A Cold Treachery

by Charles Todd

  “Yes?” Rutledge answered warily, thinking of a name he had not given to Greeley or anyone else.

  To his surprise Cummins asked directly, “Am I on that list?”

  “Why should you be?” Rutledge countered.

  “Because you've had your suspicions. I've read them in your face.”

  “Not all the answers have come back,” Rutledge replied evenly. “Is there anything you want to tell me before they do?”

  “I—I just need to know if my name is there! I haven't done anything—not to the Elcotts. But I'm used to—it's—something personal—I'd rather not have it talked about. Not here, where everyone knows one's business before the day is out.”

  “It might be best, then, to tell me what you're hiding.”

  “I'm not hiding—at least nothing to do with murder. It's a very private matter. You don't understand what it's like, sometimes. Surely you've done something you're not especially proud of!”

  The expression on Rutledge's face tightened, and Harry stepped back, his hand on the chair behind him.

  “I didn't mean— Look, forget I said anything. It's just that everyone's nerves are on edge. You can feel it. Even Elizabeth isn't herself. She snapped at me this morning, and she's never done that. Never. If she can be unsettled by all this, it isn't—surprising—that others should be.” He turned away, towards the window. “If only you could take into custody whoever it was killed the Elcotts! We could be at peace again.”

  “How long have you known Miss Fraser?” Rutledge asked.

  He turned so quickly he nearly knocked over the chair. “Elizabeth? For about four years, at a guess. Why?”

  “How did she come to Urskdale?”

  “I—I offered her a position here. To be company for my wife while I was away fighting. Elizabeth had just recovered from her accident. She wanted to get away from pity; she wanted a quiet place where no one cared how or why she was bound to that chair.” He gestured around him, as if the cold dining room was sanctuary. “It suited us both.”

  “Tell me about her accident.”

  “Truthfully? I don't know what happened. I was in Green Park in London early one morning, walking off too much whiskey the night before. And she was sitting there in her chair, crying. I went over to her and asked if there was anything I could do. She said, ‘Talk to me until I've got myself together again.' And I did. Fifteen minutes later, she thanked me and there was an end to it.”

  “Go on.”

  “I met her on the street a day or so afterward, and she said, ‘I remember how lonely the Urskdale mountains are, and how the afternoon light glints on the lake. I'm afraid I don't remember your name.' I took her to a shop for tea, and we talked for a bit. I think I told her how unhappy my wife was. It had been worrying me and there was nothing I could do. You can't very well tell the Army to go hang! I don't know if I suggested she come here to be with Vera, or she did. It didn't matter. I was grateful. A fortnight after that, I put her on the train and said good-bye. I sailed three days later. But she wrote to me while I was away. Vera couldn't. She'd begun drinking, you see. She was certain I'd be killed. So many were . . .”

  “And you knew nothing about Elizabeth Fraser, before sending her north? That was damned trusting!”

  “I was desperate. She seemed gentle and kind. My wife's family hadn't spoken to her since we were married. Vera needed someone. My God, what else was I to do!”

  Greeley arrived as Rutledge was preparing to leave the hotel.

  “What's this about the old drift road?”

  “It's another way into the valley,” Rutledge told him.

  “Yes, but not a likely way.”

  “It wasn't likely that Josh Robinson survived. But you searched for him. I intend to be thorough in this matter as well.”

  “I'll send someone to inquire, although it's time wasted. Even the summer walkers don't venture that far. It's rough going in good weather, and the views are no better than others easier reached. Not when you've got Wastwater or Buttermere to choose from.”

  Rutledge reached into his pocket for the heel. “What do you make of this? I found it on the Urskdale side of the fall.”

  “Hardly evidence of murder. God knows how long it has been there.”

  “What do you know about Drew Taylor?”

  “Drew? He's lived here all his life. His mother was eighty-seven when she died and was rumored to be something of a terror. Little wonder he never married! I doubt there's a woman in six counties Mrs. Taylor would have thought fit for her son. You aren't suspecting him next!”

