A Cold Treachery

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

T hat night, Rutledge drove down the Urskdale road towards South Farm, where the Petersons lived. Leaving his motorcar on the road, he walked partway up the lane, and found a bare patch of rock where he could stand and watch the long outline of the ridge that rose to The Knob and then leveled off as it fell to The Long Back and dwindled towards the south. It was cold, wind whipping down the lake and scudding clouds sailing overhead, obscuring the stars.

From here he was invisible to anyone on high ground, and he could still reach the village faster in the motorcar than anyone on foot. The question was, would this be another nightwatch that failed to bring him any answers?

Turning to look across the mere, he could just see the ragged outline of the fells blotting out the sky. Somewhere in the distance to his right, the clank of a bell told him where sheep were on the move. He could hear his own breathing. And then a rock, dislodged by a careless hoof, rolled and bounced for what seemed to be twenty feet or so.

“If I cough,” he thought, “it will be heard for miles…”

The feeling of claustrophobia settled around him again. Pinned where he was by the fells, isolated and lonely, he was one man in a wilderness of stone that seemed to press in on every side. He couldn't push it aside and escape, he couldn't choose his way out. Not without wings.

Shaking off his bleak mood, he pulled his collar up against the wind, and shivered in his heavy coat.

After a time, he had to stamp his feet to keep them warm, and the stars swung across the sky with silent precision that measured the minutes. He kept time by them instead of his watch as the hours crept by.

And then, faintly, across the Saddle, he could see the pinprick of light as a lantern bobbed slowly across the ground.

There was no way to intersect the path the walker had taken. But Rutledge was, this time, perfectly positioned to track the small glow as it moved.

For a long time it seemed to follow an erratic course, and with the map in his mind, Rutledge could tell when it veered off to stop at the sheep pens, the deeper crevices, and the old ruins.

Searching for what? A revolver? A child? Or perhaps some other bit of evidence that the police were not aware of?

But Rutledge wanted to find out.

Hamish, standing watch with him in his mind, kept up a running commentary, reminding him that time was short and that Mickelson could arrive the next morning, or in the afternoon. “Better to finish what needs to be done, before the wrong person is hanged.”

“I'm doing my best-”

“You havena' used your eyes, they're too blinded by the woman.”

“I tell you, there's no key!”

“Aye, but there is. Think, man, you're no' this puir a policeman!”

“All right, then. Tell me what I've missed!”

“Go back to the woman!”

“She's not a suspect. She was acquitted.”

“Aye, and you're too blind to see what I'm saying-”

The disembodied lantern had come some distance from town now. Rutledge swiftly retraced his own steps to the motorcar and cranked it. Getting in, he heard Hamish say, “The headlamps.”

But Rutledge hadn't turned them on. Driving blind in the darkness, praying not to plow into a ewe on the roadside, he pushed his speed as much as he dared. For a moment Urskwater shimmered in a white sheet, before the moon raced under another bank of clouds. He could understand, he thought, why the Norse and the Danes had woven Nature into their stories, giving it a sinister life of its own. He'd been told on one of his visits to the region with his father about the Old Man who haunted the fells of Urskdale, and he wondered how many people like Mrs. Haldnes kept their shades lowered at night and never looked out. If Henderson hadn't been driving his son to the doctor's surgery The village loomed ahead, dark and quiet. Long before he reached the hotel, he stopped the motorcar and left it standing, striding quickly the rest of the way. Once he stumbled in a rut left by a cart, and cursed under his breath.

He made his way around to the back of the hotel, letting himself in the kitchen door, as he'd come out.

Elizabeth Fraser was there in the darkness.

“Dear God,” he said, startled.

“I heard you go out,” she said softly. “I thought you'd like something warm to drink when you came in.”

“There's-business I must attend to first. But thank you.”

He went past her chair into the passage. When he reached Hugh Robinson's room he stopped to listen to the low roll of snores inside. Opening the door silently, he looked into the room. Robinson was sleeping on his side, his face turned away towards the only window. But there was no mistaking him.

Rutledge went on to Janet Ashton's door. He couldn't hear anything beyond the panels and gently opened it half an inch. She lay with her face turned to a long streak of moonlight coming through the window. As he watched, the light faded and there was only the slim shape under the blanket and a pale oval framed in dark hair.

He shut the door again, and made his way silently out of the house to where he'd left the motorcar. He drove it into the hotel yard and left it there. Then he walked down through the town. There was a lamp lit in the doctor's surgery as a night-light, but the rest of the house was dark. Shops were shuttered, and the streets were empty. The ghostly shape of the church tower was lost against the bulk of the mountain behind it. Across Urskwater, a dog barked, and the sound traveled to him clearly. Another answered closer to the village.

