A Cold Treachery

by Charles Todd

  “Actually, I'd rather you went on saying nothing. Until Dr. Jarvis tells me she's fit to travel.”

  Follet looked relieved. “Not that I've seen nor heard anything against the sister, you understand. But we don't know why the Elcotts died, do we? And I'd not be drawn into whatever it is if I can help it.”

  “I can't blame you,” Rutledge agreed, and then after a moment, at Hamish's prodding, questioned, “There's something else, I think. That you haven't told me.”

  Follet tugged at his earlobe. “We're all at sixes and sevens. You start reading omens in the milk pail, after a time! Still, when I got up at my usual hour that next morning, I tried to be quiet as I went past Miss Ashton's door so as not to wake her. I had my shoes in my hand, and was bent on where I put my feet, when I heard weeping on the other side of her door. And then her voice saying over and over again, ‘Why? Oh God, why?' It was as if she knew something was wrong.” His eyes were worried.

  “There was the accident. The wrecked carriage and the dead horse—”

  “You don't weep like that over a dead horse,” Follet said scornfully. “Or a broken carriage wheel. Even if both belonged to someone else. Something was keeping her awake that hurt her far more than those cracked ribs. The only time I ever heard Mary cry like that was when our youngest died. Inconsolable, beyond any help or comfort.”

  Dr. Jarvis came into the kitchen at that moment and told Rut-ledge, “I'd prefer to leave Miss Ashton here a day or two longer. She's badly bruised. But nothing appears to be broken, I'm happy to say.”

  “Is she fit for travel?” Rutledge asked. “Will it do her any harm?”

  “I doubt it will harm her,” Jarvis answered. “But continued rest will do those ribs a world of good, and in my opinion she needs a little time to grieve as well.” He saw the expression on Rutledge's face and added, “I was surprised that no one had told her about her sister. When she commented that she wouldn't be much use to Grace and the twins for the rest of the week, I felt I was obligated to say something. You can't have intended to keep it from her!”

  “I would have preferred to choose my own time and place,” Rutledge returned curtly. “What did she say?”

  “She wept—”

  Rutledge stood up, already on his way to the sitting room. Jarvis called after him, something about Mary Follet being the best person to comfort her, but Rutledge ignored him.

  The sitting room door was open, and he found Mrs. Follet kneeling on the carpet, her arms around the sobbing woman in the chair. The farmer's wife looked up as he came in, and got stiffly to her feet.

  “The doctor told her,” Mrs. Follet said.

  “Yes. Miss Ashton?”

  After a moment Janet Ashton lifted a red and tear-streaked face to him. He walked into the room, pulled a chair closer to hers and said, gently, “This isn't the time to ask you questions, I understand that. But time is what neither of us have to spare. We must find your nephew. Josh may have seen the murderer—”

  Something flared in her eyes, a flame of emotion that galvanized her. “Josh is dead. Paul would see to that; he wouldn't leave the work half finished! Paul's your killer, I swear to you he is! Jealous, self-centered, cruel—he did it!”

  Rutledge stared at the tear-ravaged face. Janet Ashton was a very attractive woman, but the twisted anger in her voice and the savagery with which she denounced Paul Elcott made him flinch. Mary, just at his shoulder, gasped in horror.

  “I don't understand—” Rutledge began.

  “No, no one ever did! I tried to warn Gerald—I told him over and over again—” Her hands over her eyes, she broke down completely, unable to speak.

  Rutledge glanced at Mary Follet. “Had she said anything about this before I came into the room?”

  “No, oh, no! I can't believe—” Her voice faded and she reached out a hand in comfort. “There, there, my dear—” Looking back at Rutledge, she explained, “It's the shock. She can't mean what she's saying.”

  It was several minutes before Rutledge could stem the flow of tears and make Miss Ashton face him again. He said gently, “You've just made very serious accusations—”

  “I was bringing a weapon to my sister!” she cried. “She was the only one who believed me. And it's too late! I'm too late—”

  “You must explain what you're talking about,” Rutledge said. “Why did you think Paul Elcott might want to harm his family? Why were you bringing a weapon?”

