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.
C HAPTER E IGHT
A fter a moment, Rutledge opened the outside door again and walked out into the snow. The small back garden was pretty in a pale light that filtered through the clouds. The humps and arcs of last year's vegetables were etched in white now, a magical landscape in miniature.
This was not agricultural country. The season was brief, the ground stony. Root crops did poorly, but a few hardy varieties such as cabbages and whatever else could be coaxed into growing in the shelter provided by the house survived long enough to be harvested.
The well and then a stable led the eye to the barn that stood at the end of the yard. A
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.
C HAPTER E IGHT
A fter a moment, Rutledge opened the outside door again and walked out into the snow. The small back garden was pretty in a pale light that filtered through the clouds. The humps and arcs of last year's vegetables were etched in white now, a magical landscape in miniature.
This was not agricultural country. The season was brief, the ground stony. Root crops did poorly, but a few hardy varieties such as cabbages and whatever else could be coaxed into growing in the shelter provided by the house survived long enough to be harvested.
The well and then a stable led the eye to the barn that stood at the end of the yard. A
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