A Cold Treachery

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge, standing by the dining room windows, wasn't aware that he was being watched. His eyes were on the dark line of Urskwater.

  Finally Elizabeth Fraser's voice broke into the tangle of his thoughts. “You're tired. How do you expect to see clearly when you drive yourself like this?”

  He turned, staring at her. “You know the right things to say, don't you?” he asked with surprise. Old Bowels, his superior in London, would have wasted no time in pointing out Rutledge's failure. Hamish knew his shortcomings. For years he'd grown used to judging himself harshly as well.

  Elizabeth Fraser smiled faintly. “It's common sense, that's all. And to be truthful, because you're the stranger, you may well see us for what we are, no matter how hard we try to hide ourselves behind masks. That's what Inspector Greeley can't do, don't you see? He's lived here too long to step aside. You're to be his scapegoat, and after you've gone he'll blame you and Scotland Yard for any resentment.”

  It was an astute comment.

  “I'm used to that,” Rutledge answered, making an effort to smile.

  And yet, as Hamish was reminding him, their murderer had to be one of a handful of possibilities. Josh Robinson. Janet Ashton. Paul Elcott. Even if the murder weapon never turned up, even if the motive for murder proved to be elusive, there would be something, somewhere, to point him towards the killer.

  Was it because he'd saved Janet Ashton's life that he didn't want it to be her? What was it the Arabs of the desert believed? Save a person's life and that person was indebted forever. He belonged to his savior as surely as if he were enslaved. Not in the physical sense of enslaved, but in the emotional ties that lay between two people.

  But he didn't want Janet Ashton to belong to him.

  Perhaps, as Hamish was telling him, he just wanted to believe that her life had been worth saving. For better things than the hangman.

  Restless, Rutledge retrieved his damp coat and hat and went to walk down the streets of Urskdale. The rain had stopped, but he tugged his coat collar up against the raw wind that continued to blow down from the fells, bringing the bite of snow with it.

  The houses huddled along the road with a grim determination, the stone they were built of hardly distinguishable from the saddle looming behind them. Here and there a plum or apple tree grew in the gardens behind the homes, but for the most part no trees broke the stark line of the roofs. There was a bleak beauty here, but in winter, with snow piled high against stone walls and slate tiles, there weren't many people on the streets, and those who were out seemed to hurry, heads down, nodding briefly to others as they passed.

  Many of the shops had been boarded up, closed while the storm raged and left as they were while the men were out searching the fells. It was, Rutledge found himself thinking, hard to keep shelves stocked when goods lorries and wagons couldn't get through. On the other hand, short of the drive to Keswick, these had little competition.

  He couldn't help but remember what Janet Ashton had told him about her sister, that Grace had grown up in very different surroundings. How happy had she been here in Urskdale? Had the isolation and the loneliness made her regret her choice?

  Hamish reminded him that she'd had the opportunity to leave when her first husband returned from the dead.

  But she was pregnant again by that time. With twins . . .

  Beyond the church, where the road curved to run along the top of the lake, he could see the bare earth where the bodies of the Elcotts had been buried.

  You would think, Rutledge told himself, that in such a tiny community, everyone would have known everyone else's business, and gossip might have pointed to some troublesome questions about the Elcott family—their enemies—their problems.

  Hamish answered him. “There hasna' been time for gossip. No' wi' the storm and then the business of finding the laddie.”

  Which was true. But even when the gossip began, he would be the last to hear it.

  Dr. Jarvis came out of a house door and seemed startled to find Rutledge in his path.

  “Has there been news?” the doctor asked quickly. “Are you looking for me?”

  “I wasn't,” Rutledge answered pleasantly, “but I'd like to speak to you now that we've met.”

  “It's as cold as hell out here,” Jarvis said, “but my surgery is just over there. I expect I've missed my tea, but I have some medicinal sherry that's warming.”