He might have been the only man left alive in this alien world, he thought. But try as he would to walk softly, his boots crunched on the ridges of dirty snow and icy mud under his feet, and anyone lying awake could hear the sound of his footsteps echoing in the night. The last thing he wanted were lights coming on as curious heads lifted shades to see who was about.

The Ram's Head was dark, but he tried the door. Locked. In Urskdale, until the murders, almost no one locked his door. Either Paul Elcott was cautious, or he'd made certain no one would be able to find him gone, his bed empty.

Rutledge crossed the street to where a baker's shop offered some shelter against the wind. He pressed into the frame of the door, making himself all but invisible.

It was a long wait. From time to time the creaking of the sign over The Ram's Head could be heard, and he thought, “Rusty and uncared for.” It was in a way, a description of Paul Elcott's view of himself and life.

Stiff from the cold and from standing so still, he shifted his position finally and nearly betrayed himself when his heel struck the lower part of the door with a resounding thud.

A light came on in the floor above his head, shining out into the street. The window sash went up. A voice, angry and hard, called, “Who's there? What do you want?”

Rutledge stood stock-still. It was impossible for the man in the window to see him where he was. After a time he heard the voice saying to someone inside, “It's the blasted wind. Nothing more. I can hear it rattling the door.”

The window shut with a bang, and the street was once more quiet.

A cat walked by, carrying a mouse in its mouth. The moonlight, fitful at best, played tricks with shadows, and Rutledge thought of the nights in the trenches when tired eyes could read movement in the wire when there was none.

Hamish said, “Whist!”

Rutledge listened. A crunch of steps. He thought it must be nearly five o'clock. Time enough for whoever had been out on the heights to reach Urskdale again-before an early rising farmer saw the silhouette of an intruder in his pasture or sheep run and came out with his shotgun.

The lonely figure walking down the street kept to the center, as if fearful of ambush. It moved wearily, as if burdened by its thoughts as well as lack of sleep.

Rutledge stood where he was, waiting.

The figure was perhaps five shops away, and still coming towards him.

Even though he knew for a certainty that he couldn't be seen, Rutledge kept his breathing light and shallow.

If it was Paul Elcott, he would soon turn towards The Ram's Head.

Two shops away now…

And then the unknown night walker was even with the licensed house that stood as a monument to Elcott's failure in life.

But to Rutledge's surprise, he didn't go in. He kept on walking.

After a time he was lost in the shadows of the churchyard yews. Rutledge could hear the church door open, the heavy wood dragging on its iron hinges.

Who the hell – Rutledge cut short the thought and strained to listen.

“Ye'll lose him if you wait here!”

“I'll lose him if I walk to the church. I can't open the door without making noise.”

“He may no' come back this way.”

And after ten minutes, it appeared that Hamish was right.

Rutledge stepped out of the baker's shop doorway and, keeping to the shadows, moved on to the church. He walked softly, watching his way.

And still no one came out of the building.

When he reached the door, he hesitated, but this was a small church with only the one entrance. There was no other way in-or out.

For another ten minutes he waited on the church porch, and in the end did his best to open the door silently, only wide enough to allow him to pass through.

Inside he let his eyes adjust to the deeper gloom, for the stained glass window let in very little light.

No one stirred. He began to wonder if his hearing had betrayed him and the church was empty. Or had it been a trick all along, and the walker had only opened and closed that door before vanishing in the direction of Drew Taylor's house?

Taking out his torch, he swung it from side to side, slowly and quietly making his way down the aisle. He had to be certain.

It wasn't until he had reached the front of the church and the altar rail that he found his quarry.

Paul Elcott lay on the floor, where he had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion as he prayed-or waited in vain for peace.

R utledge took Elcott by the shoulder, and the man all but leaped to his feet, shocked and terrified, lashing out as if to drive away a ghost.

“It's Rutledge. Wake up. This place is cold as the tomb. Come back to The Ram's Head. I want to know what you were doing out there on the fell tonight.”

“I swear, you nearly gave me an apoplexy!” He was still breathing hard. “Good God.” And then, “What the bloody hell are you doing here at this hour!”

“I might ask the same of you.”

“I must have fallen asleep. I didn't hear you come in. I didn't think anyone would be in the church-where were you hiding? And why are you spying on me!”

“Hardly spying. I saw you come back into the village. Where have you been?”

“Out, walking.” He retrieved his shuttered lantern and fumbled to light it. Shadows raced around the stone walls as his hands shook.

“Beyond South Farm. Hardly an evening's constitutional!” Rutledge switched on his torch.

