A Cold Treachery

by Charles Todd

  “I'm afraid it's true—” he began, but let his voice trail away, for she appeared to have forgotten him.

  Unable to settle, she walked to the sideboard, her hands busy folding a pile of freshly ironed serviettes lying there. When she'd finished, she stood staring at them, as if unable to think where they ought to go now.

  Hamish remarked, “It isna' any wonder she needs a minder. The lass in the invalid chair canna' have an easy time of it!”

  Rutledge had seen other women like her. Driven to despair by fear and long months of uncertainty, they had taken comfort in the bottle. And more than one man had come to him to beg for compassionate leave, when a wife or fiancée had been taken up as a common drunk.

  Unaware that she was the subject of this silent exchange, Mrs. Cummins smiled distractedly at him. “Is there anything you need, Inspector? Would you like some tea?” Her attention was drawn back to the serviettes. She picked them up, put them in a drawer, and then took them out again. Finally she simply smoothed them once or twice and forgot them.

  “I've been well taken care of, Mrs. Cummins. Thank you.”

  “You might bring in more coal,” she said, walking unsteadily across to the window. “That's difficult for Elizabeth.”

  “I'll be happy to see to it,” he promised. He cursed himself for not thinking of offering.

  “My room is never warm. There must be something wrong with the chimney's flue. It can't be drawing well,” she fretted, clutching her shawl across her body as if needing something to hold to. “This used to be a fine hotel, before the war. I don't know what's to become of it now. Or us.”

  “I'm sure,” Rutledge said gently, “that the climbers and walkers will return next summer.”

  “I grew up in London. But my grandfather could find his way blindfolded over most of Cumberland and half of Westmorland. He told me more than once he could tell by the smell of the ground where he was. Like the sheep. He said if he ever lost his sight, he could find his way about without it. We had an old dog who was just the same. You could set her down anywhere, and she'd know her way home.”

  “A gift,” Rutledge agreed.

  “They say sheep are stupid, but they aren't.”

  The silence between them lengthened. “Any word of the child?” she asked finally, her voice trembling on the last word. “Have they found the little Robinson boy yet?”

  “No, I'm afraid not. But several of the search parties have yet to report.”

  She continued to stand by the window, as if the wintry scene drew her. “I pray for him every night . . .”

  “That's kind—” Rutledge began.

  Her eyes flicked back to him. “Does anyone hear prayers, do you think? Really—hear them?”

  “I'm sure someone does,” he answered.

  “Oh—I can see the Long Back—our ridge,” she exclaimed suddenly. “The clouds have lifted.” And then with agitation she begged, “Look—there! Do you think that dark spot up there—over to the left, by The Knob—do you think that might be him?”

  Rutledge came to stand behind her, picking up the faint smell of whisky, lavishly overlaid with rose water.

  There was nothing where she was pointing except for a shallow depression that the sun had not found yet.

  “Shadows play tricks,” Rutledge told her, moving on to the pump for a glass of water. “The boy can't have traveled this far.”

  “No . . . probably not.” She turned, losing her animation, and walked to the passage doorway. “You won't forget about the coal, will you?”

  “No—”

  But she was gone, a ghost in her own house, flitting between awareness and stupor.

  “A pity,” Hamish was saying.

  And then the soft voice floated down the passage as the door swung closed. “What if he's hunting for the child too? What if he finds him first? I can't sleep for thinking about it!”

  It was barely ten minutes later that Inspector Greeley came striding into the kitchen from the front of the house, his voice carrying, answering Elizabeth Fraser somewhere behind him.

  There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his chin was patchy with missed beard, as if he'd shaved quickly, without a mirror. Lines of strain bracketed his mouth, aging him.

  “I'm sorry,” he said, extending his hand as he introduced himself, “that I wasn't here earlier. I snatched a few hours' rest this morning.”

  “You look as if you could use more,” Rutledge answered sympathetically. “A number of your men reported in when they could. I've noted the names and the areas they've searched. No luck, I'm afraid.”

