by Charles Todd
But Rutledge was ready for the question. “It was Theo's revolver. I daresay Robinson disposed of it somewhere between Urskdale and the coast. There had to be a weapon that Josh could have used. Otherwise, no one would believe the boy had killed them all.”
“I'd like to be there when the bastard hangs!” Greeley said vehemently, and hurried away to fetch his coat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A gray, overcast day greeted them as Rutledge, with Greeley and Sergeant Miller at his heels, walked down the street towards the hotel.
“We'll have to tell Inspector Mickelson,” Greeley was fretting. “Else it won't be done properly.”
“One look at your face, if he sees you in the passage, and Robinson will know what's afoot. We'll send Sergeant Miller around to the back. I'll try to find Cummins and have him make sure his wife and Miss Fraser are safely locked in their rooms. You must go as quietly as you can to Miss Ashton's room and tell her there's been a message for her from Carlisle, and she's to see Constable Ward at the station straightaway. She's in the same passage with Mickelson and Robinson. It's essential to get her out of there.”
“And Miss Fraser? Who's to see to her,” Miller asked, “if she's already in the kitchen?”
“That's your duty, Sergeant. Step into the kitchen and tell her there's been an accident at the neighboring house. Ask her if you can wheel her next door while you go for Dr. Jarvis.”
“But what about Mickelson?” Greeley asked again, anxious for the official stamp to his actions.
“First we must see to it that everyone is safely out of harm's way,” Rutledge repeated impatiently. “We can't trust Robinson! He's killed five people in cold blood and left a child to die of exposure. He's tried to hang Elcott. We don't know if he's armed—we don't know if he'll try to take hostages. Mickelson would give you the same order: Avoid any more bloodshed.”
“Makes sense, sir,” Sergeant Miller put in. “We ought to do as he says.”
They had reached the hotel. Miller strode purposefully to the back. Rutledge and Greeley entered quietly, and Rutledge made his way up the stairs to find Cummins and his wife.
He tapped lightly, and then turned the latch. Mrs. Cummins was just putting the cap back on a bottle of gin, and she stared at him angrily as he came through the door. “What are you doing in my bedroom?” she demanded. “Leave at once or I'll scream the house down!”
“I'm sorry to disturb you but there's been an emergency. I'm looking for your husband—”
“He's downstairs, helping Elizabeth with the cooker. There's something wrong with it, she says.”
He swore silently. “Then may I ask you to stay here, in safety, until we've finished—”
“You've come to arrest Harry! Is that it?” She stared at him. “Is it because he's a Jew? You can't seriously believe—”
“Mrs. Cummins, I am merely asking for your husband's help in a search for someone stalking the streets,” he improvised swiftly. “If you stay here and lock your door, you'll be safe enough.”
He backed out of the room and she hastened to take the key from him, on the point of locking herself in.
But from below there were loud voices, and the sound of footsteps running down the passage.
Rutledge passed her the key and was gone, down the stairs.
Greeley was just coming out of the passage, disheveled, a bruise rising on his jaw. “Miss Ashton was already in the kitchen, so I woke Inspector Mickelson—Robinson heard me and knocked me down. Mickelson is after him!”
Rutledge didn't wait; he was racing down the passage with Hamish at his heels, the presence so real it sounded as if the Scot was just behind him.
There was a loud and angry exchange from the kitchen, Mickelson's voice and then Robinson's. Mrs. Cummins was half-way down the stairs, crying her husband's name. Rutledge ordered Greeley to stop her but she ducked under his arm and ran on.
As Rutledge opened the kitchen door, Vera Cummins darted in ahead of him, running to cling to her husband. Cummins was standing beside Elizabeth Fraser, staring in bewilderment as Mickelson tried take Robinson into custody. Janet Ashton was just reaching across the table to take up the sharp knife lying there. She was quick-witted, already caught up in what was happening. Her eyes were on Robinson's face and Rutledge heard her say, “Hugh? Is this man telling the truth? Was it you or Paul I saw that night in the snow? Hugh?”
