A Cold Treachery

by Charles Todd

  “Early storms are often the nastiest,” Rutledge agreed. “I wonder if the killer counted on that to cover his tracks—or if it was a matter of luck.” His limbs were on fire as circulation returned to them. The room felt stifling now, and he sat down on the far side of the table from the stove. Forcing his tired mind to concentrate, he said, “London wasn't able to give me the usual briefing. I was in Preston when they reached me. Did you know this family—the Elcotts?” He ought to be in his bed—but he wasn't sure he could stand up again.

  “Not all that well.” She smiled, her face lighting with it. “Up here, there isn't what you'd describe in London as an active social calendar. We see each other at market or at baptisms and weddings, often enough at funerals. But I've met them. A very nice family. Gerald has”—she stopped and bit her lip—“had a sizeable sheep farm he'd inherited from his father.”

  She set the pot of tea beside Rutledge and then brought him a fresh cup. He had noticed that everything was to hand, rather than on high shelves. It appeared the kitchen had been designed for her. “Go on,” he urged.

  “Gerald ran the sheep himself—except during the war years, when his brother, Paul, managed the farm for him. Then Gerald received a medical discharge and came home to take it up again. But while he was in hospital near London, he met Grace Robinson, a widow with two small children—the missing boy and a little girl. They fell in love and were married. Only, as it turned out, she wasn't a widow. Her husband had survived in a German camp, and came home to find his family gone.”

  “And no way to trace them,” Rutledge observed, “since she had remarried.”

  “Exactly so. It was the Army's fault, not his or Grace's. His name had been confused with another man's. Robinson is common enough. I expect it wasn't really easy, at the Front, to keep up with who was captured or wounded, and who had died.”

  Rutledge remembered the thousands of dead, Hamish among them. Stacked like logs, rank with the stench of blood and rotting flesh. And others blown to bits, listed simply as “missing.” “I expect it wasn't,” he answered simply.

  She sighed. “At any rate, they were married, Gerald and Grace, with twins on the way by the war's end. And then Robinson reappeared out of the blue. It was a shock for Grace. She hadn't seen her husband since Christmas of 1914, and even the boy, Josh, hardly remembered him. And yet—there he was.”

  “A dilemma of major proportions,” Rutledge agreed. “How was it resolved?” He took one of the cakes and bit into it. Rich with egg and sugar and butter, it reminded him of boyhood treats, not the austere cooking of wartime and postwar, when many commodities were hard to come by.

  “Amicably, surprisingly enough. I expect a divorce was quietly arranged, because Gerald and Grace were as quietly remarried before the birth of the twins. Robinson gave his blessing, or so I was told. The war had changed him, he said, and he didn't know how to begin again. It was rather sad.”

  This wasn't the first marriage that had come apart with the long separation of the war. Some couples made do with what they had, especially when there were children, and others lived in silent wretchedness, enduring what they couldn't afford to change, socially or financially.

  Hamish said, “It's as well ye didna' marry your Jean. But I'd ha' given much to ha' wed Fiona.”

  It was a frequent source of contention between the two men—how shallow Jean's love had been, while Fiona had remained faithful to Hamish, even after his death. Rutledge still envied Hamish that depth of love.

  Hurrying past that hurdle, too tired to argue with the voice in his head, Rutledge said, “Where does this Robinson live now?”

  “Near London. Poor man, someone will have to break the news to him. I'm glad it isn't my lot.”

  “And Urskdale? Did the village take these events in stride?”

  Miss Fraser replied thoughtfully. “It was a nine days' wonder, of course. The whole affair. Gossip flew like smoke. And afterward everyone settled down again into the old way of thinking. Grace is—was—a lovely person, and we liked her well enough as herself.”

  Her words ran together and then faded. Rutledge set his cup down with great care, aware that he was losing his battle with sleep.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that if I don't see my bed very soon, you'll have to step over me to prepare breakfast.”

