by Charles Todd
And Rutledge, moving swiftly towards it, heard the fever pitch of his anger from inside.
“You're lying—you're lying!” he shrilled over and over again, and they could hear the ax striking the floor in rhythm with the words.
They stood in the cold, side by side but without speaking until the thuds stopped and the screams became broken sobs. It seemed, Rutledge thought, like hours before silence fell, and he looked at Maggie.
“Go in and comfort him.”
“He doesn't like to be touched.”
“All the same—and leave the door wide.”
She finally did as he asked, opening the door with some trepidation, and a wave of warm air thick with the smell of cooked porridge washed over them. The boy lay on the floor, his arms around the dog, the ax forgotten. But in the floor were raw gouges where he had pounded the edge into the wood.
“Sybil has done more than I ever could,” Maggie said, a forlorn note in her voice. She stooped to brush the tear-wet hair out of the child's face and he flinched.
Rutledge stepped in behind her and managed to shut the door. The heat of the room was stiffling after his long night in the cold. He pulled off his coat and set it with his hat on a pail by the door.
Maggie had gingerly retrieved the ax and held it now as if she was debating using it.
Rutledge knelt on the floor. “I could do with a bowl of that porridge,” he said, “and a cup of tea. You won't need that.” He nodded to the ax.
She looked down at the blade of the ax and then set it aside. But she didn't move.
“I won't hurt him. Go on. Make his breakfast, and I'll share it. I need to reach him, and that may be the best way.”
Reluctantly she went to the dresser and found three bowls. Rutledge looked at the curled-up figure of the boy, and then gently picked him up in his arms. It was as if Josh had burrowed so deep into himself that he wasn't aware of what was happening, for he put up no resistance. Rutledge carried the child to the chair where Maggie usually sat—where her father before her had sat, although Rutledge wasn't aware of that—and settled down, still holding the boy.
By the time Maggie had the porridge on the table, Josh was asleep.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon before the boy woke up. Maggie had spent most of that time trying to persuade Rutledge to leave him where he was.
He opened red-rimmed eyes, puffy from crying and sleep, and stared at Rutledge without emotion.
For hours Rutledge talked to him. About Sybil, about the sheep, about Maggie, about Westmorland and London, what-ever he could think of that had nothing to do with murder or policemen.
It was long after midnight before Rutledge, nearly hoarse by that time, got a response.
Josh looked up at him and said: “Will you hang me now?”
Rutledge said, “You can't be hanged. You're too young. And I don't know what you've done to deserve such punishment. I wasn't there—”
Maggie stirred, unwilling to force the child to relive what had happened that night in the snow.
“I was,” Josh said, simply. “I killed them. All of them. Murderers always hang. It's what he told me. My father.”
For several seconds Rutledge sat without moving. And then he said, “Gerald was the last to die, then?”
Maggie got to her feet and went to the sink, where she leaned on her hands and stared out the window.
The boy shook his head. “No. He was the first. And then—then Hazel. After that, Mama. And the babies. He let me go then, told me they'd come and find all the bodies, and I'd be hunted down like a mad dog and hanged. I ran. He had the revolver against his head, by that time. And I heard the shot before I'd gone very far. But his voice came after me, over and over, no matter how hard I ran, telling me it was my fault, all my fault for not wanting to come and live with him. But Mama understood, and wouldn't make me do it. I was so scared she'd die when the babies came, and they would send me to London after all. Mr. Blackwell had told her that's where I belonged. And Paul, he said none of us belonged here, that we weren't Elcotts at all, even though Mama had married Gerald and Gerald called me his boy. And Greggie Haldnes told me I ought to go back to London and stop putting on airs at his school—”
He went on, spilling out a litany of small indignities and mistreatment and insults that had made him tragically vulnerable.
“Did you tell these things to your mother?”
He shook his head. “Dr. Jarvis said I mustn't worry her, that having twins was dangerous, and I wouldn't want to be responsible for what happened then.”
Rutledge nearly swore, biting off the words.
“Are you sure it was your father, in the kitchen that night? Are you sure you didn't just imagine him, because you wanted him so much?”
Josh shook his head again vigorously, and rolled up the sleeve of his heavy shirt.
Maggie caught her breath in shock.
Deep bruises, only just turning green and yellow, ringed his thin arm in the shape of a man's fingers gripping hard.
“He made me watch. He held on to me and made me watch—”
By the time Rutledge had stemmed the tide of confession and helped Maggie feed Josh Robinson and put him to bed in her father's room, he was hardly able to keep his own eyes open. He could see in his head the horror that the boy had carried for more than a week, the images raw and frightful. But the last hours had taken their toll. When he came back to the warmth of the kitchen and sat down in Maggie's chair, he said to her, “I'll rest for half an hour. And then I'll go and do what has to be done.”
“Yes. It's for the best. You look like I feel. I'll just lie down a bit myself.” She lowered the flame on the lamp, banked the stove, and then went into her room, shutting the door.
The silence in the room, the ticking of a clock somewhere else in the house, and the warmth finally overwhelmed Rutledge, and he slept.
It was nearly three quarters of an hour later when he woke and couldn't remember where he was.