“If you must know, I've been looking for the boy. If he's dead, there's no one to speak up and tell what happened that night at the farm. He's my salvation, that boy. Whether I like him or not, whether he killed them or not, my life's in his hands.” He set the lantern on the seat of a chair and looked up at the altar. “I can't sleep. I work all day, and then I walk at night. It's taking its toll. I began hallucinating tonight. I could see the boy, but I couldn't tell where he was. I went stumbling after him, and then I realized it wasn't a child after all, only a ewe.” He faced Rutledge again. “If I can find out what happened at the farm, I could sleep again. Instead, I shut my eyes and see them lying there. I didn't even realize the boy wasn't among them. It was so-grisly. I'd never seen anything like it.”

There was a ring of truth in his voice, but Rutledge wasn't convinced.

Elcott must have read his reaction on his face. “I don't understand why you won't take Janet into custody. Is it because she's a woman, pretty and persuasive? Or do you know something I don't? Why have I been left to my own devices to defend myself? No one cares what becomes of me! Except perhaps the Belforses.” A note of self-pity had crawled into his voice. “There's no money for a fine barrister from London or even Preston. I'll hang, if you put these murders off on me.”

“And you claim you've been out looking for the boy?”

“Yes. Hell, you just missed me the other night. I'd heard from Robinson that you'd found some candles or something up in the old ruin. I went to see if there was anything else. I know this land better than you. If he'd been living rough, I thought I could find out where it is he's hiding. Track him. I told myself he'd come to me. Out of desperation if nothing else. His father hadn't searched for him, after all. I thought he might be glad of me.”

“You think Robinson could have found him, if he'd gone to the farm, called his name-made some effort to lure him out?”

“Who could say what a terrified child might do? And it's hard to blame Robinson for not trying overmuch. He's afraid he'd only be delivering his son to the police and the hangman. Better for him to be dead, quickly, painlessly, of exposure. You can tell it's eating the man alive, this waiting for answers!”

“You might just as easily have put paid to the boy yourself, if you'd come across him.”

“I tell you, he's my salvation! Why in hell would I want to kill him!” He stirred uneasily. “All right, you've found out it was me walking about in the night. God knows how. But you did. Now go home to bed and leave me alone. If you can't take me into custody, then have the decency to leave me alone!”

A s Rutledge walked back to the hotel, Hamish said, “He makes his case verra well.”

“If he's not guilty, then he has. If he is guilty, then he's built himself a very fine defense. Tomorrow morning-this morning-I'll have Greeley take him into custody.”

“Because ye're satisfied?”

“No. Because among other things, I want an excuse to search his rooms.”

E lizabeth Fraser had gone to her room when Rutledge returned to the hotel. But there was a warm bottle for his bed ready on the table.

As he closed his door, he realized how tired he was. He took off his coat and hat and set them in the armoire. For the last time?

Twenty-four hours, he told himself. It was not long enough to finish what had to be done.

As he fell into a deep sleep, Rutledge heard Hamish's voice.

You havena' found the key!

It seemed to echo around the room.

G reeley was thunderstruck. “You can't believe Paul Elcott killed his brother! I know you've considered him from the start, on the spiteful word of Miss Ashton, but I never dreamt it would come to this!”

“No? Then perhaps you've got a better solution to these murders?”

“Miss Ashton. I've never been completely satisfied why she was on the road to Urskdale in such a storm. For my money, she was on her way back to Carlisle when you found her in a ditch! But you refuse to consider that.”

“I haven't refused. I've slowly come to the conclusion that she's been lying from the start.” For according to the farmer Jim Follet, Janet Ashton had been crying inconsolably even before she'd been told that her sister was dead. But had she reached the Elcott house? If she hadn't, what was it that frightened her away? Aloud he said only, “But we can't prove that at the moment.”

“Speaking of proof, where's Theo's revolver? If that's what Paul was supposed to have used.”

“Truthfully? I don't know. Out in the snow somewhere. Flung there by the killer or dropped there by the child. Or still hidden in the barn to keep it out of the hands of an inquisitive boy. Elcott may well have taken it off to war with him, for all we know.”

“Well, then, you have precious little reason to take Paul Elcott into custody.” Greeley got up from his desk and began to pace the small office, studying the thin, tired face of the man seated in his extra chair. “I tell you, I don't understand you. It's all very well to come here from London and give assistance. I grant you, I needed your help to see beyond this crime. But to judge a man on so little evidence-it smacks of desperation! Is there something you've been keeping from me?”

“Just do as I ask, if you will.”

Greeley's mouth tightened. “Then you're grasping at straws.”

“It's true. But if I don't have better answers for you in twenty-four hours, you have my permission to release Elcott.”

And with that Greeley had to be satisfied.

News swept through Urskdale with the speed of wildfire. Belfors was one of the first to storm into the police station and engage in a shouting match with Greeley.

Janet Ashton, on the other hand, was irritatingly quiet when Rutledge told her the news. He had expected her to be smug.

