by Charles Todd
“Was she surprised to see you?”
“Oh, yes. She hadn't expected me before Boxing Day. I asked her if there was any way that both of us could be happy. I asked if she felt anything at all for Hugh. After all, he was the father of two of her children. She must have cared once! I reminded her that in the eyes of the Church she was still married to him. And all she said was, ‘You're living in a dream, Janet. It has nothing to do with Hugh, don't you see? I told you when you wouldn't come for the wedding: I don't think I'd go back to him even for the children's sake—even if anything happened to Gerald. We fell out of love before the war, I know that now. We're strangers.' And then Gerald came in, and I asked him to his face if he could ever love me.”
Her shoulders began to shake. “I went back to the church. The snow was heavier, and I left the carriage in the lee, where the horse was protected from the wind. I wanted to freeze to death there in the church, and have them find my body. I wanted my death to be on Gerald's soul. I wanted everyone to know he'd killed me.”
“It was a cruel thing to do.”
She whirled. “Not as cruel as his rejection of me! It was unbearable, and yes, at that time, I wanted him dead!”
“And so, with your revolver, you went back . . .”
“No! I was a coward. I raged and cried until I was exhausted, and then I set out for Carlisle. I got to Keswick and the horse couldn't go any farther. So I stopped in Keswick, at a small hotel I knew there. I must have come to my senses at some point. Finally, two days later, against all advice I started back to Urskdale. When the poor horse went off the road, and I couldn't move for the pain, I thought, I can't die without making amends! I must make it up with Grace somehow. And then, when I'd given up hope, you came.”
“She's concocted a verra pretty story,” Hamish objected. “But she's lied before.”
“We can find out if you really stayed in Keswick,” Rutledge warned her.
“Then you'll learn I'm telling the truth,” she flung at him. “Why in God's name would I have come back to see them all dead? Even I can't hate that much!”
If she'd stayed at Keswick, he told himself, it would explain why she hadn't seen the police barricades in the road. . . . More to the point, why the police hadn't seen her.
“And when you heard what had happened, you believed it was Paul who had killed your sister and her family.”
“Oh, yes. If you hadn't found my revolver and taken it, I think I would have shot him myself. Don't you see? She—Grace—died not knowing I'd had a change of heart! And all that's left now is to be sure whoever killed her—them—hangs!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Rutledge said into the sound of her weeping, “You are certain it was Paul Elcott you saw standing in front of the barn, talking to Gerald?”
“I'd take my oath on it!” She found a handkerchief and dried her tears angrily, fighting for control. “In a court of law!”
“Then why didn't you tell me this in the beginning? Why play games with coat buttons?”
“Because I was there. And because you're right: Paul would just as happily see me hang, instead. Otherwise he wouldn't inherit that bloody farm, which is why he killed them in the first place! I've seen Inspector Greeley looking at me, I've read what was in his mind. I'm the outsider, I have no place here, and it won't disturb his precious valley if I'm taken off to trial. I'm expendable!”
Rutledge let her go then. It was Hamish's voice he could hear as he walked out into the yard and looked up at the fell.
“You canna' believe both!”
“She's willing to swear he was there. As he'll no doubt swear she was. In the end, they may well cancel out the testimony on either side.”
“She had a revolver,” Hamish reminded him.
It was a sticking point in the evidence against Janet Ashton— and a stumbling block in the evidence against Paul Elcott.
And if Elcott was searching the heights, it could mean he hadn't found the boy the night of the murders. Indeed, had reason to suspect Josh hadn't died straightaway.
Hamish urged, “Time's short. You canna' leave the choice between them to Mickelson!”
Rutledge said aloud, “There's something about her account that doesn't feel—right.”
His intuition and his knowledge of people had always been his strengths as a policeman. What, when all else failed, he could rely on to take him through the tangle of half-truths and lies and misdirections to find the guilty party.
And now, when he needed them most, they seemed to elude him. “I shouldn't be questioning anyone. I've been relieved.”
Hamish repeated, “You canna' leave it to yon flunky from London.”
He had lived with these people for over a week and gotten nowhere. Was it possible Mickelson would see more clearly how the scant evidence stood? Or muddle it further in his driving need to please Chief Superintendent Bowles?
Mickelson was ambitious, he was quick, and if he made mistakes, he could live with them, where Rutledge couldn't.
If Rutledge didn't get there before him, it was possible that the wrong person would hang.
And time seemed to be melting away like the snow . . .
Walking back into the house, he made his way to Hugh Robinson's room and knocked lightly on the door.
“Come!”
Robinson was sitting by the window, an unopened book in his lap, staring out at Urskwater.
“I'd rather think Josh died of cold than that someone drowned him,” he said to Rutledge as he stepped into the room. “He wouldn't have suffered.”
“I don't think drowning is likely,” Rutledge told him. “If the killer found him, then the revolver was quickest. If he got away, the weather took him.”
With a sigh, Robinson turned. “I've heard you arrested Elcott.”
“Yes, and that's why I need to speak to you now. You knew Janet Ashton for a number of years. You said she did everything possible to help your family through the war.”