The room was dark, the lamp blown out. As his eyes adjusted to his surroundings, he got up and held a match to the wick, cupping his hand around the flame until it had caught. Settling the chimney in place again, he stood where he was and looked around the room.
All was as it should be. Maggie Ingerson's door was shut, as was the boy's. Sybil lay by the yard door, head on her paws, but her eyes gleaming in the glow of the lamp. He glanced at his watch. Too late to wake Mickelson or Greeley. He'd have to fetch his car soon and bring it around—
His eyes swung back to the yard door.
The ax was gone.
He crossed the room in four strides and flung open Maggie's door. Blankets were piled on her bed in the shape of her body, the coverlet drawn over them. In the dark it seemed she was sleeping, but a shaft of lamplight spilled across her pillow from the kitchen. And she wasn't there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Rutledge threw on his coat and headed for the door. Sybil refused to let him pass, growling and baring her teeth at him. Swearing, he turned and saw a door to another part of the house, shut off, cold and dark. But he went down the passage until he came to the front hall and the main door. He let himself out and trudged through the snow there to the lane that led to the main road.
He was a man, longer strides, younger, healthier by far.
But she had already made it to the Urskdale road, dragging the ax behind her.
When he caught up to her, Maggie swung it around in a circle, keeping him off.
“Let me go. He deserves to die, that bloody bastard! It's certain they won't hang him on the boy's word. They'll put the boy into an institution instead, and treat him as if he's mad. None of this would have happened if you'd left us alone!”
“Miss Ingerson—Maggie—listen to me. You'll never reach Urskdale. You can't make it that far. And if you did, they'd hang you for what you're intending to do.”
She still held him at bay. “What good am I with this leg? Sometimes I think dying is all that's left, and
I'm not afraid of it. At least I'll do one deed worthy of the name before I'm done.”
“Maggie. I can see that Robinson hangs. I'll give you my word, I'll swear on anything you ask. Come back to the farm, before the boy wakes up and finds you gone. He needs you now, and he will need you in the days to come. Don't do this!”
She stood there in the starlight, staring at him.
He never knew what decided her.
She swung the ax in a wide circle, the sharp blade shimmering in the ambient light.
He thought for an instant that she was going to attack and kill him, and then she let the blade go, whirling and singing and gleaming, until it finally buried itself in the snow thirty feet away. And as it flew, she howled like a trapped animal, or a Viking warrior, a sound that sent the hairs on the back of his neck standing stiff and wild as if he'd stumbled onto something pagan, lost in the mists of time.
He got her to the house, and then went back to retrieve the ax and store it in the barn. It had been a long and painful journey for her, the cold and the strain of going so far telling on her. But she walked with her back upright and her head high, although he could see the streaks of tears down her face. He said nothing about them, and when, exhausted, she finally let him take her arm, he gave her the support he would have offered a comrade on the battlefield.
It was after four when he made the long journey back up the hill towards the sheep pen, and then over the saddle to the shed where he had left his motorcar.
It was cold and at first refused to crank. But after the third try he got it started and climbed in.
There was something he needed to do before he reached the hotel or spoke to Inspector Greeley.
The door to the rooms Paul Elcott used on the second floor of the licensed house was unlocked, and Rutledge went in, confident he would find Elcott asleep. He took the dark stairs two at a time, and opened the door to Elcott's bedroom, saying, “It's Rutledge. There's something you need to know—”
There was no light, only a shadow across the window, moving in an erratic pattern. Tired as he was, he stood there for an instant, trying to make sense of that curious motion as it came towards him and then retreated.
Hamish exclaimed, “Too late!”
Rutledge dug his torch out of his pocket and turned it on. The brilliant burst of light blinded him. But behind the flash, he could see Paul Elcott hanging from the ceiling where a lamp had once been.
It took him no more than a matter of seconds to kick the upended chair out of the way and shove a table under the dangling feet. And then he was on top of the table, his pocketknife sawing at the rope above Elcott's head. As the last strands parted, Elcott's body jackknifed, and hit Rutledge hard, knocking both of them to the floor. Winded, Rutledge lay there fighting for breath, and then he rolled to his knees. The torch, arcing in a half-circle, threw the room into bright relief and then shadow.
Elcott was gagging badly. Rutledge loosened the rope around his throat and turned him over, pushing air into his lungs as if he were a drowned swimmer.
Elcott was still struggling to breathe, and in the glow of the torch, kicked under the bed now, his face seemed suffused with blood.
Rutledge left him there, ran down the stairs, and up the street. He began pounding on Dr. Jarvis's door, calling to the house to wake up.
Jarvis testily put his head out of an upper window. “What now?”
“It's Elcott—get over there now!”
“Rutledge? I thought you'd gone back to London, man!”
“Hurry. Or he'll be dead before you reach him.”
He turned and raced back the way he'd come. Hamish was loud in his mind, reminding him that he hadn't searched The Ram's Head—
Elcott was breathing, the sound of each rasping inhalation carrying down the stairs as Rutledge came up them.
He lay as he'd been left, on the floor, and his eyes were open. As Rutledge found a lamp and lit it, he blinked and then began to struggle as if fearful of whoever was behind the light.
