A cold treachery - Charles Todd [113]
Rutledge crossed the street to where a baker's shop offered some shelter against the wind. He pressed into the frame of the door, making himself all but invisible.
It was a long wait. From time to time the creaking of the sign over The Ram's Head could be heard, and he thought, “Rusty and uncared for.” It was in a way, a description of Paul Elcott's view of himself and life.
Stiff from the cold and from standing so still, he shifted his position finally and nearly betrayed himself when his heel struck the lower part of the door with a resounding thud.
A light came on in the floor above his head, shining out into the street. The window sash went up. A voice, angry and hard, called, “Who's there? What do you want?”
Rutledge stood stock-still. It was impossible for the man in the window to see him where he was. After a time he heard the voice saying to someone inside, “It's the blasted wind. Nothing more. I can hear it rattling the door.”
The window shut with a bang, and the street was once more quiet.
A cat walked by, carrying a mouse in its mouth. The moonlight, fitful at best, played tricks with shadows, and Rutledge thought of the nights in the trenches when tired eyes could read movement in the wire when there was none.
Hamish said, “Whist!”
Rutledge listened. A crunch of steps. He thought it must be nearly five o'clock. Time enough for whoever had been out on the heights to reach Urskdale again—before an early rising farmer saw the silhouette of an intruder in his pasture or sheep run and came out with his shotgun.
The lonely figure walking down the street kept to the center, as if fearful of ambush. It moved wearily, as if burdened by its thoughts as well as lack of sleep.
Rutledge stood where he was, waiting.
The figure was perhaps five shops away, and still coming towards him.
Even though he knew for a certainty that he couldn't be seen, Rutledge kept his breathing light and shallow.
If it was Paul Elcott, he would soon turn towards The Ram's Head.
Two shops away now . . .
And then the unknown night walker was even with the licensed house that stood as a monument to Elcott's failure in life.
But to Rutledge's surprise, he didn't go in. He kept on walking.
After a time he was lost in the shadows of the churchyard yews. Rutledge could hear the church door open, the heavy wood dragging on its iron hinges.
Who the hell— Rutledge cut short the thought and strained to listen.
“Ye'll lose him if you wait here!”
“I'll lose him if I walk to the church. I can't open the door without making noise.”
“He may no' come back this way.”
And after ten minutes, it appeared that Hamish was right.
Rutledge stepped out of the baker's shop doorway and, keeping to the shadows, moved on to the church. He walked softly, watching his way.
And still no one came out of the building.
When he reached the door, he hesitated, but this was a small church with only the one entrance. There was no other way in—or out.
For another ten minutes he waited on the church porch, and in the end did his best to open the door silently, only wide enough to allow him to pass through.
Inside he let his eyes adjust to the deeper gloom, for the stained glass window let in very little light.
No one stirred. He began to wonder if his hearing had betrayed him and the church was empty. Or had it been a trick all along, and the walker had only opened and closed that door before vanishing in the direction of Drew Taylor's house?
Taking out his torch, he swung it from side to side, slowly and quietly making his way down the aisle. He had to be certain.
It wasn't until he had reached the front of the church and the altar rail that he found his quarry.
Paul Elcott lay on the floor, where he had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion as he prayed—or waited in vain for peace.
Rutledge took Elcott by the shoulder, and the man all but leaped to his feet, shocked and terrified, lashing out as if to drive away a