  With a nod Greeley walked to the map and glanced down at it. “Yes, that's what I'd expected, more or less. But we had to try, you see. Hard as hell to find your way out there, much less hunt for a veritable needle in a haystack. I don't know how to handle this any differently,” he added. “I've never had to deal with anything like it.”

  He pulled out a chair, and sat down heavily. “I see you've more or less set up your headquarters here. Just as well. The chimney at the station hasn't been drawing worth a damn. Smoked me out again just last week! But I should think the parlor would be more comfortable.”

  “Men coming and going here are less likely to disturb Mrs. Cummins in her room, and to be honest, it's the only truly warm part of the house.” Rutledge took the chair across from Greeley. “You've done what I'd have done,” he went on. “The most important task was to locate the boy. And to make certain there were no other victims. After that, to hunt down the killer.”

  “A boy of ten couldn't survive this long, surely!” Greeley rubbed his face with his fingers, massaging stiff muscles. “It's hopeless.”

  “It would depend on his resourcefulness and his knowledge of the land. He could have taken shelter somewhere—”

  “We don't even know how he was dressed,” Greeley said. “Or which direction he took. By the time we got to the farm, any tracks had been well covered by several inches of snow. His and the murderer's.” His eyes veered away from Rutledge's. “I suppose you want to see the Elcott house.” The reluctance in his voice was only half concealed.

  “I shall have to, yes.”

  “I'd as soon never set foot in it again. I can't close my eyes without seeing them lying there. Shocking, that's the only word to describe it.” He heaved himself to his feet. “All right. Let's get it over with. Is that your motorcar in the yard? We'll take that. It's faster. The roads are wretched, but we can manage.”

  “Let me tell Miss Fraser that I'll be leaving.”

  Rutledge went down the passage and quietly called her name. She was sitting in the small, chilly parlor, a book in her lap, and the door open.

  “I heard Inspector Greeley arrive,” she told him, closing the book. “I thought perhaps you'd like a little privacy.”

  “He's—er—we're going to be away for a time,” Rutledge said, trying to spare her feelings. “I don't know if I'll be here for dinner. But don't worry about that. I'll manage well enough.”

  “Thank you for telling me, Inspector.” She smiled, and he noticed again how it lighted her face from within.

  From somewhere the thought came, Olivia Marlowe might have looked like this woman. . . .

  Elizabeth Fraser was saying, “Is there any message you'd like for me to give to anyone who needs you?”

  “Just that I'll be back as soon as possible. And you might note on the map whatever information they've brought. If it's urgent, Inspector Greeley can be found at the Elcott farm.”

  Her expression stilled. “Yes. I'll do that, Inspector.”

  It was a silent drive. Rutledge was nearly certain that Greeley had nodded off, his head down on his chest, his hat shadowing his eyes. But he could have been lost in thought. Or preparing himself for what was to come . . .

  Following the map in his head, Rutledge was able to find the rough road on which the farm stood, but after that asked Greeley for directions.

  They drove up a muddy lane and into the back of a tall
whitewashed stone farmhouse with nothing to set it apart from dozens of its neighbors except for the traffic that had passed in and out of the yard over the past several days, churning the snow into black muck.

  Hamish said, “A stalker couldna' find the lad's tracks in that . . .” He was referring to the Highland gillies who could follow the red deer over bare rock. Or so it was said. They had hunted snipers in France with equal skill and cunning.

  Greeley got out stiffly, and stretched his back. More, Rutledge thought, to postpone the inevitable than to ease his tired spine. Then he turned to scan the horizon, almost a reflex action, looking for any sign of movement or activity. But there were no flares, no line of men on the heights. “This way,” he said finally, and Rutledge preceded him into the tiny stone entry that led into the kitchen.

  It wasn't, he found himself thinking, so very different from the one where he had spent most of the morning. Large, square, with windows looking out on two sides and a great black cooker in one corner, it had been pretty once. Rose-patterned curtains hung at the windows, chintz cushions in a matching style covered the chairs, and the cloth on the table had roses embroidered in the center, great cabbage roses in cream and pink.