“It's Rutledge. What the hell were you trying to do, man!”
Some of the tension seeped out of Elcott, and he lay still, concentrating on trying to breathe.
Jarvis was pounding up the stairs, shouting Rutledge's name. He'd put a coat over his pajamas and shoved his bare feet into his shoes. He stopped short in the doorway, staring first at Elcott, and then his eyes traveled up to the dangling rope overhead.
“My good God!” was all he said, hurrying to his patient.
After a time he rocked back on his heels. “It was a near-run thing! But the bone here”—gesturing to the front of the throat—“hasn't been broken. And he was lucky his neck didn't snap.”
He turned back to Elcott. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing, man? The inspector here had ordered you released without prejudice. It was over—” He stopped and got slowly to his feet.
His eyes sought Rutledge's. “Or was this a confession of sorts?”
“It was meant to be.”
As the doctor had worked, Rutledge had retrieved a single sheet of crumpled paper stuck through by a pin to Elcott's pillow. He held it out now.
There were four words on the sheet, printed by a man under great stress—or duress. I did do it.
Jarvis said again, “My good God!” And then, “You shouldn't have stopped him. It will all have to be done again—”
“He didn't hang himself,” Rutledge said. “Did you, Elcott?”
The dazed man on the floor shook his head vehemently and struggled to sit. His limbs seemed to have a mind of their own, arms folding as if no longer able to hold his weight.
He tried to speak but his throat closed over the words.
Rutledge said them for him.
“It was Hugh Robinson, tidying up before Mickelson could dig into the past as I had done. It might not have worked twice, his act of grieving. He couldn't pretend to a second suicide attempt. Elcott?”
Elcott's eyes were on Rutledge's face. He nodded vigorously, a sound like a growl coming from his damaged throat.
Jarvis picked up the overturned chair and sat in it, his mouth open.
“Let's get Elcott to the bed,” Rutledge told the stunned doctor. But it was a moment or two before Jarvis could comply.
Elcott sank into the pillows, and tried again to find his voice. When it came it was no more than a harsh, raw whisper, hardly audible as words.
“Smoth—smothered me—pillow. Then left—dangling—toes on chair back. Could—couldn't—rise up—loosen noose. Lost my bal—ance trying. Fell off.”
It was a hard way to die, choking slowly to death.
Jarvis wiped the palm of his hand over his mouth. “Robinson, you say?”
“Robinson. Carefully planned and executed, from the start,” Rutledge told him.
“He killed them all? But why? Why in God's name—they were his own children!”
“Revenge.” He stood by the bed. “And you were to be the scapegoat,” he said to Elcott. “I'd failed, but he was afraid the new man would be luckier.”
Jarvis got to his feet and went to the kitchen, rummaging in the dresser and the pantry. He came back with three glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Without a word he poured a finger for each of them, but had to hold Elcott as he sipped. The raw spirits sent him into a gasping fit.
Rutledge was saying, “Jarvis, I want you to stay here with him. I'll find Constable Ward and send him to keep you company. Don't leave until I've come back again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes. You'll find Ward sleeping in the back of the police station. Greeley has had someone there since the—er—murders.”
The doctor was right. Ward had prepared himself a cot in the cell, the door open, his shoes on the floor within easy reach. The constable's snores could be heard from the outer office.
He listened groggily as Rutledge briefly explained what he wanted done.
“With respect, sir, I've been told you're relieved.” He rubbed his eyes with his fists, then st
retched to ease his shoulders.
“If you want to leave Jarvis and his patient to the mercy of the killer coming back to see the results of his handiwork,” Rutledge told him curtly, “by all means follow the rules. Meanwhile, I'm going to speak to Greeley.”
Ward was already shoving his feet into his shoes, and reaching for his tunic. “Then I'll be on my way, sir. Mr. Greeley did leave orders to be called if there was any new developments.”
Rutledge sat in the prim Greeley parlor for half an hour, speaking rapidly and carefully to his counterpart.
Greeley, half asleep when he began, was wide awake by the end.
“I've never heard the like!” he said grimly. “But what put you on to him? Along the coast they swore no one had asked directions about the old road.”
“He didn't have to ask. He must have heard about it and spent some time during his summer holiday, searching it out for himself. It was useful, and even though he was caught in the storm, he'd have made some sort of provision even for that. He's not a man to leave much to chance.”
“And the bastard made me take him to see his dead. To count them, more than likely!”
“It was a good excuse for his staying in his room much of the time. Waiting for his son's body to be found.”
“Should we summon Inspector Mickelson and tell him what's happened?” Greeley asked. “As he's in charge . . .”
“If we go to wake Mickelson now, Robinson will hear us. His room is just across from the inspector's. He'll think we've found Elcott, and he may come out into the passage to ask if there's news. Better to wait until everyone has come to the kitchen for breakfast.”
“And you say Ward's with Dr. Jarvis and Elcott?” Rutledge confirmed it and Greeley went on, “We'll just step around to Sergeant Miller's house and put him in the picture. We'll not take a man like Robinson without trouble.” Greeley started for the door. Then he stopped. “Where's the murder weapon, then?”