“Yes, it's true. I have a good deal of respect for her. It couldn't have been easy, two women struggling to keep a home going for two small children who had no idea what was happening around them.” He smoothed the crease in his trousers. “Grace told me she'd tried to explain to Josh that I'd gone missing and was very likely dead. But I'd been away for two years by that time. He didn't really understand the difference. Janet told me Josh believed I'd stopped loving him. That hurt.”
But might explain the broken cuff links?
“Do you think it could have been your sister-in-law who killed Grace and her children?”
Robinson considered him. “Why did you send Elcott to jail, if you aren't sure in your own mind?”
“It's more a matter of leaving no stone unturned.”
“Then I'll tell you what I think. Janet was probably in love with Elcott, although I've never asked her outright about that. It would explain why she moved north even though she had an excellent position in London. That's her business, and not mine. Do I believe that after all she'd done for Grace, she was hurt and angry that Grace had taken away the man she thought she loved? Yes, that's probably the case. I just can't picture her walking into that house and shooting living people.”
“And Elcott?”
“I don't know him well. Janet claims he wanted to inherit High Fell. It could be true. Would he kill to get the farm? I can't answer that.”
“What you're telling me is that you still believe your son is the—murderer.”
Robinson winced at the word. “I don't know anymore. I'm beyond thinking. If you want to know the truth, I'm beyond caring. They're dead, I can't bring them back, and I just want to walk away and never think about any of it again.” His eyes begged for understanding. “I thought the war was hellish enough. I expected to dream about it for the rest of my life. But when I close my eyes, it's not the trenches I see. Not now. Hazel's little face—Josh falling asleep, alone and unprotected in the snow. The blood in that kitchen. And I don't know how long that will go on.”
Rutledge had no answer to give him. He had not learned how to face his own nightmares.
“Will you testify at the inquest? It will be held in Keswick, once the roads are better. In another three days . . .” Mickelson would press forward on that.
“I don't know what I can tell them. I— At this stage, I'm reluctant to blacken my son's name. But if you think—” He stopped, shaking his head, uncertain.
“Let your conscience guide you. Don't let an innocent man go to the gallows if you think you can stop an injustice.”
Rutledge left the room, and his last view of Robinson's face was daunting. He was looking down at his hands, an expression of despair twisting his features into a mask of pain.
Harry Cummins found Rutledge sitting alone in the dining room, going through his policeman's notebook.
“I'm told that Paul Elcott has been taken into custody.”
“Yes.” Rutledge's answer was curt.
“I'm glad there is resolution. I just didn't expect it to be someone I knew.”
“It often is someone you know. In a murder case. There aren't that many wandering madmen to choose from.” The bitterness in Rutledge's voice was apparent.
“I'd heard that Gerald had enemies—the war.”
“London came up with a name. Bertram Taylor. The man hasn't been seen in days. Not since his escape from prison. I doubt we can consider him a real possibility.”
“Yes. Well. I've known Paul for some years. He never gave me the impression of a man ridden by greed. Envy, perhaps . . . But Miss Ashton must be right, it's what drove him to do this. I've just not come to terms with it yet.” He paused, studying the palm of his hand. “Will you and Miss Ashton and Mr. Robinson be leaving soon? Now that there's someone in custody . . .”
You could see, Hamish was saying, that he was concerned about losing his paying guests with the long winter months stretching out ahead.
“I'll be leaving tomorrow. Their situation will depend on other factors. A Mr. Mickelson will be arriving shortly. He's the man to ask.”
Cummins, no fool, looked at him sharply. “You've been replaced.”
“I will be. Yes.”
The play of emotions across the innkeeper's face was revealing. “Look, about what I said earlier. It isn't important—I hope there won't be any need to pass on my—my personal concern.”
Rutledge said, “I see no reason to cause trouble for anyone.”
Cummins smiled, relieved. But at the door, he said, “It's been difficult, sinking roots into the hard, stony soil here. For my wife's sake, I'm glad there's been nothing to shame her.”
It was a sad remark to make.
When Rutledge didn't answer, he said, “Well . . . I must look to the fires. Please let us know if there's anything we can do. For Paul.”
Maggie watched the boy feeding the dog, coaxing Sybil to eat. But the dog was too busy licking the boy's pale face.
“I don't think she cares much for toast. Put some of the drippings on it. She'll like it better.”
He got up and went to the bowl Maggie kept by the sink. Sybil, knowing what he was about to do, went with him, drooling with anticipation. Her tail wagged furiously.
How could Sybil be wrong about him? Or had he killed in a moment of madness, long since carried away by the cold and the snow?
She refused to believe what she'd heard with her own ears. But that chilling “Bang! Bang-bang! Bang—” echoed in her brain. He had been there when the killing was done. That much was certain. The searchers had all but said he could be a witness. What they hadn't said was that he'd done this terrible deed. But perhaps they hadn't known, in the first rush to find the only survivor . . . Perhaps that came later.
