by Charles Todd
Rutledge went back to the house, this time entering through the front door, climbing the stairs to the bedrooms.
Searching more carefully than he'd had a chance to do in Inspector Greeley's presence, he went through drawers and cupboards trying to find something that defined the dead. Letters—more photographs—
“It isna' a house wi' secrets,” Hamish grumbled.
And that was true. Nothing was concealed. It was as if the family had never felt it had to hide anything. The handful of letters he came across were innocuous, hardly more than everyday accounts of events. Seven from Janet Ashton, three from Robinson. If there had been other letters, they were gone now.
He found a book of accounts in a desk in Gerald and Grace Elcott's bedroom, and turned through the pages, recognizing that the farm was relatively prosperous. Another factor pointing in Paul Elcott's direction.
An album of pressed flowers on a shelf by the bed must have belonged to Grace. She had collected these blooms, pressed them with care, and identified them on the page. As the guide Drew had said, in the short growing season there were wildflowers along the edges of the lake, and in sheltered pockets, if one knew where to look. Bog myrtle with its distinctive scent, the leaves and flowers of Mimulus, various ferns, the leaves of dwarf willow and dwarf sedge from the highest peaks. They were mixed with the more familiar marigold, rose petals, violets, and lavender.
Grace Elcott must have walked often through the countryside, adding to her store. He tried to picture her, holding her daughter by the hand, her son running ahead, going out to search for something new with each season.
But she had worked hard as well, cooking, making her own bread, hanging out the wash, ironing the clothes, cleaning the house, sweeping out the kitchen . . . and never complained. Transplanted from London to a harder life, perhaps, than she'd expected.
He put the album back in its place and went on. The toy soldiers in Josh's room, the dolls in Hazel's, painted an ordinary picture of life here. He found a small coral necklace that had belonged to the little girl, wrapped in pretty paper and kept in a velvet box. A birth gift from her parents? But in Josh's room there was a pair of gold cuff links, broken and stuffed behind the head of the bed. . . .
Rutledge held them in the palm of his hand, wondering what they represented. A gift from his stepfather, secretly rejected? Or merely broken by an active boy who was afraid to tell his elders what had become of them?
In the parlor were books, Peter and Wendy and several volumes of explorations. A Bible. A book of household hints. A chess set and board. A pipe rack with a tin-lined tobacco box beside it. A small sewing basket with needles and embroidery threads in gay colors. A folded tea towel with an unfinished pattern along its border—a vase of violets with leaves trailing . . .
Domestic life. Ordinary, comfortable.
Rutledge remembered the hat with its cabbage roses. Grace Elcott had possessed a sense of style. A pretty woman, who had attracted two husbands.
Had she been afraid of Paul Elcott because he coveted not only his brother's farm but also his brother's wife?
He went back up to Hazel's bedroom to look again at the photograph of Janet Ashton. Where did she stand in this scene of death? The only revolver he'd found was hers. . . .
He was studying her petulant face when he heard Paul Elcott's voice from below.
“Inspector Rutledge? Are you still here?”
He went to the head of the stairs and called, “Yes. What is it?”
“It's Inspector Greeley. He's come looking for you. There's been trouble at the hotel.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Inspector Greeley was pacing the yard when Rutledge came around the corner of the house.
“You're a hard man to find!” Greeley said.
“What's happened?”
“It's a ruddy nightmare. Robinson tried to kill himself. It was all Elizabeth could do to stop him! She's cut, too. A straight razor—”
Rutledge swore. “All right. I'll meet you there.”
He cranked the car and got in behind the wheel. Greeley, behind him, turned his carriage and prepared to follow.
Rutledge drove fast, sending a spray of snow, meltwater, and mud behind him as his tires bit into the road.
Was it a bit of histrionics—or had Robinson let his grief get the best of him?
Hamish said, “If he cut the lass, it wasna' dramatics.”
“Damn the man!” Rutledge snarled. “It serves no purpose, not here. Not now. He should have waited until his children were buried. He owes them that much.”
