A Cold Treachery

by Charles Todd

  Hamish said, “You were never a man for self-pity.”

  “No. Not self-pity. Loneliness.”

  Rousing himself, he moved to help Miss Fraser. “I'm sorry dinner was ruined—”

  She bit her lip. “Why couldn't it have been a stranger? It wouldn't hurt as much, somehow. You could hate a stranger and what he'd done.”

  “If it is a stranger,” Rutledge told her, “then he's still out there. And if it wasn't a grudge against the Elcotts—if it was something else, madness even—he could very well kill again. Don't you ever lock your doors? People come in and out of this house at will!”

  “And I'm helpless to defend myself? Or Mrs. Cummins?” she finished for him. “I can't think of anyone with a grudge against us.”

  “I expect the Elcotts didn't know of anyone with a grudge against them,” he answered curtly. “Until the door opened and their murderer stepped into the room.” He thought of something. “Did the Elcotts own a dog?”

  “In the summer Gerald had had to put down his sheepdog. She was twelve, and failing. A beautiful animal. He named her Miata. Strange name for a dog, isn't it? He said he'd read it somewhere and liked it. I asked if it was Irish, and he said it wasn't—”

  “I thought you didn't know the family very well?”

  She had the grace to blush. “I knew Gerald to speak to. Everyone did. On market day most people come in to Urskdale for supplies and news. And he was that sort of man, open and friendly. Not just with me, because I was confined to my chair. It was a gift he had. Small wonder that Grace fell in love with him. A woman can judge a man sometimes.”

  Paul Elcott had said that even Elizabeth Fraser had been attracted to his brother.

  “Then how do you judge Paul?”

  Miss Fraser shook her head. “He was the younger son. And not easy to know. Often in his brother's shadow. But that doesn't make him a murderer!” She turned to look up at Rutledge, her blue eyes full of unhappiness. “Do you think Hugh Robinson is right—that Josh could have done such a thing?”

  “God knows,” Rutledge answered her. “But Robinson believes it. For now. And it's tearing him apart.”

  The boy was never comfortable wherever he sat. His body, tense as a spring, seemed to be unable to rest. He moved from chair to chair, and then to the floor next to Sybil. Up again and around the room, only to huddle once more against the dog's warm body. His eyes darted in the direction of any unexpected sound, galvanizing him to run. Sometimes it drove her to distraction, this constant prowl.

  Maggie watched him without appearing to: scanning the face that seemed pared down to skin over bone, the eyes looking inward at something too dark to bring out into the light of day. It was, she thought, like sharing a house with a shadow. Silent, no substance, hardly companionable. A burden rather than a gift from the snowy night.

  But she needed him. His body was young and strong, and it didn't matter where his mind was. He could feed the sheep; he could drag bales of hay to the horse and the cow; he could clamber up on the roof with a broom to push the worst of the snow off the eaves. He could carry in the scuttle filled with coal and bring in kindling to lay the fire. She sat in her chair, nursing her leg and cursing the pain, and patted Sybil on the head. Clever girl that she was. “He'll do,” she thought. “I won't make it through the winter without him—”

  When the last of the search parties had come in from the fells, Greeley walked to the hotel and summoned Rutledge to the cold sitting room. Standing by the hearth, he said, “Well. I've done all I can. A pity it wasn't more.”

  Rutledge, looking out into the street, replied, “Miss Ashton believes Paul Elcott killed his brother and his family.”

  Greeley's eyebrows rose. “Does she, by God!”

  “He found the bodies.”

  “What's that got to say to anything!” the older policeman demanded, irritated. “Who else was likely to have gone out to the house, after a storm like that one, save Paul? To see if the family had managed, if they needed anything.” He shook his head. “We look in on each other,” he added grimly. “And if Elcott hadn't found them, your Miss Ashton might have. She ought to be grateful to him for sparing her that grief.”

  It was true enough. And Hamish was reminding him of the revolver in Miss Ashton's carriage. There was only the woman's word for the fact that she hadn't made it as far as the Elcott's farm—she might well have been on her way back to Carlisle when Rutledge found her.