  “Curiosity. Elcott served with a man called Taylor. There was ill feeling between them. I wondered if there could be a connection.”

  “Elcott never had much to say about his war. And Taylor's got no family.”

  “Indeed.” Rutledge got up to set his plate and cup on the sink. “I want to talk to Belfors again. Are you coming with me?”

  Belfors was just opening his shop. He nodded to the two policemen, and led them inside. “I expect it isn't a new spade you're after,” the ironmonger said.

  “The revolver that Theo Elcott brought home from Africa—”

  “He didn't bring it home. He died on the ship of a fever.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I don't know. Henry—Gerald's father—showed it me. He didn't tell me what he'd done with it.”

  “Was that the only time you'd seen it?”

  Belfors's eyes flicked away, and he ran a cloth over the counter as if a speck of dust had caught his attention.

  “I can't remember, to tell you the truth.”

  Rutledge nodded to Greeley. “I'll have this man taken into custody, if you please, Inspector.”

  “On what charge?” Greeley demanded, caught off guard.

  “He's concealing evidence.”

  Rutledge turned on his heel and walked out the door.

  Behind him he heard Belfors call, “Here—!”

  But he kept going.

  At the tiny police station, he went into Greeley's office without a word to Sergeant Miller, and shut the door behind him.

  It wasn't long before he could hear Greeley coming through the outer door, Belfors loudly complaining of injustice and threatening to take up this vile behavior with Rutledge's superiors.

  Sergeant Miller added his voice to the fray, demanding to know what Belfors had done.

  Rutledge could hear him. “Surely he's not our murderer, sir? Mr. Belfors?”

  Hamish scolded, “It wasna' necessary!”

  Rutledge didn't answer him.

  After a time Greeley opened the door to his office and said as he came in, “Are you satisfied? This is irregular behavior!”

  “Irregular, perhaps, but I don't like being lied to. In half an hour, we'll see if Mr. Belfors has decided to cooperate.”

  In the event, Belfors was still seething when Rutledge went back to the single holding cell to speak with him.

  “I'll have a word with the Chief Constable about this, see if I don't.”

  “When you're charged with being an accessory to murder, he may take a different view.”

  The words sobered him instantly. “I've killed no one!”

  “Perhaps not. I'd prefer to let the courts decide.” Rutledge started for the door.

  Belfors said, “Look, you've got it wrong! I haven't seen that weapon in years. And I'm not about to cause trouble for other people on the basis of some boyhood prank!”

  Rutledge paused at the door. “Mr. Belfors, I only wanted to know under what circumstances you'd last seen that revolver. If you feel your conscience won't let you answer my questions, I have no choice but to let a judge ask them.”

  “Damn you! Henry Elcott was my friend. His sons were my friends—”

  “Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Belfors. You asked Henry Elcott to show you his brother's revolver. Did you stand there at the counter in your shop and hold it in your hands? Did you sight down the barrel and rest your finger on the trigger? It
's what most men would do. Vicariously reliving someone else's exploit. No one else from Urskdale had killed a Boer. It was exciting. You could picture the man striding into Theo Elcott's railway station, to shoot him before he could use the telegraph to warn of the commando's whereabouts. Or perhaps he was plotting to take over the station and use it to ambush a train. It was a favorite Boer tactic, to disrupt British lines of communication. And Theo Elcott, who was train mad and not the sort to shoot anyone, had done what neither you nor Henry nor any other man from Urskdale had had the chance to do.” He paused. “And that's why you knew the weapon when you saw it again.”

  Belfors stared at him.

  “Who was it?”

  “I tell you, I won't betray him—”

  “Was it Josh Robinson who had brought that gun in to sell to you? Knowing you might like to have it, because you'd known Theo better than most?”

  “It wasn't the boy!”

  Rutledge remembered Belfors and his wife standing beside Paul Elcott as the bodies of his brother and his brother's children were lowered into the earth.

