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Authors: Charles Todd
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stone feeding trough ran along one side of a large pen, a shed next to it. An outbuilding provided cover for a farm cart and a carriage. Beyond a patch of raspberries and gooseberries, bare-branched now, a track made its way out into an open field. Looking up, Rutledge could see the faint outline of the fell behind the inn, a long slope that climbed to a ridge and ran, humpbacked, in both directions. Shadows carved rocky defiles and boulders, tricked the eye with deceptive smoothness where loose scree or crevices lay waiting for the unsuspecting foot, and then changed shape again as the clouds thinned, presenting a different face entirely. Except for the wind, there was only silence.
Now that he could see the open sky, Rutledge found the mountains less oppressive than they had been last night. But there was still that uncomfortable sense of being shut off. A sense of claustrophobia.
“They're treacherous, the fells,” Miss Fraser said at his back, startling him. “That's probably their attraction. And Wordsworth, of course, with his belief that pristine Nature holds secrets civilized people have lost. I don't think he tried to make a living here—he never saw how hard life can be for those who do. It's harsh country, demanding, and it seldom offers a second chance. I wonder, sometimes, if their roots didn't run so deep here, holding them back, whether people in these valleys wouldn't rather live in Kent or Somerset or Essex. If there was any choice at all.” Her voice was sad.
He turned to see her in her chair, shawl over her hair against the cold air, looking out at the long run of fell faintly outlined against the gray sky.
When he said nothing, she went on, “That child must have been terrified. I can't help but agree with Constable Ward, that the killer had better luck finding him and disposing of him that awful night. That's why the search parties have come up empty-handed. How can a ten-year-old boy outrun a grown man? I want to hope—and dare not! It would be too cruel to have hope dashed.”
“Is there any other way out of the valley? From the Elcott farm?”
“There's a track farther to the south that runs over the mountains and is said to meet a road coming up from the coast. Sheep were driven to market that way, a long time ago, or so some of the older men claim. I doubt if many people outside Urskdale know how to find it . . .” She looked up at him, her blue eyes troubled. “Do you suppose he—whoever he is—escaped that way?”
“It's possible. I'm sure Inspector Greeley sent a party in that direction to look for traces of him.” But what would bring a man over such rough terrain to kill and then vanish again? There would be easier opportunities along the coast. A lunatic . . .
“You'll never find him, if he got out of Urskdale. And that brings up the question of whether or not he'll—come back. Whether he's finished—satisfied—or still has other business here . . .”
“We'll find him,” he told her. “It may take time, but we will. You needn't worry.” But Hamish was not as certain. Rutledge could feel the resistance in his mind.
A comforting lie . . .
They could hear a raven high on the ridge, the deep call echoing.
Elizabeth Fraser tilted her head to listen. As if following up on an earlier thought, she said, “This is such an isolated valley. Sometimes I find it very lonely. Just now I find it very frightening.”
“Why do you stay?” he asked, and then wished he could bite back the words. For all he knew she was dependent on the Cumminses for her keep. A companion-housekeeper of sorts to a drunken woman.
But she smiled. “I like the stillnesses. And the wind. I like the wildness. Everything is pared down to the bone in a place like this. It's a wonderful antidote for self-pity. I'm as bad as the summer walkers, aren't I? They come only for ‘splendid vistas and noble panoramas.' I should be telling you that I admire the hardiness of the people or the bracing
Now that he could see the open sky, Rutledge found the mountains less oppressive than they had been last night. But there was still that uncomfortable sense of being shut off. A sense of claustrophobia.
“They're treacherous, the fells,” Miss Fraser said at his back, startling him. “That's probably their attraction. And Wordsworth, of course, with his belief that pristine Nature holds secrets civilized people have lost. I don't think he tried to make a living here—he never saw how hard life can be for those who do. It's harsh country, demanding, and it seldom offers a second chance. I wonder, sometimes, if their roots didn't run so deep here, holding them back, whether people in these valleys wouldn't rather live in Kent or Somerset or Essex. If there was any choice at all.” Her voice was sad.
He turned to see her in her chair, shawl over her hair against the cold air, looking out at the long run of fell faintly outlined against the gray sky.
When he said nothing, she went on, “That child must have been terrified. I can't help but agree with Constable Ward, that the killer had better luck finding him and disposing of him that awful night. That's why the search parties have come up empty-handed. How can a ten-year-old boy outrun a grown man? I want to hope—and dare not! It would be too cruel to have hope dashed.”
“Is there any other way out of the valley? From the Elcott farm?”
“There's a track farther to the south that runs over the mountains and is said to meet a road coming up from the coast. Sheep were driven to market that way, a long time ago, or so some of the older men claim. I doubt if many people outside Urskdale know how to find it . . .” She looked up at him, her blue eyes troubled. “Do you suppose he—whoever he is—escaped that way?”
“It's possible. I'm sure Inspector Greeley sent a party in that direction to look for traces of him.” But what would bring a man over such rough terrain to kill and then vanish again? There would be easier opportunities along the coast. A lunatic . . .
“You'll never find him, if he got out of Urskdale. And that brings up the question of whether or not he'll—come back. Whether he's finished—satisfied—or still has other business here . . .”
“We'll find him,” he told her. “It may take time, but we will. You needn't worry.” But Hamish was not as certain. Rutledge could feel the resistance in his mind.
A comforting lie . . .
They could hear a raven high on the ridge, the deep call echoing.
Elizabeth Fraser tilted her head to listen. As if following up on an earlier thought, she said, “This is such an isolated valley. Sometimes I find it very lonely. Just now I find it very frightening.”
“Why do you stay?” he asked, and then wished he could bite back the words. For all he knew she was dependent on the Cumminses for her keep. A companion-housekeeper of sorts to a drunken woman.
But she smiled. “I like the stillnesses. And the wind. I like the wildness. Everything is pared down to the bone in a place like this. It's a wonderful antidote for self-pity. I'm as bad as the summer walkers, aren't I? They come only for ‘splendid vistas and noble panoramas.' I should be telling you that I admire the hardiness of the people or the bracing
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