A Cold Treachery

by Charles Todd

  Hamish said, “You canna' escape fra' what you are and ha' been. . . .”

  Rutledge answered him in the silence of the passage, “I can't live with it, either.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next morning Rutledge, with the map on the seat beside him in the motorcar, turned out of the hotel yard towards the bottom of Urskwater.

  He followed a rutted lane into the yard of Apple Tree Farm. Dogs met him with lowered heads and suspicious growls. A woman came to the yard door to stare at him, uncertain who he was and why he had come.

  “Inspector Rutledge, from London,” he called, without leaving the motorcar.

  “My husband's in the barn—”

  “Mrs. Haldnes? I'd like to ask you a few questions about the night that the Elcott family died—”

  The uncertainty changed instantly to wariness. “I can't tell you anything—”

  “No, I understand. Not about the murders. But I wondered—did your dogs bark that night? Did you find tracks in the snow where they shouldn't have been? Did your children appear to be worried about something?”

  “A storm was coming. We had work to do. What were we likely to hear? Or to see? There's no reason to think the killer came this way, surely!”

  “I was thinking about Josh—”

  “I don't wish the lad any harm—my husband searched for him with the rest. But he wasn't friendly with my boys. They didn't get on well together.”

  “He was in dire need; he might have tried to find help anywhere he could.”

  “Yes, and we'd have done what we could, wouldn't we? But we never saw him.”

  Hamish said, “She wasna' the sort of woman he would turn to. She's cold, and no' very motherly.”

  Ignoring the voice, Rutledge said, “You're the closest farm.”

  “That's as may be. But the track over the shoulder of the fell isn't the best there is.”

  He thanked her and, when she'd called off the dogs, walked into the cold mustiness of the barn, meeting with an equal reticence in her husband. A sense of closing ranks.

  But he could identify an undercurrent of superstition as well—as if speaking of the Elcotts and what had happened to them might somehow bring the same fate down on this family. To be ignorant was to be safe.

  Rutledge drove on to South Farm, and found the owner in the stable, mucking out.

  He asked Mr. Peterson the same questions—and once more met a blank wall. Mrs. Peterson, driven by curiosity, came out to see what it was the stranger wanted.

  “We didn't know the lad, not really. Of course we'd seen him on market day with Gerald or his mum,” she told Rutledge. “But our children are grown, with lives of their own, and we had no reason to take special notice of Josh. I'd heard he was troublesome, but he seemed quiet enough when Gerald was about.”

  “Troublesome?”

  “I'm only repeating what Mrs. Haldnes told me. I don't know firsthand.”

  Peterson's eyes slid towards the heights. “We did our best, searching. It was expected of us.” But the dissatisfaction of failure lurked in his voice.

  “And you're sure there were no strangers in Urskdale, the week before the murders?” Rutledge asked again.

  “Well, if a stranger was bent on mischief, he wasn't likely to call attention to himself, was he?” Mrs. Peterson asked reasonably. “Not many of us look out our windows of a night, to see who may be passing.”

  “Besides,” her husband put in, “no need to stir up the dogs, if you're willing to walk wide of a farm. There's a hundred tracks to choose from, besides the lanes.”

  But when asked why the Elcotts might have been killed, the Petersons, like the Haldneses, shook their heads.

  “Gerald was a good man,” Peterson said. “Hardly the sort to find himself mixed up in something nasty. And that young wife of his was very mindful of her place. People like that aren't likely to find themselves in trouble, are they?”

  “His father, Henry, was a good man, too. And of course his uncle. Sound stock, the Elcotts,” Mrs. Peterson agreed. Then she added anxiously, “I don't think I ever knew anyone murdered before. It's not something we're used to, is it?”

  When Rutledge brought up Paul Elcott's name, a quick glance passed between husband and wife. “He's not Gerald, mind. But sound enough,” Peterson replied. “A shame the licensed house didn't fly, but there you are. He's young, yet.”

  Mrs. Peterson nodded. “He reminds me of his uncle Theo. And look how he turned out!” It was, to Rutledge's ears, faint praise.

  Hamish said, “A long shadow to live under for a lifetime.”

  It was an interesting observation.

  “Does Theo Elcott live here?” Rutledge asked. No one had mentioned another relative until now.

  “Oh, Theo's been dead since 1906,” Mrs. Peterson assured him. Then, reverting to the murders, she said, “Henry would have been horrified. I just don't understand how something like this could have happened here in Urskdale!”

  Driving away from South Farm, Rutledge marveled at the silence bred into these people. The willingness to shut their eyes, the refusal to be a brother's keeper. Searching was one thing. It was what they knew, the land they lived with. If someone needed help repairing a storm-damaged roof, or the loan of a team or plow, or a hand feeding livestock when he was ill, neighbors would come because they knew he would return the favor one day. It was a matter of survival, in a place where nature was against them all.

  But whatever the Elcotts had done to call the wrath of the gods down upon them, their neighbors wanted no part of it.