  “The farm,” she said fiercely. “It was all about that horrid farm! Paul was the heir, don't you see? If anything happened to Gerald, Grace wouldn't be able to run sheep on her own, she wasn't bred to it. Josh couldn't inherit even if he'd wanted to. He isn't an Elcott. Gerald never adopted him—Grace wanted him to keep his father's name. It was always understood that Paul— Then the twins were born, and circumstances changed.” Janet Ashton shook her head. “They were his, don't you see? Gerald's own flesh and blood! And Paul was beside himself.”

  Hamish was reminding him, “He was the first to find the bodies. After no one came to the house for two days.”

  And therefore any clues that might point his way would be explained—it was an old ploy, one that sometimes succeeded.

  Rutledge leaned back in his chair. Janet Ashton, as far as he could tell, believed what she was saying. And there was the revolver, to back up her account.

  Or to explain it away, Hamish countered.

  “How did you come by the weapon?” he asked Janet Ashton. Mary Follet glanced at him in surprise. He thought, “Her husband hasn't told her—”

  “A friend of mine, in the war. He'd been gassed and gave it to me just before he died.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Why should I have to do any such thing! I've just told you—”

  “The police are thorough,” he said, quietly. “We have to be. I'll need the name of the friend, and the date of his death.”

  She turned away from him. “I'd like to be alone, please. I've still not—I can't really believe—” Taking a fresh handkerchief from Mary Follet, she buried her face in it, as if hiding from his questions.

  Rutledge rose, nodding to Mrs. Follet. He found himself thinking that Janet Ashton had come a long way to hear tragic news . . . and sometimes at that first emotional blow, people said things they later wished they hadn't. Would this woman feel the same way tomorrow?

  Or truth can come tumbling out— Hamish reminded him.

  As Rutledge walked back to the kitchen, he agreed. Murder brought to the surface odd antagonisms and old scores wanting settling.

  Jarvis said, hearing his footstep in the passage, “How is she?”

  “Quite upset. As you might imagine.” He went to the window and looked out. The dog was lying in the barn door, watchful as ever. “How well do you know her, Dr. Jarvis?”

  “She was there for Grace's lying-in. I found her to be efficient and levelheaded, which is what I needed at the time. The twins were small and required good care. And there were the other children to think about. I could see that Grace was fond of her, and indeed Gerald depended on her.”

  “The children got on well with her, then.”

  “The little girl, Hazel, was Miss Ashton's goddaughter and kept a photograph by her bed. I've seen it while treating her for frequent sore throats. Miss Ashton was younger when the photograph was taken, hardly more than Hazel's age. It wasn't a flattering likeness. I wondered a time or two why it hadn't been replaced. Hazel told me it was a favorite because of the dog, Bones. Seems Miss Ashton made up stories about him at bedtime.”

  Rutledge himself had seen that photograph—and hadn't made the connection with Janet Ashton. Jarvis was right. The sulky child was nothing at all like the grown woman.

  “And Josh?”

  “He was at an age where women's apron strings had begun to pall—”

  Before he could go on, Follet interjected, “How is Elcott taking the news? Can't be easy for him.”

  “Paul?” the doctor asked. “I had
to sedate him. He wasn't in any shape to join the searchers. More of a hindrance than a help, in my book.”

  Rutledge turned from the window. “Is Miss Ashton well enough to accompany us back to Urskdale?”

  “In my opinion, the cold and the rough ride will not do her any good!”

  “On the other hand, it shouldn't do her any harm, if her ribs are sound?”

  “That's true, but—”

  Rutledge nodded to Follet. “I think we'll relieve you of your unexpected guest. If you'll escort me to the barn, I have some business there. Dr. Jarvis, if you'd be kind enough to ask Mrs. Follet to prepare Miss Ashton for the journey—”

  “I'd rather not take the responsibility—”

  “Nor would I, Doctor. But we need to be expeditious if we're to find our murderer.” He picked up hat and gloves from the table, and prepared to leave.