  “It was Paul, wasn't it? He reminds you of Theo. Quiet, not the sort to dazzle the world as Gerald had done. You're fond of Paul. And you've kept an eye on him since his father, Henry, died.”

  Belfors stood there, saying nothing.

  “You're a bastard, did you know that?” he finally snarled.

  “It's not going to help either of us if I run out of patience, Mr. Belfors. I think it might be wise for you to tell me the rest of the story now.”

  Silence. At last Belfors answered grudgingly. “He was only fifteen. He knew I'd liked Theo. He brought me the revolver and told me his father wanted to sell it but not to a stranger. Did I want to buy it? I suppose he thought I'd believe him, but I went to Henry and asked if it was true, if they were selling the revolver. And Henry told me it wasn't true.”

  “Why did Paul want to sell the handgun?”

  “He'd had an argument with his father. Paul was angry and hurt, and I expect he was selling the one thing of value his family had, in order to run away.”

  “Was the argument over who was to inherit the farm?”

  “He never said. I don't know. Henry was furious about the weapon and took Paul out behind the barn. I felt responsible for getting the boy in trouble, and I kept the revolver for a time. But Paul didn't hold what had happened against me; he realized I'd have had to ask Henry before I bought the handgun. Gerald came in one day and asked for the box it was kept in. He had a proper message from Henry, and I gave Theo's revolver to him.”

  “And what was Paul's reaction to that?”

  Reluctantly Belfors answered him. “He said—he said he would take it back one day, with everything else that was due him. It was no more than a boy's rash threat! Paul wasn't vengeful. And he was facing his father's death, sooner rather than later. A boy of fifteen isn't able to handle his emotions well. You can't take that as proof he shot his brother!”

  But as Hamish was pointing out, it meant that Paul Elcott had known where to find a revolver. If he had wanted to use one.

  Rutledge said, “I'll go and speak to Elcott—before I order you released.”

  And he left the fuming Belfors there in the cell.

  Elcott was at the farmhouse. The kitchen was nearly clean, and a pail of fresh paint was being applied to the walls, a cheerful and sunny pale yellow. The tablecloth with the roses, the chintz covers to the chairs, the hangings at the window had been taken away. A bolt of fabric stood in a corner, a cream background with blue cornflowers in bunches scattered across the cloth.

  He glanced up as Rutledge knocked and then entered the house.

  Rutledge said, “It looks better.”

  “I can still smell the blood. I don't know if I can ever live here. There's a shed out back that I could turn into a reasonable place. I don't know.” He stared at the walls as if he could see through them to the stains he'd been at such pains to hide.

  “Who is looking after your brother's sheep?”

  “I've been doing that. With help from neighbors. They've been kind. Most of the stock seem to have survived the storm. Thank God for small mercies.” He set down his brush. “You didn't drive all the way out here to ask after the sheep.”

  “No. I've come to look for your uncle Theo's revolver.”

  A range of emotions swept across Elcott's face. “I was wondering how long it would be before someone remembered that.”

  “You should have told me from the start.” Rutledge came into the room and set his coat and hat on the back of a chair. “If you had nothing to hide.”

  “I didn't think about it. Not at first. You don't. My God, what I saw in this room wiped everything else out of my head!”

  “What became of it?”

  “Theo's revolver? It went to Gerry. And Gerry was set on passing it on to his sons.”

  “There's only your word for that, of course. Where's the revolver now?”

  “I would guess it was upstairs where Gerry kept it. I haven't looked. I feel—uncomfortable—going through his belongings. It's as if he's still here, watching me!”

  “Then show me where it should be. I'll do the searching.”

  Paul Elcott washed his hands and dried them on a rag he used while painting. “Come with me.”

  Hamish commented, “He sounds like a man on his way to his hanging.”

  They went through the door to the kitchen passage and to the chilly main rooms of the house. Paul Elcott led the way up the stairs to the bedroom where his brother and his wife, Grace, had slept.

  Rutledge made no comment as he watched Paul open a chest that stood against the far wall.