  Rutledge said aloud, “I'm told Janet Ashton helped her sister care for the children, when Robinson went to France. She knew Elcott. She might know if Elcott had other enemies. I must ask her that.”

  “Oh, yes? Enemies who come in the middle of a storm to butcher his family in front of him?” Greeley responded scornfully. “Unless there was something that happened in the war. He served in France. Artillery.”

  “I don't see how the killer could have anticipated such a ferocious storm. Still, it covered his tracks as well as the boy's. The question then becomes how long had the murders been planned? Or had something happened to precipitate events?”

  Greeley shook his head. “I don't know what to think. I wish to God this hadn't happened on my patch!”

  The outside door opened, and they could hear a man scraping his boots on the threshold. Greeley opened the sitting room door, expecting to find one of his men reporting. The newcomer looked up at Greeley. “Any news?”

  “None, unless you've brought it.” Greeley indicated Rutledge. “Scotland Yard, come to help us. Rutledge, this is Harry Cummins. You've met his wife.”

  The owner of the hotel. The Egyptian sun had darkened his skin, and a little gray threaded his dark hair. Rutledge shook his hand and thanked him for putting him up for the duration.

  Cummins, staring at Rutledge, seemed at first not to hear, and then said quickly, “We're not exactly overflowing this time of year. Er—what's the Yard's interest in our problems?”

  “The Chief Constable felt the local people needed help.”

  “I see.” He seemed to shake off the mood that had distracted him. With false heartiness, he added, “Yes, of course, I should have thought of that. I'm sorry, I'm still asleep on my feet!”

  “There are two other guests,” Greeley told Cummins. “Robinson, Grace Elcott's first husband. And her sister, Janet Ashton.”

  “A good thing Elizabeth is here to see to them. Vera would never have managed!”

  There was an awkward silence. Then Cummins indicated his snow-wet coat. “I'd better be getting out of these clothes. We've done our best, Greeley. There's no sign of the boy anywhere out there. I never thought he would have turned east anyway. If so, why not come directly into town and to you?”

  “Good question,” Greeley agreed. “Well, go and change. I was just finishing my conversation with Rutledge here.”

  “How long will you be staying?” Cummins asked, looking at the man from London.

  “Until I find some answers,” Rutledge responded.

  “He's no' happy to see you . . .” Hamish pointed out.

  Cummins nodded, and went off up the stairs, trudging heavily. The slump of his shoulders spoke volumes.

  Greeley, following him with his eyes, sighed. “Well, where do we go from here?”

  “Ask your men to canvass the village. We want to know about any strangers they've seen. About any trouble the Elcott family may have had with their neighbors—or any quarrels. We also want to know what the relationship was between Josh Robinson and his stepfather.”

  Greeley's glance swung back to Rutledge and sharpened. “What's that in aid of?”

  “Robinson admitted over dinner that he's afraid his son killed the Elcotts. That Josh was angry with his stepfather—or was jealous of the twins. It might be best if I speak to Josh's schoolmaster.”

  “My good God!” Greeley whistled under his breath. “That couldn't have been an easy admission! I didn't know Josh well enough to tell you if it could be true or not. But I'll send the schoolmaster to you. Toni
ght!”

  “I give Robinson credit for being honest. There's still an urgent reason to find the boy, while we can still be sure how he died. And where.” Silently he added, And if he had a revolver with him—

  “And how do you intend to go about that?” Greeley retorted. “Watch for ravens collecting around the body?”

  “We can begin by finding out whether or not anyone in the valley might willingly hide Josh Robinson. Protect him. After all, as far as anyone knows, he's been orphaned, and they might take pity on him. A classmate, a friend of Gerald's. It might tell us which direction he tried to take.”

  “There's not a soul in Urskdale who wouldn't have told me as soon as they heard we were searching for him!” Greeley protested. “They were told he'd likely witnessed the murders and we wanted him safe. No, I have to say you're barking up the wrong tree with Josh.”