  Shut off from the wind, the cavernous barn was not as cold as Rutledge had expected. Bieder sniffed his heels suspiciously as he followed Follet into the dim interior. Sizeable and sturdily built, the structure was at least as old as Follet himself, and probably well into a generation before that. Looking up, Rutledge said, “You had a fine builder.”

  “That was my father and his. We have to build solidly, up here. The barn before this was probably well over a hundred years old.” He led the way to the tack room where harness and tackle were kept, and opened a wooden box that stood under a shelf. Digging inside, he brought up a revolver and held it out gingerly to Rutledge.

  He found that the weapon was fully loaded and he emptied it, dropping the cartridges in one pocket and sniffing the pistol before adding it to the other pocket. “I'd not mention this to your wife after we've gone,” he told Follet. “It would upset her, I think, to know that it had been here.”

  “I'm not likely to do that,” Follet agreed. “I'm just glad to be rid of it!” He didn't add that he could be just as happy to see the back of its owner.

  In the yard, Dr. Jarvis was already setting Miss Ashton's valise in the boot, and Mrs. Follet had nearly filled the back of the motorcar with pillows and blankets. Rutledge shivered, thinking of Hamish on the long drive back to Urskdale. It would be crowded, and neither Hamish nor Rutledge himself took pleasure from that.

  They managed to get Miss Ashton into the vehicle without causing undue pain, Mrs. Follet fussing around them. Rutledge retrieved his own rug and added it to the array of blankets. A warmed stone was wrapped in towels and set at Miss Ashton's feet, and within half an hour of the time he'd made the decision to carry her with him, Rutledge set out on the road.

  She hadn't been willing at first to come with him.

  “You can't ask me to walk into that house!” she had said in rising panic. “No, I won't go with you! You can't force me—I'll stay here, or go back to Carlisle if someone will drive me—” She turned to Mrs. Follet. “I'm sorry if I'm such a burden—”

  “My dear, of course you're not a burden.” Mary Follet cast a pleading glance at her husband. “Jim, tell her—”

  “I'll be happy to ask my wife—” Dr. Jarvis was saying, but even Rutledge could hear the doubt in his voice.

  “I intend for Miss Ashton to stay at the hotel,” Rutledge had said, cutting across their voices. “Dr. Jarvis can treat her there, and she can help me with my inquiries.”

  Miss Ashton stared at him. “The hotel—” she said. “Yes, that's all right, then.”

  But something in her expression made him wonder what had really changed her mind. A fleeting moment of speculation—a conscious awareness of opportunity? It was there and then gone so quickly he couldn't decipher it.

  Now she sat in the back of the motorcar in what appeared to be grieving silence. It made conversation between the two men stiff and uneasy.

  After a time Jarvis drifted into sleep again, and from the rear of the motorcar an almost disembodied voice, husky and muffled by blankets, asked, “Will you arrest Elcott tonight?”

  “No. So far I have only your word that he was a threat to his brother's family. I'll have to look into that and see if I can find evidence that bears it out. And when—if—we find the boy, he'll be my chief witness.”

  “If he was there,” she said, the words drifting away on the wind.

  The boy slept for hours. Sybil, curled beside the bed, kept watch, and Maggie herself fell asleep by the kitchen fire, dozing heavily in the chair that had been her father's. She woke once with a start, thinking she'd heard something outside in the snow, then was satisfied when the dog didn't bark. Her eyes closed again.

  She had set the red-handled ax by her chair, where she could put her hand to it quickly. It could take a chicken's head off in one blow and chop through wood thick as her wrist. Perfectly weighted, it was all she needed in the way of protection.

  Her father had taught her to use it, and had once said lightly, “Your Norse ancestors could cleave a man's skull with an ax. Right through the helmet. It's a fearsome weapon. Respect it.”

  And she always had.

