A Cold Treachery

CHAPTER SEVEN

There was still no news in the morning.

Inspector Greeley sent a man to the hotel; he arrived just as Rutledge had come down to the kitchen. Shaking snow off his shoes and his coat, he strode through the yard door. His nose was cherry red, and he nodded as he walked to the stove and held out his hands to the warmth.

“God, it's miserable out there,” he said without preamble. “And I've lived here all my life. I won't shake hands, sir-the fingers will surely fall off. Constable Ward. Mr. Greeley sends his apologies for not coming in person and asked me to report that there's been no change. And with all respect, sir, he'd as soon not have you searching on your own and getting lost.”

“I can appreciate that,” Rutledge answered. “But I've walked here from time to time-”

“It isn't the same in winter, sir, when you can't see the landmarks.” The constable was a thickset man with graying hair and a square face. “Instead, Mr. Greeley has arranged for all the search parties to report to you here. He doesn't want them trampling the yard at the Elcott farm, and this hotel is as near middle ground as you can find. And a good deal more comfortable than the station.”

“Any sign of the boy? Any idea of the direction he may have taken?”

“Sadly, no, sir.” Ward glanced around the room, as if worried about being overheard. “He can't have survived. Someone will find what's left of him, come the spring.”

“And the killer? Any news there?”

Ward shifted, as if the admission made him uncomfortable. “We're no closer to him than we were yesterday.”

“Have you a map? I need a better sense of where I am.”

“Yes, sir, a fairly good one as it happens. All the farms are shown, and the elevation, with the names of landmarks. Else, the map sometimes lies-tracks are not always where they're marked. You mustn't count on them.”

He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a folded square of paper, spreading it out on the kitchen table and weighting it with the salt and pepper, the sugar bowl, and the empty cream pitcher.

“We're here,” he said, one thick finger pointing to the line of houses along the road. “And this is the Elcott farm.” He moved his hand to indicate an isolated square some miles away. “As the crow flies, it isn't all that far. But see, the terrain has to be taken into account. There's no straight line anywhere. Even when the road curves around the lake, it's still the shorter route.”

Rutledge, standing, leaned over the map shoulder to shoulder with Ward. He traced the unmade road he'd followed coming in, noting how it skirted the head of the lake and then came straight into the village, passing through to end somewhere near the bottom of Urskwater, blocked by the rising shoulder to the south that was notched at the top. Doublehead was neatly printed above it.

A vast expanse in which to search for one small boy. Or a murderer. But in such a storm, how far could either have got?

As in Wasdale, the road didn't circle the lake here. Urskwater was long and narrow, running east and west but on a tilt that put the head of the lake to the northeast, pointing towards Skiddaw, the highest peak in England. There appeared to be marshes along the shore opposite Urskdale, and craggy cliffs rose at the head, soaring like an eagle's lair. They were marked The Claws.

“How do you get to the other side of Urskwater at the southern end?”

“There're tracks, if you know where to look for them-”

Ward broke off as the door opened and Miss Fraser rolled herself into the room. “Good morning, Constable. Inspector.”

She looked as if she hadn't slept well, but her spirits were high.

Ward, turning beet red, almost bowed to her. “Good morning, Miss. I hope I didn't wake you, come clumping in at this hour.”

“No, I was already awake. If you see her husband, will you tell him that Mrs. Cummins is showing a little improvement? It will set his mind at peace. And you'll stay for breakfast, before you go?”

“Yes, Miss, I'll be happy to do both.” His eyes followed her as she rolled the chair around the table and began to prepare breakfast. There was a doglike devotion on his face.

Looking from Ward to Miss Fraser, Rutledge noted that she was an attractive woman, her hair so pale it was almost silvery, and her eyes very blue, the color of a deep sea under sunlight. There was Scandinavian blood, he thought, here in the North. But hers wasn't a Westmorland accent A thick porridge had been steaming on the back of the stove, and as she lifted down bowls and handed them to the constable, she said to Rutledge, pointing to a painted china pitcher on the table, “If you would-the milk is just through there. A neighbor has already seen to our cow and her own.”

He nodded and walked through the door she'd indicated. In the narrow stone room that kept milk and butter cool in the summer and warmer than the outside in winter, a large white pitcher stood on the middle shelf.

Miss Fraser was dipping the porridge into the bowls, and Ward was setting spoons and cups on the table for her. Rutledge said, “I made tea when I came down. It should be ready.” He filled the smaller vessel that was still holding down a corner of Ward's map, and then returned the foamy milk to the pantry.

“Yes, that's fine, thank you,” she said, handing him a bowl to set on the table as he came back.

“If you're making up a tray for Mrs. Cummins,” Ward said diffidently, “I'd be glad to take it in for you, Miss.”

“Would you, Constable? I'll prepare it when we've finished here.”