  It was an hour later when the schoolmaster presented himself at the hotel.

  A tall, thin man with graying hair and an air of the cleric about him, he introduced himself to Rutledge as Rupert Blackwell and said, “Inspector Greeley tells me you wish to speak to me.”

  Rutledge led him into the chilly sitting room and offered him a chair. “It's about the boy, Josh Robinson. Elcott's stepson.”

  “Ah, yes, I thought as much. I was with one of the search parties. It was discouraging. We tried hard, believe me!”

  Interested, Rutledge answered, “Indeed? Where did you search?”

  “I was with Cummins and two other men. We went to the east of the farm, and then swung a little south, to come full circle.” Blackwell added dryly, “I was already in my bed when you sent for me!” The chapped skin of his face stretched in a wry smile.

  “Then I'll make this as brief as I can. Tell me about Josh.”

  “He's a bright child—was—” He paused, as if unwilling to use the past tense yet. “Quite clever with his hands, eager to learn. It's my view he needed better schooling than we can offer here. He'd grown up in a very different world, you see, with wider horizons. Most of our youngsters have always been content to follow in their fathers' footsteps. They learn what they can, and as their schoolmaster, I'm not ungrateful. Of course, those same horizons made Josh something of an outsider. His stories about living near London sounded like boasting to the other boys. As a result he made few friends.”

  “Was he a troublemaker?”

  “That implies a certain quality of leadership, doesn't it? The outcast is troublesome, unable to understand why he isn't popular, lashing out because he's hurt and lonely. Wanting to stop the pain he feels. I saw none of that. But I gave him books to read—about explorers and the like, men who accomplished great things alone. The sort of thing a boy with a lively imagination should have relished. But there was something more—I could see that it wasn't only his unhappiness at school. These last few months he's been distracted, and his schoolwork had begun to suffer. He was more inward-looking. More—worried. When I asked him outright if all was well at home, he answered that he was content. But you could see that he wasn't.”

  “. . . men who accomplished great things alone . . .” Had that well-intended reading matter made it possible for a boy to contemplate killing his family? It was a chilling thought.

  “How did he get on with his stepfather?”

  “Sad to say, I don't know the answer to that.” There was a pause. “He missed school more than usual this term. His mother would bring him to me and make excuses. It was outright truancy, but I welcomed him back, hoping to smooth over whatever it was that was disturbing him. I did wonder—and I made a point to bring it up with Mrs. Elcott—if he would be happier with his father, and schools in the south. If he was torn, you see, between his duty to his mother and his love for his father.”

  “How did she answer you?”

  “That he was her son, and she wouldn't let him go. I don't think it occurred to her that it might be better for Josh. And in my opinion—well, that's water over the dam, you might say. If Josh survives, he'll go to his father after all.”

  Hamish was saying something. Rutledge realized that he was pointing out that Blackwell might have put his finger on the reason behind Robinson's fears.

  An unexpected motive . . . an unhappy, frustrated child's solution to his private demons.

  “Is it possible that Josh Robinson was wretched enough here in Urskdale to take matters into his own hands? So that he could live with his father?”

  Blackwell stared at Rutledge. “Good God! Are you suggesting—? No, that's contemptible! We're talking about a child—!”

  “A policeman doesn't have the luxury of making exceptions. I have to look at every possibility, no matter how distasteful it might be,” Rutledge answered mildly.

  “He won't be eleven until January!” Blackwell exclaimed, shocked. “You must be out of your mind! I'd as easily believe Harry Cummins or I could have done such a thing!”

  Rutledge said, “With a revolver there's no thought—there's no strength required. You simply point the weapon and pull the trigger. And people fall dead.”

  Blackwell got to his feet. “I shan't waste breath on this question!”

  “Is there anyone Josh might have turned to—anyone he trusted enough to make his way to them? You, his teacher, perhaps.”

  The schoolmaster stopped at the door. “I wish I could say he would come to me. But of course he wouldn't have.” He shrugged deprecatingly. “I make it a habit never to show favoritism. I never gave that child any reason to believe he could trust me particularly. I never imagined there would come a time . . .”