  In stark contrast, blood marred everything—the floor, the walls, the furnishings—as if flung there by a mad painter. No longer a bright red, but an ugly black. The bodies had been removed, but the tracks of men who had carried them out had of necessity marked the splatters of blood with heel-prints in different sizes.

  Hamish said, with feeling, “It brings back the war . . .”

  Rutledge thought: “The refugees we found in that cellar—”

  There were plates of food on the table, and covered pots on the stove. One glass overturned. A stained fork lying on the floor. A chair on its side. The unexpectedness of the attack witnessed by such insignificant things . . .

  Greeley was explaining, as if by rote, “Gerald Elcott was there, by the cooker. From what Jarvis told me, it took him nearly a minute to die. The little girl—Hazel—was lying by the door—She died quickly, thank God. And the twins were close by the table, beside their mother. She was half draped over them, as if to shield them. Jarvis thinks she saw them shot before she herself died. It was ruthless—venomous—”

  Rutledge could picture the scramble as the family realized what was about to happen. The father too far from the outer door to stop the killing—the little girl racing to reach safety in another room. The mother flinging herself towards the infants. Shouts and screams—the deafening sound of the revolver—and then silence. And Josh? Where was Josh?

  “How many shots were fired?”

  “As far as we can tell at this stage, there were six. One in each of the dead, and one there in the wall. It must have missed the boy as he ran out the door. We haven't found the revolver. We've searched the house top to bottom, and the outbuildings. Our man is still armed, wherever he is.”

  “And the killer stood where?”

  “Here, where we are. It would give him command of the room, an open field of fire. No one had disturbed the scene. The murderer made no effort to find out if all of them were dead. He didn't care. Paul Elcott never approached the victims, either. I don't think he could bear it—” Greeley broke off and then blurted, “You know the worst of it? I helped Sergeant Miller carry them out. And I think if I'd had their murderer within reach, I'd have killed him myself!” He cleared his throat in embarrassment before going on in a steadier voice. “It seems to me that he came in from the yard and caught them all off guard. There was no way to tell if there was any exchange before he began shooting. But it must have happened very quickly. Gerald Elcott—the father—was shot first, before he could put up a fight to save his family. That would make sense. And it would have been less than two minutes before the killer turned to go after the boy. Not much of a head start, really.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “I have to ask myself if the parents knew why this was happening. Or if it was as senseless to them—”

  “Whoever it was, if he came into the kitchen as we did, he must have known the family.”

  “That's possible. But here in the North, the kitchen is always the warmest room in winter, and we generally go round to the yard door rather than the front of the house. I don't think it signifies. And a stranger would have come to where the lamp was lit.”

  “Still, Gerald Elcott was standing by the stove. That means the son opened the outside door, and must have known the killer at least well enough to allow him to step inside. Otherwise, Elcott would have been here, where we are, in the murderer's way. Think about it.”

  Greeley sighed. “Yes, I agree. Not a stranger, then . . .”

  “But not necessarily someone you may know,” Rutledge pointed out. He recognized the propensity of local police to prefer outsiders, not their own.

  Brightening, Greeley said, “Yes, that's possible.”

  “How many members of the family live close enough to call in without notice?”

  “Only Gerald's brother, Paul, lives here in Urskdale. Grace has a sister, who sometimes visits in the summer. I've never known her to come in winter. We haven't been able to reach her, but the wires were down for a day and a half. And there's the father of the two older children. Robinson. He lives in London.”

  “Any close friends, then?”

  Greeley shrugged. “Anyone from Urskdale might stop in. And be welcomed.” He turned away and stumbled out into the air. “I can't stand the smell in here.”

  Hamish said, “It's no' the smell—”

  Rutledge barely heard him. He stood there in the doorway for a moment longer. Even without the presence of the victims, the force of helplessness and terror lingered, like a miasma, as heavy as the acrid taint of blood. He could sense it, and with it, something else.