  He led Rutledge to a house that was larger than most, with a small surgery attached in what had once been the carriageway to the yard. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and lit a lamp. Rutledge looked around with interest. A tiny waiting room and two doors on the inner wall, one to the examining room and the other to an office where comfort appeared to matter more than professional status. There were no windows, as the office abutted the house, but large paintings on the wall added brightness.

  Catching Rutledge's eye on them, Jarvis said, “We had a local artist in my wife's father's day. More energetic than accurate, but they are appreciated by my patients.”

  The scenes were rustic renderings of the valley, views that added the garish colors of sunset or sunrise to a view from The Claws, with a walker poised on the ledge to look down at the lake. Another was of The Knob in a storm; a third showed a line of walkers traversing The Long Back. A smaller painting was of a deep and narrow defile where sheep were being herded by dusty men. The artist had caught the light and shadow to better effect than he had the sunset.

  “What's this?” Rutledge gestured to the work as Jarvis handed him a sherry.

  “One of the old drover roads out of the valley. Drift roads they're called. Closed by a rock slide two or three generations ago. I can tell you that's a fanciful view. Looks more like Cheddar Gorge than the reality. What did you wish to see me about? Not my paintings, I'll be bound!”

  Rutledge said, taking the chair across the desk from him, “You delivered Mrs. Elcott's twins.”

  “Yes, that's true—”

  “What was her mood through the pregnancy? Was she happy, looking forward to a larger family? And the children, Josh and his sister, how did they see this change in their lives?”

  Jarvis thought for a moment. “Grace was happy enough, looking forward to giving her husband children of his own. Hazel was excited to have a sister. She was a sweet child, very motherly, helping prepare the cribs after we discovered Grace was carrying twins. Gerald was solicitous, worried about his wife, fussing over her.”

  “And Josh?”

  “Josh was older—uncertain, I think, whether he would lose his mother's attention. She'd leaned on him, until Gerald came along. The boy was only just learning to share her. Now there were to be other children. I think it worried him. He asked me every time I came out to the farm if his mother was going to be all right.”

  “Jealous, was he?”

  Jarvis stared at him. “Just where are you going with such questions?”

  “The schoolmaster, Blackwell, believed Josh was unhappy and would gladly have gone to London to live with his natural father. But his mother wasn't willing to let him go, young as he was.”

  Reluctantly Jarvis replied, “I can't answer that directly. I can tell you two things. It was difficult for Josh, when his father returned out of the blue. He scarcely knew this stranger who'd been dropped back into his life. It was confusing for him emotionally. Hazel of course had only the faintest memories of Robinson, and seemed most comfortable with him. But Grace herself was troubled by her dilemma, which must have baffled her son. It's possible he didn't understand why, with his father home again, they shouldn't be a family now. I don't know. I'm speculating. I will tell you this. It was Gerald who was the rock from the beginning. Willing to let her choose.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “Young Josh ran away from home the week before his mother delivered. I'd been summoned because she was experiencing false labor. With twins, it was important that I should be there. After I'd finished my examination, Hazel told me that Josh was miss
ing, had been for more than a day. Gerald had gone searching for him, but I was the one who found him. The same place, in fact, that Paul used to hide when he was a boy. It was a ruined sheep pen up by Fox Scar and the rocks had tumbled in such a way as to form a shallow cave. Josh was there sulking.”

  So the boy knew enough about his surroundings to hide from his stepfather. “Did he explain himself to you?”

  “I didn't give him a chance. He was cold and miserable when I found him. I sat on the stone wall and told him that he'd worried his poor mother sick and she mustn't be upset like that, so close to her time, that it was dangerous. I told him I wanted to hear no more of such nonsense or I'd write to his father in London and tell him how unhelpful Josh was being. The boy promised to behave himself, and I took him down to his mother.”

  “And that was the end of it?”

  Jarvis sighed. “The night Grace delivered, I came to the farm just after dinner to attend her. Josh was ill; he'd eaten something that disagreed with him. Retching and vomiting outside like a sick dog. He asked me something as I gave him medication for it. He said, ‘Will I die?' and I told him roundly he would not.”