Rutledge halted on the threshold, unwilling to press Robinson harder while the women were within his reach. But Greeley plowed into him, pushing him into the room. Robinson turned at bay. His face was furious. And all the while, Mickelson's piercing tenor challenged him to stop where he was and give him-self up.
Rutledge, seeing the knife flash in Miss Ashton's hand said, “Janet—”
Mickelson wheeled on Greeley and demanded, “What's Rutledge doing here!” Robinson, as the inspector's back turned to him, flung out his hand and lifted the flatiron from the shelf along the wall. He swung it hard.
Mickelson went down, blood bubbling out of the cut on his cheekbone where the edge of the iron had caught him.
Greeley shouted, “Here—!” and barely had time to duck as Robinson hurled the iron at him. It struck the dresser, sending chips of wood flying in every direction. Vera Cummins had begun to scream in terror, but Janet Ashton was already advancing on Robinson with the knife, her face twisted in murderous fury.
Sergeant Miller came through the door and stopped short.
Rutledge called to Janet Ashton to stop where she was, and Miller, seeing the knife, lunged forward to pin her arms to her side.
Robinson, seeing the sergeant between himself and escape, reached under his coat and drew a revolver. He swung the barrel from Rutledge to Miller, and all movement stopped abruptly.
“If you want to die, I'll oblige!” he told the room at large, and then the barrel steadied, pointing directly at Elizabeth Fraser. Then, his eyes on her, he demanded, “Where's your motorcar, Rutledge? Speak up! I don't have much to lose by shooting her!”
Rutledge said, with far more self-possession than he felt, “It's by the church. Take it and go. I won't stop you, and I'll see to it that no one else does. You'll have reached the road to London before we can get word out. There's petrol in the tank, and money in my luggage in the boot. You can go anywhere you please and disappear.” He watched the barrel of the revolver.
Greeley said, “You can't let him go! It's your duty—”
“I've given my word. Step out of his way, Greeley. If Sergeant Miller will open the door and let the ladies leave? Robinson, I'll even offer myself as hostage for the good behavior of the rest of them. I won't give you any trouble.”
Robinson said, “Where's the boy? I'm not leaving without the boy.”
“He's dead,” Rutledge lied. “There's nothing more you can do to him.”
“You couldn't have known I was there, unless you'd talked to him!”
“We don't need his evidence. Elcott survived, you see. He told us what you'd done. There's only one reason you'd try to hang him—”
“That's impossible—he couldn't have lived!”
“Oh, but he did. You left him teetering on a chair back. A note on the bed. After half smothering him with a pillow. I walked in just in time.”
Robinson swore. “All right, then. The motorcar. Greeley, get out of my way. Faster, man, I'm impatient!”
Greeley backed against the wall, keeping his hands in plain sight.
Robinson glanced around the room one more time. Then he made to step over Mickelson, who was groaning as he began to regain his senses. For a split second Robinson took his eyes off Rutledge to glance at the man on the floor, making certain he wouldn't be tripped up. But the revolver was still pointing steadily at Elizabeth Fraser.
And then she spoke for the first time.
“Hugh?” She called to him, standing up from her chair and taking a step in his direction. “I hope you never close your eyes in peace again!”
Robins
on had never seen her on her feet before. His attention was riveted on her. She had given Rutledge his only chance to act, but before he could move, Mickelson rolled on the floor in a desperate attempt to catch at Robinson's leg. Robinson was too swift for him. He sidestepped the clutching hands and fired.
The shot was deafening in the room, and Elizabeth Fraser gasped and spun as the bullet caught her.
With a roar of rage, Rutledge launched himself at Robinson, pulling him down with the strength of two men, and Miller was leaping over the table, crashing into both of them.
Greeley stooped to retrieve the flatiron, his eyes on the struggling men. But before he could use the iron, the revolver went off a second time, and then Rutledge had wrenched it out of Robinson's grip and flung it across the room where it skidded to a stop almost at Vera Cummins's feet.
Rutledge had his adversary pinned to the floor, and he was battering Robinson's face with his fists. Mickelson was pinning his legs.