  Surely it hadn't been done without an attempt at justification, the killing. There would have been no satisfaction in that, surely . . . only a massacre.

  With a last look at the kitchen, he followed Greeley out into the cold afternoon.

  They walked around to the front of the house, where the snow was beaten down by foot traffic.

  “It was smooth as glass when we got here,” Greeley was saying. “And this door was tight shut.” He opened it and they stepped into a small hall, where wet, muddy tracks marred the smooth floor.

  Rutledge thought, “Grace Elcott wouldn't care to have strangers see her floor in this condition. . . .”

  The style of the furnishings in the parlor was Victorian, but the polished wood was a measurement of pride, and the small touches, a plant on a stand by the window, the coal scuttle filled, matches upright in a narrow blue vase beside it, a collection of picture frames with yellowing photographs of at least two generations, and the spotlessly clean chimneys of the lamps, indicated that Grace Elcott was a good wife. But what else was she?

  They climbed the stairs to find that the twins shared a room, while the boy and girl had their own. Each was neat as a pin, with a wooden chest for the collection of toys and games in the boy's room and a small shelf for dolls in the girl's. Clothes were tidily folded in drawers or hung in the wardrobes.

  There was a photograph by Hazel's bed, and judging by the Victorian style of dress, it had been taken around 1900. A young girl stood squarely facing the camera almost as one would face an enemy, straight on. Dressed in a plain white gown, her hair pulled back with a ribbon, she seemed to resent the photographer's intrusion, as if she had other things she'd rather be doing. At her feet lay a tennis racket, as if thrown there in anger. The little dog half hidden in her skirts looked up at her in adoration, unmindful of her mood, but Rutledge, holding the frame, could read the stormy face very well. Grace Elcott as a girl?

  The master bedroom boasted a great carved bedstead, early Victorian, with a matching washstand and chest. On that was a set of silver-plated brushes with GLR on the backs. Mrs. Elcott's, from her first marriage?

  If so, it might indicate that her present husband was a tolerant ma
n, or that they were too expensive to be replaced easily.

  Hamish said, “He accepted the children of the first marriage . . .”

  Perhaps the initials didn't matter, or the brushes were kept for the daughter.

  On the dressing table was another photograph. Rutledge found himself looking down into the faces of the dead. A man of middle height, fair-haired and exceptionally handsome. Beside him a woman who smiled with noticeable joy, her face tilted, her eyes alight. There was something about her that suited her name—Grace. Slim and leaning a little towards her husband, she appeared to be deeply in love. In her arms she held the twins, swathed in blankets, hardly more than tiny features blinking at the sun. Barely a month old when the photograph was taken, Rutledge judged. Grace Elcott had grown from a sulky child into a confident wife and mother.

  A shy girl stood between Gerald and Grace Elcott, and Gerald's hand was on her shoulder, as if in reassurance. Hazel. Her eyes were looking up into his face. Next to the woman stood a boy, all legs and arms, scowling at the camera, his chin tucked into his chest, as if in protest. Josh Robinson. In the background was a church door.

  Greeley said to Rutledge, “Taken by the rector, after the christening. Mrs. Elcott was that happy, that day. My wife remarked on it, how happy she was.” He shrugged his shoulders deeper into his heavy coat, as if to shut out the cold.

  And only months later Grace Elcott's happiness had ended abruptly in a whirlwind of destruction. The kitchen was still all too fresh in Rutledge's mind. Here in the bedroom, Grace's bedroom, the house no longer warmed by fire or laughter or the ordinarily sounds of a family's life, he could feel the emptiness, and the pervasive silence that would never be filled again. It was, in a sense, far more horrible because in his hand he held the faces of the living family. Did you know why you became a victim? Or had his imagination run away with him?

  Hamish said, “There had to be hatred behind such murders . . .”

  Rutledge set the photograph down, and without comment turned to finish his search.