  “Was he relieved?” Rutledge asked. “To hear that he would survive?”

  “I didn't have time to waste on Josh. The twins were large and I feared a breech birth. I was busy trying to save them.”

  Hamish said, “The boy was crying for help—”

  “So he resented the arrival of the twins, you think?”

  “Resented? I would've said he feared them, if that didn't seem so far-fetched. And yet after they were born, he was fiercely protective of them. As if to make up for any earlier hostility.”

  “How did Gerald Elcott treat Josh after the twins were born? Was the boy made to feel a part of this new family?”

  “I never saw any difference in their relationship. Gerald told me once that he'd liked the boy from the start and was willing to be patient. It might have worked out quite well. But then the natural father turned up, after everyone had thought him dead. It must have been impossible for young Josh to decide exactly where his allegiance lay.” Jarvis finished his sherry and offered Rutledge a second, but Rutledge shook his head.

  “In my experience,” the doctor said, “boys that age are nearly inarticulate. They can hurt inside and hide it very well. Even if they want to confide in someone, they often don't know where to find the words.”

  He took Rutledge's empty glass and set it on the tray by the bookcase. “I don't know what's behind these questions. They've disturbed me. I shan't rest until we get to the bottom of this wretched business!”

  Janet Ashton was at the kitchen table, staring moodily out the window at the snow gleaming in the last of the light. Rutledge walked into the room before he saw her there, for the lamps hadn't been lit.

  There was no unobtrusive way to back out. And so he came in and sat across from her. After a moment he asked if she were feeling better, and she nodded absently, as if her injuries weren't important compared to whatever was on her mind.

  “Tell me about Josh,” he said, then.

  She turned to look at him, scorn in her face.

  “No, don't tell me about Paul Elcott. And I asked you to tell me about the child—not defend him,” Rutledge said equably.

  She flushed. “So you did. An ordinary boy. Troublesome at times, and wild at others.”

  “How did he get along with his stepfather?”

  “Well enough. Josh wasn't bred to sheep farming. It's cold and wet and dirty work. The lanolin in the sheeps' wool irritated his hands. Made them blister and crack. But he understood that sheep put the food on his table, and he tried to do what he could to help his stepfather. They seemed to respect each other, after a fashion.”

  “And after the twins were born?”

  “He wasn't excited about the twins, before they arrived. Grace wrote to say that he was restless and unhappy, and she put it down to the pregnancy. She'd had a difficult one this time—I expect that bothered the boy. She was very sick in the morning for five months, and then after that, her feet and hands were bloated. But the delivery went smoothly enough, and she recovered quickly, amazingly so. She would laugh and say, ‘I was eating for three, Janet, it was horrid! I felt like a house!'”

  “Tell me about Elcott. What did you know about him?”

  She got up to stand at the window, her back to him. “Actually I introduced Gerald to Grace. I knew him before she did.” The words were reluctant, as if the admission was painful.

  “Where did you know him?”

  “I lived just down the street from Grace, in Ellingham. Hampshire. I went to London—it was the first year of the war—for six months, trying to help my firm overcome the shortage of men. I was a typist, and I became a clerk and then actually drove the delivery lorry for a time. When Grace wrote that Hugh had been killed, I went back to Ellingham. It was Gerald who gave me a lift. He was on his way to see a friend in hospital there. I rather liked him, and he came to see me a number of times before he was sent back to the Front. It was chance that brought him together with Grace. After he was wounded, and had gone through surgery in London, they sent him to Ellingham, of all places, to convalesce. As it happened, I was too busy to go down to visit him. I was trying to earn a living for my sister and myself. When I did get there, all Gerald could talk about was Grace. I realized he'd fallen in love with her. I told him it wouldn't do, she was only recently widowed, six or seven months before. But he wasn't listening—”

  She turned and smiled at Rutledge. “I'd fallen in love with Gerald, worst luck. And it wasn't me he loved. I was the wrong sister . . .”