  The lane leading to the last farm on his list was deep with snow. His tires struggled up the incline, spinning, the motorcar rocking from side to side like a ship in a storm. Only the slightest indentation defined the lane as it wound around a knoll and then traveled a good mile over hilly ground before finally straggling upward again and into a farmyard. The outbuildings were weathered, tired. The snow lay heavy on their slate roofs, and in the gray sunlight, there was a dreariness about them that struck him at once.

  Glancing down at the map, Rutledge read the name by this particular square. It was the Ingerson farm. An old name, surely, going back to the Scandinavian heritage of many families in the North.

  He pulled into the yard and saw that seven or so sheep were penned near the house. Smoke rose from the chimney but the yard was empty, and no dogs barked.

  Getting down from the motorcar, he looked around him. There was nothing to be seen in the snow but the tracks of a man's Wellingtons and the prints of a dog.

  Before he could walk up the flagged approach to the kitchen door, it opened, and a woman stepped out to stare at him.

  She was middle-aged, her hair pulled back in a knot behind her head. It had been fair once but now was streaked with gray, though her eyes were a startling blue. She leaned on a cane as if walking was difficult, and there were deep lines of pain in her face. Behind her a black dog stood guard, growling, warning him to mind his manners.

  “I'm Inspector Rutledge—from London,” he began. “I'm looking into the deaths of the Elcotts.”

  “Maggie Ingerson,” she answered with a brief nod.

  “I've come to speak to Mr. Ingerson, if I may.”

  “He's been dead for ten years. My father. You'll have to make do with me, if there's anything you want to say.”

  “You live here alone?” Rutledge asked, glancing up and judging the size of her farm. In the hazy light he could just see one of the sheep pens that lay high on the shoulder of the fell rising some distance behind her house, a snake of stones already standing out above the banked snow. “It must be hard work to keep up this place on your own!”

  “The man who helped me until 1914 got blown up at Mons. There hasn't been anyone else who could do what needs to be done. I've seen to it myself.” It was said without rancor, but something in her eyes told him that she resented the war and mourned the man dead in France.

  “I've come about the search for young Robinson,
Gerald Elcott's stepson.”

  “I guessed as much. Have they found him yet?”

  “Not yet. No.”

  She had a stillness about her that spoke of self-sufficiency without self-pity. A plainness, as if her life had not left much time for frills. She was wearing Wellingtons, a man's thick corduroy trousers, and a man's heavy coat. The red plaid shirt under it, visible at the collar, seemed her only concession to femininity, as if there was no time to waste on something there was no one about to appreciate.

  “I'd like to ask if you heard or saw anything the night of the storm. If your dog barked for no reason—if you found any tracks the morning after the storm passed—anything that might help us locate the boy. You're not that far from the Elcott farm.”

  “On paper, that may be. You have to take into account the elevation as well. Until the search party arrived, I didn't know I should be listening for anything out of the ordinary. And the wind was that fierce, you couldn't hear yourself think. The dog and I stayed by the fire and left the sheep to fend for themselves.” She indicated her cane. “There wasn't much else I could do.”

  Rutledge could feel a rising thread of wind that seemed to come from the heights and gather strength as it rolled down towards them. The woman seemed not to notice it, as if inured to the cold. She was, as Hamish was saying in the back of his mind, of sturdier stock.

  “I understand that not far from here there's a track that leads over the mountains and down to the coast road.”

  “Not so much a track as an old drover road. I daresay I could find it on a good day. I don't know many who could. It's not been used in a hundred years.”

  “Did anyone pass that way on the night of the storm?”

  She laughed shortly. “It's not like London, Inspector. An army could have marched that way, and I wouldn't have seen them. Or heard them.”

  “Your dog might have.”

  “Sybil isn't the adventurous sort. I let her out, she does what she has to do, and she comes back in. She's a working dog. If whoever walked that track had two legs and didn't smell of sheep, she'd ignore him. Whatever he'd done.”

  Rutledge shaded his eyes to study the spectacular scenery that surrounded the farm. There was a beck tumbling down a rocky defile on the far side of the farm, disappearing in the direction of the lake. Far above, a ragged shelf leaned down crookedly towards the jumble of fallen debris that had once been a part of it. And higher still, the rounded shoulder of the fell turned and ran towards a fold of land that looked like a high pass.

  As if she'd read his mind, Maggie Ingerson said, “He didn't grow up here. That boy. I don't see him running too far from home. In his shoes, that's what I'd have done. Stayed close and bided my time.”

  “It would depend,” Rutledge answered, “on whether he was running from—or to—something.”

  She shrugged. “I never had a child of my own. I don't know the answer to that.”

  “There are five people dead—”

  “And I didn't kill them. I liked Gerald Elcott well enough, but I have all I can do to survive here. If the boy escaped, as Sergeant Miller says he did, then he's dead, too, and I haven't energy to spare in mourning him. In my view, he's better off dead. I know what it's like to live alone and have no one to turn to. I wouldn't wish that on him. Now if you'll forgive me, I need to rest my leg. Standing isn't good for it.”

  “Do you need help? Would you like to see Dr. Jarvis? Or to have someone bring you supplies?”

  “It's Dr. Jarvis who's to blame for my leg. He told me he could set it again and it would be straight. But he was wrong. About that and the infection afterward. I manage with what I've got, and the rest I do without. Still, thank you for asking.”

