numb.”
Rutledge got out, walked around the bonnet, and came to the passenger door. Opening it, he said gently, “It will hurt, to help you out. Can you manage?”
A ghost of a smile appeared on the strained face. “If there's a fire—”
The farmer, a burly man, said, “Come along, lass. I'd lift you myself but for the ribs, now. Between us, we'll have you in the kitchen in the blink of an eye. My wife already has the kettle on!” His accent was heavy, the words gruff, but his intentions were kind.
They got her down, and between them on their crossed wrists, to the house, the dog sniffing at their heels. A heavyset woman with a red face, cheeks permanently windburned, was waiting for them in the kitchen, her hands tight together.
As they came through the door, her expression softened. She said, “My sweet Lord! Oh, the poor lass! Bring her here, by the stove!” Over the injured woman's head she said to Rutledge, “What's happened to her?” He could see the shadow of alarm in her eyes, as if the older woman expected him to say his companion had been attacked by a murderer.