  As Rutledge neared the inn, he began to wonder if he had overstepped his own welcome by bringing another guest for Miss Fraser to cope with. Certainly Mrs. Cummins was not up to caring for and catering to a house full of people. Now, besides himself, there were Robinson and Janet Ashton. Where he could make do with whatever meals were set before him, he doubted that they would.

  Hamish reminded him, “It isna' a weekend in the country.”

  But Miss Fraser took her new guest in stride and said, “I've a room that's quiet, and I think Miss Ashton will prefer it. Just give me a few minutes to see that all is as it should be.”

  Dr. Jarvis, after asking if there had been any summons during his absence, helped bring Miss Ashton in from the motorcar and settle her in her room. As soon as he could politely excuse himself, he disappeared in the direction of his own house.

  Miss Fraser said to his departing back, “His wife will be glad to see him. She never bargained for murder disrupting their quiet life.”

  “Where is Robinson?” Rutledge asked.

  “In his room. He slept a little, I think, and missed his tea. I've a ham in the pot, and if you could bring in some cabbages from the cold cellar, and the small bag of potatoes, I'll have dinner in an hour.”

  Rutledge not only brought in cabbages and potatoes but helped scrub and prepare them. It was a surprisingly companionable domestic scene, Miss Fraser busy about her tasks while he, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, followed her instructions. As he worked, he asked, “What do you know about Paul Elcott?”

  “A quiet man. He was engaged to be married before the war, but the girl ran away with a soldier she met in Keswick. I don't think he mourned her. It was an understood thing, without great passion on either side.” She smiled over her shoulder. “We don't see great passion in this part of the world. Most everyone has known each other since they were children. Life isn't easy, and no one expects it to be. A man provides and a wife keeps house and brings up the children. And so they drift into old age, considering they've had a happy marriage. Use the other pan, if you will, for those potatoes. I'll need that one for steaming the apples— Oh! I forgot to ask you to bring them up as well!”

  Rutledge went out again to find them, and came back with them, small and shriveled by comparison with those in the south, and with a stronger flavor. He cored and cut them up and passed the bowl to her.

  The passage door opened and Robinson came in, his hair awry from sleeping hard, his eyes bleary. He said, “I don't know what the doctor gave me, but I've had better hangovers!” He sat down heavily at the table, as if his body had run out of energy, and buried his head in his hands. “Christ!”

  Rutledge said, feeling his way, “It's been a rough day.”

  Robinson nodded. “I thought many times during the war that I was going to die. I never expected my family would die instead. Have you heard any word about Josh?”

  “The search parties are sleeping,” Elizabeth Fraser answered him. “They'll start ou
t again at first light, from wherever they are now.”

  “Greeley wouldn't let me join one of them.” He turned to Rutledge as if he were to blame. “I don't understand why I can't search for my own son!”

  “You're needed here,” Rutledge answered, finishing the last of the apples. “When Josh is found, the news will be brought directly to the hotel.”

  “I can't just sit here and wait. There must be something I can do! Even peeling apples, for God's sake!”

  Elizabeth Fraser glanced at Rutledge and then said, “You could bring in more coal, if you don't mind. With two extra bedrooms to heat, it would be nice not to have to worry about running out.”

  He turned, and said, staring at her chair, “What happened?” It was asked simply, as if acknowledging that something had.

  Rutledge began to object, but she set aside the knife she was using to slice the potatoes and answered calmly. “It was an injury. Just before the war. I tripped on my skirts, actually, and nearly went headlong under a train. There's nothing wrong with my spine; I just can't manage to walk.” With a smile she added, “I've quite grown used to it.”

  But Hamish said, “She's verra young to accept yon patiently. And she doesna' say where she fell. She doesna' have a northern accent.”

  It was true, she didn't. Even though she spoke of the fell country as if she had known it all her life and was happy to live here.

  Rutledge said, shifting the subject, “We brought Mrs. Elcott's sister to the hotel an hour ago. She'd made it as far as she could in the storm and stopped with a family some miles from here.”

  “Janet?” Robinson asked, as if she hadn't crossed his mind. “Good God—does she know? I mean, I suppose you've told her—”