  She turned and walked back through the door, shutting it in his face.

  Rutledge stood there for a moment longer in the yard of the Ingerson farm, remembering what the woman had just said.

  The assumption was that Josh Robinson had fled that house of slaughter and run for his life—and that theory had served to galvanize Urskdale, sending searchers in every direction.

  But what if it wasn't what had happened that stormy night—

  What if he was still somewhere close by his home, waiting for his father to come for him?

  Rutledge started the motorcar and drove back the way he'd come.

  When Maggie came back into the kitchen, she found him standing there, rooted to the floor, eyes wide with fear.

  “I wouldn't mind him,” she said, crossing to the stove to warm her hands. “He was lost.”

  The child stared at her.

  “From London, he said.”

  The boy began to shake, as if from a fever. She thought at first he was having a seizure, and watched in concern, waiting for his eyes to roll back in his head. But he simply stood there, unable to move, in such a state of terror that she crossed to set her hands on his shoulders. He winced at her touch.

  “What Sybil finds, she keeps,” Maggie said firmly. “Do you hear me? If you want to leave, there's the door. Open it and go. If you want to stay, then you'll have to trust me.” She moved on to her chair and sat down heavily. “The kettle's about to boil, and I've been on my feet long enough. If we're going to have tea, you'll have to make it. I'll cut the bread. And then we'll see about getting a little hay to the sheep on the hill. The snow's too deep, they'll be starving before it melts. I can't afford to lose them.”

  Massaging her leg, she said, “I hate being in debt to any man. It's not how I was brought up. But you're here, and I need you, and that's all there is to it.”

  He walked to the stove and lifted the heavy kettle as it began to whistle. It took all his concentration, and he set it carefully on the mat on the table before rooting in the cupboard for tea and sugar and cups.

  Maggie watched him without seeming to.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked. “I've got to call you something.”

  But he didn't answer, his face turned away.

  She let it go.

  Sybil, lying by the bedroom door, heaved a sigh, as if something had been settled.

  Maggie, hearing her, said nothing.

  When Rutledge arrived at the Elcott farm, there was another vehicle there already, a small cart drawn by an old horse. He stopped the motorcar some distance away and went to the cart.

  Laying a hand on the animal's shoulder, he could feel the sweat, still warm.

  The interloper hadn't been there very long.

  A curious neighbor? Or someone else?

  He strode across the muddy yard to the kitchen door and opened it.

  In the light of a lamp on the table, Paul Elcott, on his knees by the wall, looked up with terror in his eyes, and then swore as he recognized Rutledge.

  “God, but you gave me a start, man! Did you ever think to knock?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Elcott gestured towards the bucket of water and scrub brush.

  “Someone's got to clean this room. And if I'm going to live here now . . .”

  One side of the room was nearly clean, the rusty stains only a faint streak in the paint now.

  “I thought you lived above the licensed house.”

  “The bank won't give me any more money. Not with Gerald dead. I'll lose the place before the month is out. There's nowhere else to go.”

  Rutledge thought, I don't envy him, living here with the ghosts.

  Hamish said, “Aye, but if he wanted the farm enough to kill for it, ye ken it's timely.”

  Rutledge looked again at the bloodstains, at the devastation that represented the abrupt end of five lives. Even when he first stepped through the door here, something had bothered him. A sense of evil and ugliness.

  It was hard to believe that a child could have done this.

  Elcott seemed to know what had been passing through Rutledge's mind. “I shan't have anywhere else to go!” he said in self-defense. “What am I to do?”

  “Did your brother own a handgun?” Rutledge
asked. If Josh had killed his own family, where had the revolver come from?

  “He never had a hope of reaching it in time, if he did. With small children about, he'd have kept it locked up in his bedroom or out in the barn . . . If I'm to finish here before dark, I need to be about it.” Something in his voice hinted at a fear of the dark in this place. . . .

  “Yes, go on. I have other business here.”

  Elcott waited, but Rutledge didn't explain. Finally he got to his knees again and began to scrub, but the stiffness across his shoulders indicated that he was all too aware of the policeman by the door.

  Rutledge walked outside, going through the barn with some care, looking for trapdoors, looking for some sign that someone had taken refuge here after the searchers had departed. But there was nothing. No makeshift beds, no sacks pulled into a dry corner, no cache of tins or biscuits or anything else a boy might live on. The same was true in the outbuildings. But then the police had already done this search earlier.

  He walked out into the yard again and scanned the slopes of the fell, searching for—what?

  Hamish said, “An observation post . . .”

  To begin with, perhaps. But nearly a week had passed since the murders. Without food, with only cold snow for water, and with little protection during the cold nights, how could a child have survived?

  But then this might have been a child with murder on his soul . . . and surviving was the reason for killing.

  It would depend, Hamish was reminding him, on how far ahead the boy had planned.

  Or, Rutledge found himself thinking, on how Josh Robinson had felt about the bloody shambles he'd fled. He could have carried out the murders and then, overwhelmed by the horror of what he'd done, he might have run too far and lost himself in the unfamiliar night, the unfamiliar snow. And never had the strength to find his way back.