“Miller, in the name of God, fetch Jarvis!” Rutledge shouted.
Janet Ashton had run to Elizabeth, and was cradling her head as Cummins began stuffing serviettes into the bleeding wound, frantically calling her name. Vera Cummins stood like a ghost against the wall, frozen there, her eyes on the blood.
And then Robinson wasn't moving. Dazed, Rutledge got to his feet, and lunged to Elizabeth Fraser's side, clasping her hands, telling her that she'd been damned foolish, begging her to hold on.
She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. “Couldn't—lose him,” she said. “Boy's dead? Truly?”
“No. Quite safe. My dear girl, shut up and stay still.”
She coughed, and a delicate pink froth spread over her lip.
Janet was smoothing her hair as she shut her eyes and sighed a little.
Mickelson and Greeley hauled a bloody and defiant Hugh Robinson to the police station, with Sergeant Miller behind them with Theo Elcott's revolver in one large, steady hand.
Jarvis, bending over Elizabeth Fraser and working steadily as he gave orders to Janet Ashton, said over his shoulder to Rutledge, “Get the rest of them out of here.”
But a shaken Cummins was already leading his wife to the door.
Rutledge could hear Janet asking, “Is it true or a lie to comfort her? Is Josh alive?”
“He's safe for the moment—” His attention was concentrated on the woman on the floor.
Hamish was saying, “You canna' stay! Leave the doctor to his work.”
But Rutledge was unable to move. “Don't let her die,” he prayed. “Don't let her die!”
Janet demanded, “I have to know—tell me! What happened that night!”
Jarvis said, “Here—pay attention.”
Hamish said, “It was for you she got in his way. To give you time.”
“Damn Mickelson and Greeley both to Hell,” Rutledge said between his teeth. But he knew the blame was his. He should never have trusted either of them to act outside the bounds of express duty. And he cursed himself for not acting alone, as he so often did.
“You couldna' ha' been sure you would tak' him on your own.”
It was true, but it no longer mattered.
“If she dies, I'll resign,” he silently promised God. “I've seen enough death and killed enough people.”
Jarvis turned. “Rutledge? Lift her and carry her to her bed. I can't work here. I need more linens, a list of things from my surgery. Miss Ashton can see to that—” He began to give her instructions.
Rutledge came to kneel on the floor, gently putting his hands under Elizabeth Fraser's body. She seemed so fragile, and he cradled her close to his chest as he carried her out of the kitchen and down the passage to her room. He could feel her blood, warm on his hands.
Jarvis opened the door and pointed to the bed. “Put her down and find me pillows, as many as you can. And then hot water. The teakettle—a basin.”
Rutledge went to do his bidding, moving in a nightmare. He came back with pillows scavenged from the other rooms and helped the doctor lift Elizabeth so that she could breathe more comfortably. Then he brought the kettle and a basin.
The doctor grunted as he took them, and said testily, “Where the devil is Miss Ashton? I need those powders!”
But she was coming down the passage, Mrs. Jarvis at her heels with a basket of tins and jars and bandages.
“Now get out,” Jarvis said to Rutledge.
“Is she going to live?” he asked, not moving from the bedside.
“No thanks to you. It's going to be nip and tuck. Greeley told me in the street—if you'd moved sooner, this would never have happened.”
Greeley, Hamish snorted, was busily covering his rear.
Rutledge backed out of the room and stared for a time at his bloody hands.
If she dies, he told himself, I'll have both of them on my soul!
He looked in on Mickelson, whom Sergeant Miller had brought back to his room after safely delivering Robinson to gaol. His cheek was still bleeding, and his face was bruising quickly. Rutledge thought, “It must hurt like the devil!” And was glad.
“If you hadn't moved, I'd have tripped him up!” he said testily as Rutledge walked into the room. “I hope to hell your evidence is better than your timing!”
Rutledge left without answering.
He retrieved the motorcar and went back to the Ingerson farm.
Maggie was sitting where he had left her, her face haggard, her leg stretched out in front of her on its accustomed stool.