  It was made of oak, carved and polished, and the feet that held it up from the floor were round knobs of the same wood. It held blankets, linens, and an assortment of bedclothes.

  Elcott stood aside and let Rutledge lift them out and set them on the bed.

  At the bottom of the chest was a rectangular box of dark wood, the initials T.A.E. burned into the lid and under them a relief of mountains, one of them long and flat on the top. Table Mountain in Cape Town.

  Hamish warned, “It will be there. Cleaned and oiled. He's had time to see to it under cover of the painting.”

  Rutledge took the box out and passed it to Paul Elcott. When the lid was opened, Rutledge saw that the box was a small traveling desk. A square of wood was covered in green velvet held by strips of tooled leather, and one end could be raised on brass struts to form a gentle slope, making writing easier when sitting on the ground or in a chair.

  Elcott pulled out a hidden knob and took out the board. Underneath was a tray for pens along one side and compartments for a square jar with a cork stopper for ink and for stamps along the other. The larger space in the center held stationery and envelopes. It was large enough and deep enough to conceal a revolver as well.

  But there was no revolver inside.

  Elcott slowly raised his eyes to Rutledge's face. “I swear—I never touched it!” he said in a strained voice.

  “Then where is it now?”

  “God knows—your guess is as good as mine. With children in the house, Gerry may have taken it out and hidden it in the barn or somewhere, thinking they wouldn't find it. He never told me—he wouldn't have. I—I was foolish once. I did something— I don't know why it isn't here!”

  Motive. Opportunity. Means.

  Paul Elcott could have taken the revolver at any time. While the twins were being christened. While his brother was out on the slopes with the sheep. While Grace was in the village doing her marketing. On Sunday morning when the family went to worship in the church . . .

  Hamish was saying in the back of his mind, “Gerald Elcott couldna' reach it in time. If it was there.”

  But Josh Robinson might have known where it was. Children were often more aware of what was happening around them than adults recognized. Gerald might even have shown him the revolver, hoping to give his stepson a sense of pride in
his new family. Little dreaming that one day the child would take it out and use it to murder his family.

  “Are you going to take me into custody?” Paul Elcott demanded, his hands automatically shutting the little desk. “I didn't do it. I swear before God!”

  There was a long moment of silence in the room. Elcott's face, locked in fear and uncertainty, waited. Then he bent to set the box again in the bottom of the chest, set the rest of the contents on top, and closed the lid.

  Rutledge said, “I'm not taking you into custody now. There isn't enough evidence. Yet. But I warn you against leaving Urskdale.”

  Paul Elcott straightened up and said with desolation in his voice, “I don't have anywhere else to go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Rutledge gave Greeley the order to release Belfors and then went back to the hotel.

  Where was the missing revolver? Had Elcott taken it? Had the boy? Was it lying somewhere in the snow even now? Or had Gerald hidden it so well that no one had found it yet?

  “You canna' take Elcott into custody until you know,” Hamish warned him.

  There was no way of judging who had pulled the trigger . . .

  He walked into the hotel kitchen, his face grim.

  Elizabeth Fraser looked up from the potatoes she was peeling, and set the knife aside as she saw his expression.

  “What's happened?”

  “God knows—Nothing. As soon as I find one bit of evidence, it's ambiguous—I don't know how to weigh it. You shouldn't be doing that. Not with your hand!”

  “Yours doesn't look much better,” she told him, pointing to the holes in his palm. “How on earth did you hurt yourself?”

  He looked down at his hand. “I—was clambering over rocks, and I must have cut it.”

  “You didn't do that sort of damage on a stone. Here, let me see.”

  “No, it's all right.” He took off his coat. “Why did you come here for Harry Cummins? What's between the two of you?”

  She laughed. “Nothing but gratitude. I needed sanctuary and his wife needed a—companion. We served each other's purposes. He loves her, you know. But she won't let him. She holds him at arm's length, and it drives him mad sometimes. He was fond of Grace. She was young and pretty and lively. What he had once loved in his wife. The contrast was painful. He longed for his wife to be herself again.”