She cursed her bad leg. She daren't go into Urskdale village to listen to the gossip. The journey there and back would put her in bed for a week. Longer. The London policeman had come three times. Suspicious, wanting to know about the old drift road that went over the Saddle and through the narrow cut that led south. A child could never have made that journey, not in summer even. What was it about the old road that intrigued the policeman? That one man could pass there, without being seen in the village?
Closed to sheep it might be, but her father had made his way over the rocks when he was sixteen, and found the way to the coast. His father had given him a lashing with the leather belt for frightening his mother by disappearing for several days. But he'd had pocket change with him and bought a small pillow slip with Morecambe Bay embroidered on it to beg forgiveness, saying that he'd not realized it was so far to walk.
It was the only time her father had ever left the dale. He'd told her once that the sea wasn't much to look at and he'd decided that roaming didn't suit him after all. . . .
She went to the cupboard where her father had kept his belongings. The boy, idle now, watched her as she rummaged through the shelves. Frustrated, she leaned against the wall for a time until she could muster the energy to begin again.
And then she had a better idea and went out to the barn, dragging her foot after her as she searched for the clothes that had belonged to the sheep man who had died at Mons. A flat cap . . . leather, like some of the Londoners wore. Or so he'd said, jauntily clapping it on his head and laughing at her. She'd told him he looked a fool, but he had laughed again and said, “The girls in shops don't think so.” She called him cheeky, and had turned away, hiding her smile. But she had understood why the girls in the London shops found him dazzling . . .
Sentimental she was not, though he had been a wonder with the sheep, a blessing after her father's death. She took the hat out of the suitcase it had lived in for the duration of the war and carried it back to the kitchen. The boy was curious, but she didn't tell him what she was planning.
An hour with an old cloth and saddle soap made the hat look better, and she turned it this way and that, studying it.
It would do.
She took it back outside and tossed it into the snow that had drifted higher against the shed.
When the Londoner came back, she was ready for him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Elizabeth Fraser found Rutledge still in the dining room. She had brought with her a pot of tea and some sandwiches, a cup and saucer, and the sugar bowl and creamer.
“Everything looks better on a full stomach,” she said, edging her way through the door, the tray balanced on her lap. He hurried to help her, taking the tray from her and setting it on the tea cart by the hearth.
“Tea. The English panacea for everything short of the end of the world . . .”
She looked up from spooning sugar into his cup. “You're trying to be clever. Arresting Paul. Is it working?”
“Yes. No.”
“Who really killed Gerald and his family?” She handed him his cup. “Or do you even know?”
“There's something I've seen—”
“Then it's all right.”
“You don't understand.” He bit into the sandwich of roasted pork and realized that he was hungry. “What's the most common thing to be found in Urskdale?”
“Sheep,” she answered readily, and he smiled in spite of himself.
“Yes, all right, the next most common thing?”
“Rock. Of all kinds. Slate. Basalt. Volcanic.”
“And it doesn't show tracks. And even if it did, the snow would have obliterated them.”
“That's true, but—”
He took the broken heel out of his pocket. The ring of nails gleamed dully.
“So that's what cut your hand!” she exclaimed, staring at it.
“Indeed. Someone lost this, and you can't walk on rock with a damaged shoe. After a time, it takes its toll on the foot and the ankle. If you'd come all the way from the coast and had to walk out again, what would you need straight-away?”
“A shoemaker. Barring that, a new boot. But you'd have to send to Keswick for it.”
“Yet I've looked, and no one had a damaged boot.”
“And ther
e wasn't time to replace it . . .”
“Exactly.”
She tucked the tea cozy over the pot and thought about it. “If you're saying that this damaged shoe belonged to the killer, I know where he could find a new boot. If they were of a size. Gerald's.”
Rutledge smiled. “Hamish was right. He'd said something about asking the woman.”
She was perplexed. “Hamish?”
“Never mind. I'm going to be out for a while. Say nothing about the heel, will you?”
He drove to the Elcott farm. Without Paul there to paint, the house had taken on a forlorn air. As if it had been abandoned.
Rutledge walked into the kitchen by way of the yard door. The smell of paint was still heavy in the air. And without heat the room had a chill that was permeating. As he pulled off his gloves, he tried to picture it as he'd first seen it. With bloodstains marking where five people had died.
No one had stepped in the blood. No one had stopped to make certain that each of the victims in this room had died. It was the last thing a child would attempt to do. An adult would be aware of the blood on the floor and avoid it. Especially with a torn heel.
There was a rectangular wooden box by the yard door which held an assortment of shoes. Wellingtons in various sizes, heavier boots for walking across the fells. And a pair of pattens for gardening.
He went through them one by one, matching them up into pairs.
And all the pairs were there. Each had heels, worn in some cases, fairly new in others, and a few caked with mud.
Rutledge stood looking at them for a moment, as Hamish said, “He wouldna' be sich a fool as to tak' only one . . .”
“Then where is his cast-off pair? The one with the missing heel and its mate? Am I on the wrong track?”
Hamish didn't answer.
“The barn, then.”
“Aye, but what if the heel was lost as he left the dale?”
“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Rutledge carefully piled the shoes back into the wooden box and went out, shutting the door behind him.