“I'm glad it's over with,” was all she said. “Grace and the children can rest in peace.”

“And Gerald?”

“Gerald.” She said the name with sadness. “I did love him, you know. I never understood why he couldn't have loved me as well. It broke my heart. And I was very foolish to think I could change his mind.”

He said, “It could be that you were too strong for him. Grace was vulnerable. He may have found that attractive. Many men do.”

“Yes. I've watched you fall under the spell of Elizabeth Fraser. She's stronger than you think. The difference is, she knows how to conceal it.” It was a bitter admission.

He tried to disregard her accusation. “What was your first thought, when you saw they were all dead? That Paul had killed them?”

Stunned, she stared at him. “When I saw- What are you saying! ”

“I think you knew what had happened. Before Jarvis told you.”

“Be damned to you!” She got up swiftly and swept from the room, slamming the door behind her.

P aul Elcott's rooms were an indication of his condition. A man on the brink of failure, with nothing to show for years of hard work while his brother was in the war, nothing to show for his attempt to strike out on his own.

Rutledge went through his possessions with distaste. How envious had Elcott been of his brother? he wondered as he searched.

Hamish said, “It's in the nature of a child to be envious.”

Had Henry Elcott, the father of the two boys, always found Paul lacking, and had his mother always made excuses for him, protecting him? The incident with Theo Elcott's revolver, when a young and rebellious Paul had tried to sell it, was a reflection of the knotted relationships. And the fact that Paul hid on the fellside when he was unhappy at home told its own story.

He should have been sympathetic to Josh, another lonely boy…

Thorough as he was, Rutledge could find no boots without heels. They might already have gone to the rubbish heap. There was no hidden revolver, although Rutledge searched the bar and the saloon and the kitchen as well as the rooms upstairs. Only a coat with a missing button-but there was only Janet's word that she'd found the button in the hut above High Fell Farm.

Above the hearth on a corner of the mantel was a pretty vase, out of place in such dreary lodgings. The sort of thing a woman might buy, for the sake of the roses that clambered up to the neck. Pink roses like those in the kitchen and on Grace Elcott's frivolous hat.

Rutledge had seen it there before, but hadn't given it more than a passing thought. It was something Grace might have given Elcott. Or that he might have planned to give her.

He looked at it, and then lifted it down from its place of honor. Something inside rattled.

With Hamish already alive in his mind, Rutledge turned the vase upside down and spilled the contents out into his hand.

A black button rolled into the palm of his hand. A black button, like the one that Janet Ashton had claimed she'd found in the ruined hut. But there was no sign of the broken cuff link that had once belonged to Josh Robinson.

R utledge went to the cell where Elcott sat morosely staring at the floor. Unshaven, wearing the same clothes he'd had on climbing the fell in the night, he looked both pitiable and exasperating. A man without spirit who seemed to prefer to wallow in his defeat than strive to overcome it.

The gray walls, the cot to one side, and the slop jar in one corner seemed to reflect the stale, colorless atmosphere of prison.

Holding out the vase with the clambering roses, Rutledge asked, “Can you tell me where this came from?”

Paul glanced at it and resumed his study of the floor. “Grace gave it me. She thought it would brighten my rooms. She liked roses. Flowers of any kind.”

Tilting it, Rutledge let the black button slide into his palm. “Is this from your coat? It's missing a button.”

“I wondered where that had got to.” He frowned, sticking out a finger to touch the button almost as if to see whether or not it had reality. “That button was loose at the funeral. I was going to sew it back on and never got around to doing so. What was it doing in the vase?”

“And this?” Reaching into his pocket, Rutledge held out the cuff link. It was the second of the pair, retained for interrogation purposes.

“That belongs to Josh. A birthday gift from his father.”

“Gerald?”

“No, Hugh, of course. It's broken.” Elcott turned it in his fingers. “A pity. It's gold. Grace would have been angry if she knew Josh had been so careless.”

“Did you find it up there in the hut?”

“I never found it anywhere. It was too dark, and then you came at me before I could light my lantern. Are you now reduced to manufacturing evidence against me?”

It was hard to tell if he was lying or telling the truth. Rutledge let it go. “I've a feeling Janet Ashton reached High Fell the night it snowed. And something made her turn around and go back the way she'd come. Do you know what it was?”

“Ask her! I've told you until I'm tired of telling. I never killed them!” But there was undeniable wariness in his voice.

“If you know anything about her movements, then you'd be better off answering my question.”

Elcott sat there, stony-faced and silent.

“Did she reach Urskdale at the beginning of the storm? Did you see her or her carriage?”

“Ask her!”

Hamish said, “It may be he doesna' want to gie away too much!”

Rutledge left, taking the vase with him and setting it on Greeley's desk, with its contents. But he kept the cuff link in his pocket.