But grief had many faces, and here was a man who had suffered through a prisoner-of-war camp after a bloody war. He had come home to a family that had, for whatever reasons, forsaken him. Now they were dead. And even in that, there was no peace.
Hamish grunted, as if agreeing with Rutledge's thoughts. “War changed us.”
And the simple words carried a wealth of misery.
The back door stood wide. Rutledge could hear anxious voices from the kitchen and crossed the yard in long strides.
Hamish, his voice seeming to echo against the fell, said, “She's come to no harm—”
As he stepped inside he could smell the odor of fear and a heavier reek of burned toast. It was bitter in his nostrils.
The first thing he saw was the spattered blood on the floor. And shards of a broken teacup and saucer.
His mind flashed back to another kitchen he had seen not an hour before, and a man scrubbing the stubborn stains on the walls.
Dr. Jarvis was there, and Vera Cummins, her cheeks streaked with tears. And Elizabeth Fraser, pale and shaken, was submitting silently to the bandaging of her hand. Harry Cummins stood near the door to the passage, worry deepening the lines of fatigue, his eyes on Miss Fraser.
All looked up as Rutledge came in.
“What happened? Where's Robinson?” he asked.
“Robinson is in his bed. Under sedation,” Jarvis said grimly.
“I was coming down the passage with clean towels,” Elizabeth Fraser said, her voice trembling. “I heard a—a noise in Mr. Robinson's room. It sounded as if something heavy had fallen to the floor. I knocked, and then when there was no answer, I went in—”
She shivered, and looked up at Jarvis. The doctor was just tying off the bandage, a frown on his face.
She cleared her throat and went on. “He was on the floor. There were pieces of china all around him, and blood pouring from his wrist. He was just—staring at it. And when he saw me, he tried to slash the other wrist. I fought to stop him. Mr. Cummins heard the noise, and then Miss Ashton came running to help as well. It took all of us to subdue him—it was as if he had the strength of a dozen men. And all the while he kept calling for his children. It was horrible—I didn't think I could prevent him from— If it hadn't been for Harry, I'd have failed. We got him out here and used belts to tie him to a chair until the doctor could be sent for—”
She stopped, then said faintly, “I was frightened he'd succeed.”
Rutledge turned to the doctor. “How is he?”
“I think he's come to his senses,” Jarvis answered. “He was apologizing profusely to everyone—”
Rutledge brushed past them and walked down the passage to the guest rooms. He opened Robinson's door without ceremony. As it banged against the wall, Miss Ashton, who had been sitting beside the bed watching her former brother-in-law, started at the sound, turning to Rutledge with wide, startled eyes.
Robinson looked up at Rutledge blearily, and with an effort lifted himself to one elbow. There were bandages on his wrists and one across his chin. Blood stained the floor and the white cloth on the table that had held the yellow pitcher and bowl. They lay on the floor in bits.
“What in hell did you think you were doing?” Rutledge turned back to Robinson as Hamish, in the back of his mind, urged caution.
Hugh Robinson said, “I—I don't know—I think—I think I lost my mind—”
“It was a
stupid, dangerous thing to try! You've hurt Miss Fraser, you've frightened everyone in the house, and you've wreaked havoc here and in the kitchen—and you've gained nothing!”
“You don't know what it's like—” Robinson began, tears in his eyes. “You don't know— That child is my son!”
“All the more reason to keep your head and help him when he's found.” He turned to Miss Ashton. “Is there a key to this door?”
“Yes—Miss Fraser passed them out last night, after dinner—”
“And the razor?”
“In the kitchen.”
“All right. Robinson, you're locked in until I see you've got yourself back under control. Your meals will be brought to you.”
He took the key, ushered Janet Ashton out into the passage, and shut the door.
She said, “He's grieving—”
“Nevertheless.” He turned the key and dropped it into his pocket.
She followed him back to the kitchen, still protesting.
