Read Online A Cold Treachery by Charles Todd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Todd
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climate. Something unselfish and fine.”
She watched him pace restlessly, his mind on the search parties.
“You aren't used to waiting, are you?” she asked.
“No. I'm afraid it shows.” Hamish, still agitating in the back of his mind, was keeping him on edge, and the wait for Greeley was beginning to get on his nerves. There must be people he could speak to, evidence he could begin to pull together. But most of the men of Urskdale were out there on the fells, beyond his reach. And the killer could very well be among them. Had Greeley taken that into account?
A gust of wind came round the corner of the house and brought with it a shower of snow from the roof over their heads. Reluctantly Miss Fraser turned her chair and went back inside. After a moment, Rutledge followed her, closing the door and latching it.
“You know these people, do you?” he asked. “Here in Urskdale?”
“You mean, do I know any of them well enough to point my finger at one and call him a murderer?” She drew her chair to the window, where a rare patch of pale, early sun was reaching through the clouds. She turned her face up to it. “Yes. I suppose I do.”
He crossed the room and found a chair near the table, taking up one of the napkins there and folding it into triangles and then squares. It soothed his restlessness, a contrast to her peacefulness. How had she learned to accept her disability so tranquilly? Or was it a hard-won lesson, a victory he knew nothing about? “It may be that there was no outsider . . .”
“I hope I don't know anyone who could kill like that,” she began pensively. “A grudge simmers, doesn't it? It grates and warps a man until he can't bear it any longer. Short words—angry looks behind someone's back—glares in the butcher shop or at the smithy. Something he's feeling seeps out, surely? But I can't remember ever seeing anyone show that kind of animosity towards Gerald Elcott. I don't recall anyone telling me that they'd overheard a quarrel or seen indications of bitterness or envy. I don't want to think that someone could conceal such anger so well. It smacks of madness, doesn't it?”
“Even madmen have reasons for what they do.” Rutledge remembered Arthur Marlton, the prisoner in the dock in Preston. “Look at it another way. Why the Elcotts? They seemed to have lived a rather ordinary life. Not very different from a dozen other families, surely? Then suddenly someone sweeps down on them in a fury and destroys them. Where did this fury come from? Was it directed at
them
? Or were they merely the closest target?”
“The Elcott family has deep roots here. And it's true old resentments are nursed, kept alive for years.” Her back was still to him. “I've told you, this is a hard land, and the people on it are hard as well. They don't have much to give, except perhaps trust, and when that's betrayed, they do know how to hate—”
She was interrupted as the kitchen door opened and a man came in, his boots in his hand.
“Morning, Miss,” he said to the woman in the chair, before turning to the man at the table. “You're Inspector Rutledge, then?” His eyes scanned Rutledge from head to foot, as if expecting to find a Londoner wanting in the sheer physical ability to cope with the demands of the North. What he saw seemed to satisfy him, and he held out his free hand.
He was tall and gangling, heavily dressed for weather, his face burned a deep red from the wind. But his gray eyes were clear enough. “My name's Henderson. I've come from the group that's been searching”—he caught sight of the map on the table and walked over to stab a finger at a location—“just here. We've seen nothing. Spoke to this house—this one—this—this, and this. They've not seen nor heard anything suspicious. No strangers about. And they're all able to account for their time two days ago. Three, now. Four.”
“And do you believe them?”
“It's hard not to. The whole family tells the same
She watched him pace restlessly, his mind on the search parties.
“You aren't used to waiting, are you?” she asked.
“No. I'm afraid it shows.” Hamish, still agitating in the back of his mind, was keeping him on edge, and the wait for Greeley was beginning to get on his nerves. There must be people he could speak to, evidence he could begin to pull together. But most of the men of Urskdale were out there on the fells, beyond his reach. And the killer could very well be among them. Had Greeley taken that into account?
A gust of wind came round the corner of the house and brought with it a shower of snow from the roof over their heads. Reluctantly Miss Fraser turned her chair and went back inside. After a moment, Rutledge followed her, closing the door and latching it.
“You know these people, do you?” he asked. “Here in Urskdale?”
“You mean, do I know any of them well enough to point my finger at one and call him a murderer?” She drew her chair to the window, where a rare patch of pale, early sun was reaching through the clouds. She turned her face up to it. “Yes. I suppose I do.”
He crossed the room and found a chair near the table, taking up one of the napkins there and folding it into triangles and then squares. It soothed his restlessness, a contrast to her peacefulness. How had she learned to accept her disability so tranquilly? Or was it a hard-won lesson, a victory he knew nothing about? “It may be that there was no outsider . . .”
“I hope I don't know anyone who could kill like that,” she began pensively. “A grudge simmers, doesn't it? It grates and warps a man until he can't bear it any longer. Short words—angry looks behind someone's back—glares in the butcher shop or at the smithy. Something he's feeling seeps out, surely? But I can't remember ever seeing anyone show that kind of animosity towards Gerald Elcott. I don't recall anyone telling me that they'd overheard a quarrel or seen indications of bitterness or envy. I don't want to think that someone could conceal such anger so well. It smacks of madness, doesn't it?”
“Even madmen have reasons for what they do.” Rutledge remembered Arthur Marlton, the prisoner in the dock in Preston. “Look at it another way. Why the Elcotts? They seemed to have lived a rather ordinary life. Not very different from a dozen other families, surely? Then suddenly someone sweeps down on them in a fury and destroys them. Where did this fury come from? Was it directed at
them
? Or were they merely the closest target?”
“The Elcott family has deep roots here. And it's true old resentments are nursed, kept alive for years.” Her back was still to him. “I've told you, this is a hard land, and the people on it are hard as well. They don't have much to give, except perhaps trust, and when that's betrayed, they do know how to hate—”
She was interrupted as the kitchen door opened and a man came in, his boots in his hand.
“Morning, Miss,” he said to the woman in the chair, before turning to the man at the table. “You're Inspector Rutledge, then?” His eyes scanned Rutledge from head to foot, as if expecting to find a Londoner wanting in the sheer physical ability to cope with the demands of the North. What he saw seemed to satisfy him, and he held out his free hand.
He was tall and gangling, heavily dressed for weather, his face burned a deep red from the wind. But his gray eyes were clear enough. “My name's Henderson. I've come from the group that's been searching”—he caught sight of the map on the table and walked over to stab a finger at a location—“just here. We've seen nothing. Spoke to this house—this one—this—this, and this. They've not seen nor heard anything suspicious. No strangers about. And they're all able to account for their time two days ago. Three, now. Four.”
“And do you believe them?”
“It's hard not to. The whole family tells the same
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