The boy was there, sitting hunched over the dog, as if it was the only comfort he knew.
Maggie looked up and saw the blood. “What's happened, then?” she asked Rutledge.
“He'll stand trial. The boy may not need to testify. Robinson tried to kill Elcott, and nearly succeeded.”
“And the aunt will want the boy.”
“I don't know. I'll bring her later. She's needed now.”
“How do I tell him? He's sure his father's dead, there with the others. That he turned the gun on himself. I can't make him listen.”
“Don't try. It's better if he starts to forget.” He went to the boy and sat down on the drafty floor beside him. “Josh. I knew another young man who heard voices in his head. They were wrong. And so are yours. After a while, they'll begin to fade. You'll go with your aunt Janet to London and back to the school you remember. It's finished.”
“I don't want to go to London! I want to stay here, with Sybil and the sheep. My stepfather told me once I had the makings of a good sheep man. I don't like Aunt Janet. She made Mama cry.”
“We'll see what can be done, then,” the man from London promised. And then he rose. “I must get back to the hotel.”
“You're asleep on your feet.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“It will if you drive into Urskwater.”
“Miss Fraser is badly wounded. I have to be there. If—she doesn't live.”
And he was gone, back down the road again, the rain beginning to pelt down on the bonnet and dance over the windscreen.
They wouldn't let him into her room.
But Cummins told him she was sleeping comfortably. “Nicked the lung, and two ribs, but that's all. It was a brave thing she did!” he ended admiringly.
“It was indeed.” Rutledge felt as if his knees were ready to buckle under him, and his eyes seemed to be blurring with exhaustion. “Where's Mickelson?”
“I turned him out.” Cummins said it with infinite pleasure. “As soon as he could walk. He's gone to stay with Greeley. Mrs. Greeley won't like that, but then I've never cared for Mrs. Greeley. Meanwhile, her husband has sent Constable Ward to send a telegram to London and to speak to the Chief Constable. They'll blacken your name between them, Greeley and Mickelson, I've no doubt of that. But it's to be expected.”
“Yes,” Rutledge agreed. “I've grown used to it.”
“It won't stick. I spoke to Constable Ward before he left. He's always been rather fond of Miss Fraser. I explaine
d to him how it came about that she was wounded and who's to blame. He's a man of few words, is Ward. But he's no fool. The Chief Constable will be on the phone to London before the telegram arrives. And that strutting little gamecock Mickelson will have to mend a few fences. Now go to your bed, or we'll have another patient on our hands!”
But Rutledge refused to consider it until Cummins opened the door to Elizabeth Fraser's room and let him see for himself that she was resting and not in pain.
Janet Ashton was sitting by the bed, and she tiptoed out of the room to say to Rutledge, “You must tell me about Josh!”
He said only, “Will you want him in London with you?”
That took her by surprise. “London? I—I haven't thought that far ahead. But Hugh's not here, is he? I don't have much choice. Oh, dear . . .”
“If you don't want him, he's found a dog he loves and a woman who loves him. I'd not meddle there if I were you. Not for a while. Not until he's healed.”
And he left her there, closing the door to his room and finding the bed with some difficulty.
At length he slept. But not before he had answered the question that Hamish had been drumming in his head for the last few hours.
“I shan't stay to see how she feels. It wouldn't be fair. Not yet. There's the invitation from my godfather to spend Christmas in Scotland. I must make my peace with him. Then there's Dr. Fleming . . .”
But Hamish said into the darkness and silence, “I'll still be here . . . Dr. Fleming or no'.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHARLES TODD is the author of The Murder Stone, A Fearsome Doubt, Watchers of Time, Legacy of the Dead, A Test of Wills, Wings of Fire, and Search the Dark. He lives on the East Coast, where he is at work on his next novel, A Long Shadow.
Also by Charles Todd
A TEST OF WILLS
WINGS OF FIRE
SEARCH THE DARK
WATCHERS OF TIME
LEGACY OF THE DEAD
A FEARSOME DOUBT
THE MURDER STONE
A COLD TREACHERY
A Bantam Book / February 2005