Hamish was saying, “Ye've lost your temper because ye've wasted the morning! It isna' right to take your failure out on others.”
They reached the kitchen. The others watched him, disturbed by something they read in his face.
“Is he all right?” Mrs. Cummins asked. “He's a guest here; I can't imagine what went wrong! We've done all we can to make everyone comfortable, but it's hard, you see—”
He could smell the whiskey on her breath. “It was nothing you did—or failed to do,” he told her. Then looking over her head to her husband, he added, “Perhaps you ought to take Mrs. Cummins upstairs to rest.”
Cummins tore his eyes from Elizabeth Fraser's face. “I should stay to see if Miss Fraser is all right . . .”
Mrs. Cummins caught her breath on a sob and walked quickly out of the room, hurrying down the passage. They could hear her footsteps flying up the stairs.
“Your place is with your wife,” Rutledge told Cummins curtly.
Reluctantly the innkeeper left the room, casting a last glance at the woman in the wheeled chair.
Miss Ashton declared, “I'm going for a walk. I can't sit here and do nothing!” She turned and followed Cummins down the passage.
Dr. Jarvis was replacing instruments in his satchel, wrapping them in cloth as he put them away. “I don't think Robinson did much damage,” he told Rutledge as he worked. “To himself or to Elizabeth here. He was distraught, and overly emotional, but I don't think he had the heart to finish the job.”
Miss Fraser was looking down at her hand. There was a rising bruise on her cheek where Robinson must have struck her as they struggled. Rutledge swore under his breath. He wanted to take Robinson by the throat and shake him. The force of the feeling surprised him.
Dr. Jarvis considered her for a moment. “Would you care for a sedative, my dear? Something to soothe—”
“No. I must see to the dinner—”
“I'll leave something then, in the event it's needed later. I have another patient to see to, a broken collarbone. Fell off his roof trying to push out the snow. If you need me, send for me.”
He nodded to Rutledge, and was gone. From the yard they could hear him speaking to Greeley, who had just pulled in. The two men left together.
There was silence in the kitchen.
Then Elizabeth Fraser said again, “I was so frightened—!” Her voice was soft, as if she wasn't aware she was speaking aloud.
For want of something constructive to do, Rutledge began to make tea, and after a few minutes set a cup before her. She drank it down, her left hand shaking only slightly as she lifted it to her lips.
“Ask Mrs. Cummins or Miss Ashton to help you with the meal. You shouldn't disturb that bandage for twenty-four hours.”
“You sound like Dr. Jarvis!” She smiled wryly. “But then in the war, you must have seen far more terrible injuries than mine. This will heal in no time.”
He didn't answer her, standing at the window looking out, sorting through his emotions. He had saved Janet Ashton's life, but there was no sense of warmth between them. They had become antagonists over the murders, and her determination to force the issue kept her at arm's length from everyone. He wondered why Gerald had chosen one over the other. Because Grace was vulnerable, with two fatherless children, bringing out his protective nature? Was it in fact Janet Ashton's strength that had seemed unfeminine and hard to him? And was that why Gerald had been kind to Elizabeth Fraser? Because she was vulnerable in her own fashion?
Yet he himself had seen another side of Elizabeth Fraser. She possessed a gallant spirit, taking her disability in stride, earning her keep without complaint in this house of tensions between husband and wife. He wondered why she stayed. And again he came to the conclusion that need had forced her into what might become an intolerable situation.
Because Harry Cummins was keenly aware of her vulnerability, too.
“I understand, really I do,” she was saying. “He's half mad with grief and frustration. But it's such a waste. There's been enough bloodshed already. What good—what possible good—could it do to shed more?”
“I expect he didn't think about good. Only about his own pain.” Rutledge knelt and began quietly washing up the blood from the floor, collecting the bits of teacup.
“You needn't do that—” Elizabeth Fraser protested.
“Why not?” he asked, forcing a smile. “It's a way of dealing with my own frustrations.”