  He had meant it lightly, but was all at once reminded that Miss Fraser sat in a wheeled chair and was not likely to step over anyone.

  Silently swearing at himself, he said abruptly, “I'm sorry—”

  She smiled again. “Don't be. I'd rather everyone forgot that I don't walk. Pity is far worse than simple acceptance.”

  He believed her. He wanted no pity for his shell shock. Nor reminders that he had failed himself and his men. Dr. Fleming had been right—it was better to fight through it on his own, whatever the toll.

  Standing, he reached clumsily for his coat and gloves, and watched his hat roll across the floor like an oddly shaped football. Retrieving it, he said, “If you'll tell me where I shall be sleeping—I wouldn't want to walk in on Mrs. Cummins.”

  “Go down the passage again, and through the second door on your right. It leads to rooms that are kept ready for guests. Yours is at the end. A hot water bottle is over there by the hearth, wrapped in a towel,” she added, pointing. “I'd recommend it. The house can be quite cold in the early morning. I'll see that you have warm water for shaving—”

  “I can fetch it myself, if you leave the kettle on the stove. You must be as tired as I am, watching for my arrival.”

  “Fair enough. Well, then, good night, Inspector. I hope tomorrow brings news that Josh is safe. If anyone comes, I'll wake you at once.”

  “Good night. And thank you.”

  His luggage was in the car and he retrieved that before making his way to his room. It was, thankfully, commodious, and his windows looked out on the distant lake. But Miss Fraser was right, it felt like ice, and the sheets were cold enough for Greenlanders, he thought when he finally got into bed. The hot water bottle, a welcome bit of warmth, made it possible to slip into quiet sleep, lulled by the wind off the fells brushing the corners of the house.

  Dreams came after first light, the candle guttered and the room still dark with the long winter nights. Rutledge awoke with a start, the image of a frozen child lying deep in the snow still with him when he opened his eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There was still no news in the morning.

  Inspector Greeley sent a man to the hotel; he arrived just as Rutledge had come down to the kitchen. Shaking snow off his shoes and his coat, he strode through the yard door. His nose was cherry red, and he nodded as he walked to the stove and held out his hands to the warmth.

  “God, it's miserable out there,” he said without preamble. “And I've lived here all my life. I won't shake hands, sir—the fingers will surely fall off. Constable Ward. Mr. Greeley sends his apologies for not coming in person and asked me to report that there's been no change. And with all respect, sir, he'd as soon not have you searching on your own and getting lost.”

  “I can appreciate that,” Rutledge answered. “But I've walked here from time to time—”

  “It isn't the same in winter, sir, when you can't see the landmarks.” The constable was a thickset man with graying hair and a square face. “Instead, Mr. Greeley has arranged for all the search parties to report to you here. He doesn't want them trampling the yard at the Elcott farm, and this hotel is as near middle ground as you can find. And a good deal more comfortable than the station.”

  “Any sign of the boy? Any idea of the direction he may have taken?”

  “Sadly, no, sir.” Ward glanced around the room, as if worried about being overheard. “He can't have survived. Someone will find what's left of him, come the spring.”

  “And the killer? Any news there?”

  Ward shifted, as if the admission made him uncomfortable. “We're no closer to him than we were yesterday.”

 
“Have you a map? I need a better sense of where I am.”

  “Yes, sir, a fairly good one as it happens. All the farms are shown, and the elevation, with the names of landmarks. Else, the map sometimes lies—tracks are not always where they're marked. You mustn't count on them.”

  He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a folded square of paper, spreading it out on the kitchen table and weighting it with the salt and pepper, the sugar bowl, and the empty cream pitcher.

  “We're here,” he said, one thick finger pointing to the line of houses along the road. “And this is the Elcott farm.” He moved his hand to indicate an isolated square some miles away. “As the crow flies, it isn't all that far. But see, the terrain has to be taken into account. There's no straight line anywhere. Even when the road curves around the lake, it's still the shorter route.”