  When he said nothing, she added, “I had a reason to kill Grace, if you like. Jealousy. But I would never have harmed Gerald. He was no good to me dead!”

  At ten o'clock that night Rutledge's motorcar returned from Keswick.

  Constable Ward, getting down stiffly, said, “I've only half what you wanted. Sergeant Gibson will be sending on the rest in a day or two.”

  He held out a sealed envelope. Rutledge opened it as he walked back into the parlor. In the lamplight he read the contents, refolded the sheet of paper, and stood there deep in thought.

  Constable Ward broke the silence. “If you don't need me—”

  “Yes,” Rutledge said, turning, “it's fine. Go home. I'll have a reply in the morning.”

  When the constable had gone, Rutledge read the sheet of paper again.

  One paragraph stood out.

  I spoke with Gerald Elcott's commanding officer. He tells me Elcott was the chief witness against a private soldier who was found guilty of shooting and severely wounding his sergeant under cover of a German attack. Elcott's view was that the shooting was deliberate, because the sergeant had had words with Private Bertram Taylor some hours before over a woman. After sentencing, Private Taylor called Elcott a liar and threatened him. That was three years ago. A fortnight ago, Taylor was being transferred to hospital for what appeared to be a heart seizure. He managed to overpower his guard and escape. He hasn't been seen since. No one thought it necessary to warn Lieutenant Elcott . . .

  A brief description of the escaped prisoner followed.

  “It may be,” Hamish said in the back of Rutledge's mind, “that Inspector Greeley has finally got his stranger . . .”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  In the night Maggie heard the boy crying.

  She got out of bed, her feet chilled by the cold floor, and walked quietly to the door of his room.

  The crying stopped.

  She walked on, got herself a glass of water, and let Sybil out into the dark yard. The dog growled deep in her throat. But it was a fox trotting by, his long brush visible in the moonlight. She could hear the sheep in the pen stirring, but they were more than a match for a fox. It was a wolf that worried Maggie, not four-legged but two. Hunting her lamb.

  The ax stood by the door, ready to hand.

  But Sybil came back soon after that, and Maggi
e closed and barred the door.

  When she crawled back into her cold bed, she listened for a moment. The room next to hers was quiet. Either he'd cried himself to sleep or he had heard her stirring and buried his head in the bedclothes.

  After about five minutes, she heard Sybil scratch lightly on the door of the boy's room. The door opened quietly, and she heard the click of Sybil's nails as she crossed the room, and then nothing as the dog jumped up on the bed that had been Maggie's father's.

  Satisfied, she pulled her blankets higher and settled herself for sleep.

  When Rutledge brought him London's information the following morning, Inspector Greeley ordered copies made of the description given of Private Taylor, and asked Sergeant Miller to make certain these were distributed to everyone in Urskdale.

  “I'll see to it,” he added, “that word also reaches the farms. But they were questioned about strangers earlier. None was reported. A needle in a haystack, finding any trace of Taylor. If he had any sense, he's made for the London stews where he can lose himself.”

  Rutledge recalled what Mrs. Peterson had said, at South Farm: If he was bent on mischief, he wasn't likely to call attention to himself, was he?

  “It's an off chance,” Rutledge agreed.

  “Still, I like Taylor a damned sight better than the suspects we have in hand. It makes no sense to me that that child killed his family. It makes no sense that Paul should have done it. He's not a man with backbone, if you follow me. I don't know what to think about Miss Ashton; she's a dark horse. But it's hard to imagine a woman shooting children. What else did your sergeant come up with?”

  “Janet Ashton gave up a very good position in the City to move to Carlisle. Her reason for leaving was her sister's ill health.”

  “I'd never heard that Grace Elcott was ill! Other than the pregnancy, that is. Go on.”

  “There's very little information about Hugh Robinson. He was a prisoner of war, came home to be treated for a stubborn infection in his back, and when he was dismissed, he took up his old position as a bookkeeper at a firm in Hampshire.”