She looked askance, but didn't take it any further.
Tipping the broken china into the dustbin, he closed the door to shut out the cold, clear air. The odor of burned bread was gone now, and the kitchen seemed chill, unfriendly, as if what had happened at the Elcott farm had finally spread to this comfortable and unlikely place.
Mrs. Cummins came down to help prepare the meal, and Rutledge left the women to their work. He had sat for an hour with Elizabeth Fraser, silence between them, her thoughts turned inward. He had offered what he could, his presence, without intruding.
Hamish, uneasy and withdrawn, was a third party in the room.
Just before Mrs. Cummins had come in again, Miss Fraser had said, as if closing the door on whatever was on her own mind, “Did you learn anything this morning? You seemed so hopeful as you were leaving. I could feel it.”
“Not much, I'm afraid.”
“Perhaps you aren't looking in the right place?”
“That's what Maggie Ingerson said to me.”
“Miss Ashton is convinced that she's right about Paul Elcott.”
“It would be convenient for her.”
“Convenient? An odd choice of words, surely, Inspector! I don't see what she might gain from blaming him!”
But he said nothing. After a moment, Miss Fraser commented tentatively, “You must find out who did this horrible thing—as soon as you can! Urskdale won't be the same even so, but we have a better chance of putting events behind us if there's an end to it.”
He couldn't tell her that he already had too many suspects—and far from enough proof against any one of them. He couldn't tell her that he was stumbling in the dark, looking for answers, no better than Inspector Greeley before him. And what if there was someone else out there, a stranger whom no one had seen in the storm—or worse, someone in the dale who had killed wantonly and could possibly kill again. . . .
He dared not concentrate on any one possibility to the exclusion of others. It would be too dangerous. This wasn't London, where constables across the city could keep an eye on each suspect and report daily. Here there were no eyes. And there was a good deal of empty landscape where people could move at will.
He admitted to himself that he didn't want the killer to be the child. It was too monstrous a thing to have done.
Hamish reminded him, “Aye, but ye ken, the duty of a policeman is no' to feel a partiality. It will blind you to what must be done.”
Rutledge had done his best to be impartial in Preston. Odd to think that if the trial had been finished only a day
early, he wouldn't have been sent north. He'd have been halfway back to London before the bodies had been discovered.
But if the trial had ended a day early, the fate of young Marlton might have been very different. The long and serious debate by the jurors as they considered the evidence was all that had spared him from the hangman.
As for duty, Rutledge understood that all too well. He had sent young, green men into the heat of battle, because it was their turn to fight. He had had to close his eyes to the fact that they would surely die. In the end, chance had made the final choice. Or so he had tried to tell himself as he reported the long lists of the dead and missing.
The Scots under him had sometimes sat with a bowl of water on a black cloth, searching for a sign of what lay ahead. He never knew if it had worked.
What would he ask of the water, if he sat over a bowl right now? Where was the child? Or—who was the murderer?
Better by far for the snow to have swallowed up Josh Robinson than for him to be brought in for trial.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Greeley was at his office, his face haggard with fatigue. Even handing the investigation over to Rutledge had done nothing to alleviate his own involvement, and he seemed to carry around with him the haunting question of responsibility: Had he failed in his duty by not bringing in the killer himself?
As Rutledge walked in, he got up from behind his desk and said, “Dr. Jarvis tells me he's all right. Robinson.”
“I have a feeling it won't happen again.”
Greeley sighed. “I tried to persuade him not to look at the bodies—for this very reason. The loss alone was enough to drive any man mad.”
He fished out a sheet of paper from a pile on the top of his desk. “This came for you. A man from Keswick brought it. I'd gone by the hotel to deliver it. That's how I walked into the middle of the chaos. I summoned the doctor and went looking for you.”
It was a telegram from Inspector Bowles in London.
REPORT FINDINGS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
CHIEF CONSTABLE ANXIOUS FOR RESULTS.
Rutledge read it and then shoved it into his pocket.