  Rutledge, standing, leaned over the map shoulder to shoulder with Ward. He traced the unmade road he'd followed coming in, noting how it skirted the head of the lake and then came straight into the village, passing through to end somewhere near the bottom of Urskwater, blocked by the rising shoulder to the south that was notched at the top. Doublehead was neatly printed above it.

  A vast expanse in which to search for one small boy. Or a murderer. But in such a storm, how far could either have got?

  As in Wasdale, the road didn't circle the lake here. Urskwater was long and narrow, running east and west but on a tilt that put the head of the lake to the northeast, pointing towards Skiddaw, the highest peak in England. There appeared to be marshes along the shore opposite Urskdale, and craggy cliffs rose at the head, soaring like an eagle's lair. They were marked The Claws.

  “How do you get to the other side of Urskwater at the southern end?”

  “There're tracks, if you know where to look for them—”

  Ward broke off as the door opened and Miss Fraser rolled herself into the room. “Good morning, Constable. Inspector.”

  She looked as if she hadn't slept well, but her spirits were high.

  Ward, turning beet red, almost bowed to her. “Good morning, Miss. I hope I didn't wake you, come clumping in at this hour.”

  “No, I was already awake. If you see her husband, will you tell him that Mrs. Cummins is showing a little improvement? It will set his mind at peace. And you'll stay for breakfast, before you go?”

  “Yes, Miss, I'll be happy to do both.” His eyes followed her as she rolled the chair around the table and began to prepare breakfast. There was a doglike devotion on his face.

  Looking from Ward to Miss Fraser, Rutledge noted that she was an attractive woman, her hair so pale it was almost silvery, and her eyes very blue, the color of a deep sea under sunlight. There was Scandinavian blood, he thought, here in the North. But hers wasn't a Westmorland accent—

  A thick porridge had been steaming on the back of the stove, and as she lifted down bowls and handed them to the constable, she said to Rutledge, pointing to a painted china pitcher on the table, “If you would—the milk is just through there. A neighbor has already seen to our cow and her own.”

  He nodded and walked through the door she'd indicated. In the narrow stone room that kept milk and butter cool in the summer and warmer than the outside in winter, a large white pitcher stood on the middle shelf.

  Miss Fraser was dipping the porridge into the bowls, and Ward was setting spoons and cups on the table for her. Rutledge said, “I made tea when I came down. It should be ready.” He filled the smaller vessel that was still holding down a corner of Ward's map, and then returned the foamy milk to the pantry.

  “Yes, that's fine, thank you,” she said, handing him a bowl to set on the table as he came back.

  “If you're making up a tray for Mrs. Cummins,” Ward said diffidently, “I'd be glad to take it in for you, Miss.”

  “Would you, Constable? I'll prepare it when we've finished here.”

  Rutledge added sugar and butter to his porridge, and then the milk, while Miss Fraser made toast for them. There was damson preserves for it. Ward set to with an appetite.

  It was excellent porridge, creamy and hot.

  They talked about the unexpected storms, the scope of the search, the various directions it had taken, but skirted any mention of the farm where the bodies had been found or the fate of the child lost in the cold and dark.

  When Ward took the tray to Mrs. Cummins, Rutledge helped Miss Fraser clear away the dishes.

  “If Mrs. Cummins isn't well—” he began, thinking it would be better to find other accommodations.

  “She—drinks,” Elizabeth Fraser told him. “Not to put too fine a point on it. She began to drink while Harry was in France, and couldn't stop when he came safely home. The murders have upset her quite badly—well, all of us, come to that. But any excuse, I suppose, would have done.” She grimaced. “I don't mean to sound coldhearted. But Harry needs her help to run the hotel. And instead she frightens people away. If they don't make any money in the summer, what are the Cumminses to do the rest of the year?” She began to dip the dishes into hot soapy water. “It would be a kindness if you stayed, Inspector.”

  “Then I shall.”

  Ward returned. “She's got a little appetite this morning, she says.”