Rutledge added sugar and butter to his porridge, and then the milk, while Miss Fraser made toast for them. There was damson preserves for it. Ward set to with an appetite.

It was excellent porridge, creamy and hot.

They talked about the unexpected storms, the scope of the search, the various directions it had taken, but skirted any mention of the farm where the bodies had been found or the fate of the child lost in the cold and dark.

When Ward took the tray to Mrs. Cummins, Rutledge helped Miss Fraser clear away the dishes.

“If Mrs. Cummins isn't well-” he began, thinking it would be better to find other accommodations.

“She-drinks,” Elizabeth Fraser told him. “Not to put too fine a point on it. She began to drink while Harry was in France, and couldn't stop when he came safely home. The murders have upset her quite badly-well, all of us, come to that. But any excuse, I suppose, would have done.” She grimaced. “I don't mean to sound coldhearted. But Harry needs her help to run the hotel. And instead she frightens people away. If they don't make any money in the summer, what are the Cumminses to do the rest of the year?” She began to dip the dishes into hot soapy water. “It would be a kindness if you stayed, Inspector.”

“Then I shall.”

Ward returned. “She's got a little appetite this morning, she says.”

“That's good news!” Elizabeth answered bracingly. “As soon as I finish here, I'll look in on her and let you confer in peace.”

“You mustn't leave on our account, Miss! And you know a good bit about this valley,” Ward told her. “It would be just as well if Mr. Rutledge here had someone who could keep him abreast of which parties send messages.”

He bent over the map again, continuing to point out landmarks, sometimes sketching in the rough lanes that led to various farms, correcting the lines on the map. Rutledge made an effort to commit the constable's points of reference to memory.

The truth was, he would much have preferred going out on his own, starting at the Elcott farm. Surely there would be something there to tell him which way Josh Robinson had fled! But Greeley was right: It was treacherous on unfamiliar mountainous terrain where weather could be unpredictable, landmarks were half hidden in snow, and daylight was short. There was no guarantee he would be any more successful than the local people, and he could well become another problem for the already exhausted search parties.

Hamish retorted, “As yon lassie last night discovered, to her misfortune.”

“Will you show me the Follet farm?” Rutledge asked Ward, remembering Janet Ashton.

Ward glanced at him. “Know them, do you, sir?”

As Ward located the square on the map that represented the farm, Rutledge briefly explained. “There was a carriage accident near there last night.”

Ward's pencil stopped moving and he asked quickly, “Not our murderer, by any chance?”

“A woman. I left her with the Follets. Bruised ribs.”

“Ah. Mary'll see to her then.” His pencil began to move again. “A good sheep man, Jim Follet,” Ward went on, echoing Follet's comment about Gerald Elcott. “And in fact, that's how the doctor can pinpoint the time of death, sir. Gerald Elcott brought his animals in before the storm. But he hadn't fed the cow or horses after that. He was either dead, or in no case to see to them.”

Rutledge calculated. “Four days dead now, at the outside. The Elcotts. I understand they were shot.”

“Revolver, large caliber. Whoever it was just stood there and cut them down. One at a time. Paul Elcott, who discovered the carnage, didn't look for the boy, but Inspector Greeley did, and Sergeant Miller. No sign of him in the house or the outbuildings. We can't be sure how long the lad has been out in the weather-whether he managed to hide until he saw it was safe to move, or took off straightaway.” He paused, and glanced up at Rutledge. “My guess is, the boy wasn't at home. He came back, and ran straight into the murderer. He didn't stand a chance, sir. And the body hidden, likely enough, to keep us searching while that devil made good his escape.”

“I'd like to see the farm straightaway,” Rutledge commented, but Ward shook his head.

“Mr. Greeley wishes to take you there himself, sir.” And Rutledge was bound by courtesy not to argue.

“What about enemies? Anyone who might have wanted the Elcotts dead?”

“I've tried not to consider that, sir.” Ward's voice had turned cold. “It's not pleasant, searching through one's acquaintance to see who might be guilty of a monstrous cruelty!”

“All the same, we've got to address the possibility that he's local. There can't have been many outsiders in Urskdale, not this time of year.”

“True enough. Still, who's to say one wasn't keen on being noticed? But he hadn't counted on the storm, had he?” Ward answered stubbornly. “Has London looked to see if a lunatic escaped from an asylum or a prison? What were the Elcotts to him, if he was desperate and needed sanctuary for a bit, somewhere to stay until the weather had passed?”

Hamish reminded Rutledge that the farmer Follet had made a similar comment.

“Or perhaps he used the storm to his own advantage.”

Ward met his eyes squarely. “Shall I leave the map, sir? I shan't need it myself. It might be more useful to you. Inspector Greeley said I should ask.”

“Leave it, if you can spare it.”

And Ward was gone, brusquely thanking Miss Fraser for his breakfast and pulling on the heavy boots he'd left by the yard door.