A cold treachery - Charles Todd [107]
Maggie had found it hard to wake the boy in the middle of the night, but she got him out of bed and into the Wellingtons as he grumbled, half asleep still.
“We must see to the sheep. And it's better, with people lurking about all the day long, to do that after dark. I told you.”
But he held back.
“What's wrong? Are you afraid of the dark, then? There's nothing out there to hurt you. And Sybil will be with you. She's worth an army! Look at that tail wagging! Do you think she'd let you go into danger?”
The boy's hand went to the thick soft fur at the dog's throat, behind the collar. His fingers smoothed and kneaded the fur. And then he took the pail from Maggie and went out into the cold night.
Maggie stood outside the door to keep watch. Half afraid he might run away if given the chance, half afraid something would pounce out of the darkness at him.
“Which is the most ridiculous thing—” she scolded herself.
But she couldn't bring herself to go inside until she saw him coming back, lugging the pail, with Sybil at his heels.
Once the dog stopped to sniff at a patch of snow, and the boy turned to it. With his back to her, Maggie couldn't tell whether he'd spoken to the dog or simply touched her head. She trotted along beside him then, seemingly undisturbed by the fact that he was mute.
Sybil's love was uncritical and unconditional.
Maggie sighed with relief when they were safely in the yard once more.
“What will Sybil do when he's gone?” she asked herself as she held the door wide. “And what will I do?” was the thought that followed on the heels of the first. She brushed it away, angry with herself.
The boy was going nowhere. She and her ax would see to that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Greeley had sent a message to the hotel, enclosing a telegram for Rutledge.
“The baker's boy,” the message read, “brought this with the morning post. And I've also had reports from the police along the coast. The latest known query about the old road to Urskdale was last summer.”
“It closes the door on the man, Taylor,” Hamish pointed out.
“Not necessarily,” Rutledge answered as he opened the telegram. He stood stock-still, staring at the printed words.
CHIEF CONSTABLE UNHAPPY WITH PROGRESS. YOU ARE RELIEVED. MICKELSON WILL BE IN NORTH NEXT TRAIN.
It was signed “Bowles.”
“Aye, and I'd warned you,” Hamish told him bluntly.
Relieved . . .
It had never happened before, though Bowles had sometimes blustered and threatened as panic overcame reason. Mickelson was one of his cronies. What would the man do?
With Bowles breathing down his neck, Mickelson would wrap the inquiry up quickly, smoothly, ruffling as few feathers as possible in the course of his duty. Josh Robinson would be pronounced the killer. There would be a brief sensation in the press, and Bowles would make sad pronouncements on the state of young people since the war, so many men killed, women left to enforce standards . . .
It would read well, and there would be further comments at speaking engagements, pointing to the role of the Yard in bringing swift justice to those who broke the Sixth Commandment. One of Bowles's favorite texts.
Nothing would be said about breaking the Ninth Commandment, with regard to bearing false witness.
Elizabeth Fraser, who had handed him the message, asked softly, “It's bad news, isn't it? I'm so sorry. You'll be making an arrest, then.”
He was still lost in thought, but he heard her last words.
“The Yard will, yes,” he answered. Folding the telegram, he shoved it in his pocket, then said briskly, “I have work to do.”
In his room, he sat down at the small writing table under the windows and began to make a list of what he knew—and what he didn't.
On balance, the facts were evenly spread out before him. The spur towards murder was weighted evenly under each name.
Janet Ashton: Jealousy. When her sister had refused to go back to her first husband and leave Gerald free to marry again, had the plot to kill been set in motion?
Paul Elcott: Greed. He'd had no problem with his brother's marriage to a widow with children