  “That's good news!” Elizabeth answered bracingly. “As soon as I finish here, I'll look in on her and let you confer in peace.”

  “You mustn't leave on our account, Miss! And you know a good bit about this valley,” Ward told her. “It would be just as well if Mr. Rutledge here had someone who could keep him abreast of which parties send messages.”

  He bent over the map again, continuing to point out landmarks, sometimes sketching in the rough lanes that led to various farms, correcting the lines on the map. Rutledge made an effort to commit the constable's points of reference to memory.

  The truth was, he would much have preferred going out on his own, starting at the Elcott farm. Surely there would be something there to tell him which way Josh Robinson had fled! But Greeley was right: It was treacherous on unfamiliar mountainous terrain where weather could be unpredictable, landmarks were half hidden in snow, and daylight was short. There was no guarantee he would be any more successful than the local people, and he could well become another problem for the already exhausted search parties.

  Hamish retorted, “As yon lassie last night discovered, to her misfortune.”

  “Will you show me the Follet farm?” Rutledge asked Ward, remembering Janet Ashton.

  Ward glanced at him. “Know them, do you, sir?”

  As Ward located the square on the map that represented the farm, Rutledge briefly explained. “There was a carriage accident near there last night.”

  Ward's pencil stopped moving and he asked quickly, “Not our murderer, by any chance?”

  “A woman. I left her with the Follets. Bruised ribs.”

  “Ah. Mary'll see to her then.” His pencil began to move again. “A good sheep man, Jim Follet,” Ward went on, echoing Follet's comment about Gerald Elcott. “And in fact, that's how the doctor can pinpoint the time of death, sir. Gerald Elcott brought his animals in before the storm. But he hadn't fed the cow or horses after that. He was either dead, or in no case to see to them.”

  Rutledge calculated. “Four days dead now, at the outside. The Elcotts. I understand they were shot.”

  “Revolver, large caliber. Whoever it was just stood there and cut them down. One at a time. Paul Elcott, who discovered the carnage, didn't look for the boy, but Inspector Greeley did, and Sergeant Miller. No sign of him in the house or the outbuildings. We can't be sure how long the lad has been out in the weather—whether he managed to hide until he saw it was safe to move, or took off straightaway.” He paused, and glanced up at Rutledge. “My guess is, the boy wasn't at home. He came back, and ran straight into the murderer. He didn't stand a chance, sir. And the body hidden, likely enough, to keep us searching while that devil made good his escape.”

  “I'd like to see the farm straightaw
ay,” Rutledge commented, but Ward shook his head.

  “Mr. Greeley wishes to take you there himself, sir.” And Rutledge was bound by courtesy not to argue.

  “What about enemies? Anyone who might have wanted the Elcotts dead?”

  “I've tried not to consider that, sir.” Ward's voice had turned cold. “It's not pleasant, searching through one's acquaintance to see who might be guilty of a monstrous cruelty!”

  “All the same, we've got to address the possibility that he's local. There can't have been many outsiders in Urskdale, not this time of year.”

  “True enough. Still, who's to say one wasn't keen on being noticed? But he hadn't counted on the storm, had he?” Ward answered stubbornly. “Has London looked to see if a lunatic escaped from an asylum or a prison? What were the Elcotts to him, if he was desperate and needed sanctuary for a bit, somewhere to stay until the weather had passed?”

  Hamish reminded Rutledge that the farmer Follet had made a similar comment.

  “Or perhaps he used the storm to his own advantage.”

  Ward met his eyes squarely. “Shall I leave the map, sir? I shan't need it myself. It might be more useful to you. Inspector Greeley said I should ask.”

  “Leave it, if you can spare it.”

  And Ward was gone, brusquely thanking Miss Fraser for his breakfast and pulling on the heavy boots he'd left by the yard door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After a moment, Rutledge opened the outside door again and walked out into the snow. The small back garden was pretty in a pale light that filtered through the clouds. The humps and arcs of last year's vegetables were etched in white now, a magical landscape in miniature.