  Rutledge waited, and Blackwell added almost against his will, “That's my failure as a teacher, Inspector. Some men have the gift of inspiring the young. I merely teach them. For what that's worth.” And he was gone, a gust of frigid air swirling into the hall in his wake.

  Rutledge discovered Elizabeth Fraser sitting in the kitchen, reading. He was surprised to find her still awake, and wondered if she found it as difficult to sleep sometimes as he did. And then remembered her standing in the door in the moonlight, taking tentative steps as if testing her will. When the house was dark and silent . . .

  She looked up as he came through the passage door and said, “Was that news?”

  “It was Blackwell, the schoolmaster. Did you know that Cummins has come home?”

  “I heard him in the passage, speaking to his wife. She's not—well—tonight, as you saw.” She marked her place in the book. “You look tired. I've put your hot water bottle there on the table.”

  “Were you waiting for me?” he asked, feeling a surge of guilt at the thought.

  “No. I was trying to stay warm for a few minutes longer.” She smiled. “I was born along the south coast, where winters were milder. We seldom saw snow, and I used to dream of traveling to Lapland and riding in a sleigh. It sounded so exciting—to be wrapped in furs and follow the reindeer herds.”

  “Why Lapland?”

  “Because my mother often read to me from a little book about a child of the North.” Her smile faded. “I know the men can't search forever. They have farms and families and work to see to. But I can't help but feel we've somehow deserted Josh Robinson by giving up.”

  “I haven't given up,” he reminded her. “We're just trying new directions. Tomorrow I'll call on several of the farms closest to the Elcott house. To see what they've heard or seen, to ask where we ought to look when this snow melts. To keep their minds on the possible, even if we've had no luck so far.”

  “Do you think—is Robinson right about his son? He knows him best, but I—somehow I can't comprehend a child killing his own family! I've seen Josh; he was a child with unruly hair and a quick smile, and sometimes an imp of mischief in his face.” She paused. “There was loneliness, too. I must tell you that.”

  Rutledge walked to the window and raised the shade to look out at the night.

  “'Ware what you say,” Hamish warned him. And Rutledge turned away from the window, angry with the
cautionary voice in his head.

  “I've only begun the investigation—”

  “It's just as hard to imagine Paul Elcott shooting his own brother.” Her face was troubled. “What if you don't find the killer? Ever? There'll be a cloud over Paul's head. And over Josh's, even if he's found dead. You must realize that accusations have long lives, sometimes . . .”

  It was as if she knew what she was talking about. As if accusations against her had shadowed her life. It could explain why she was content to stay here, at Mrs. Cummins' beck and call.

  Instead of answering her, he said, “Cummins doesn't sound like a dale man.”

  “No, he's from London. But he's lived here forever—for twenty years or more, I should think.” She smiled wryly. “He's still considered a stranger. For that matter, so am I. He bought this hotel and has tried to make a success of it, but sometimes I think he wishes he'd never set eyes on it.”

  “His wife was saying that he'd served in Egypt.”

  “Yes, that's true. He didn't like the East very much. He never talks about it. I don't think he's ever been happy. Isn't that a wretched thing to say about anyone? But I can't help it. He's haunted by something.” She stopped, suddenly embarrassed. “I shouldn't be saying such things to a policeman! Harry Cummins is a good man, I don't mean to make him sound otherwise.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “How late it is!”

  She set her book aside and collected her own hot water bottle. “Good night, Inspector.”

  He held the door for her and watched her wheel her chair down the passage.

  As he reached for his own hot water bottle, he glanced down at the book she'd left behind.

  It was one of O. A. Manning's slim volumes of poetry. Wings of Fire.

  After a time he went to his own room and lighted the lamp. The room seemed to be full of ghosts, crowding him, and a wave of claustrophobia swept through him, driving him to open the door again and step into the passage, where the cold air of the unheated wing of the house seemed to swirl around him. The lamp dipped in the draft, and he could feel the beat of his heart like a drum that was too loud, reverberating through his body.