A cold treachery - Charles Todd [123]
But Hamish was right, that the wearer was still in doubt—the time of losing the heel still in doubt. What if it had been Gerald himself, out searching for one of his sheep, who had worn these? Or his father, for that matter.
Rutledge had gone back to the house and measured the sole of the boot against the larger Wellingtons and leather shoes in the box.
Close enough . . . They could indeed be Gerald's.
Once in town, he went straight to the police station and asked to see Paul Elcott.
“Would you try on these shoes for me?” Rutledge asked as he opened the door.
He stared at them. “What on earth for? They aren't mine.”
“Just try them, if you please.”
Elcott unlaced his own boots and put his feet into the pair Rutledge had brought, then stood up.
“They fit well enough.”
“They're yours, then?”
Elcott laughed. “They couldn't be mine. They're London made, at a guess. I've never been able to afford boots like these. Gerald's, then. He bought clothes for himself in London before he came home again. Afraid what he owned wouldn't fit any- more.”
“Then he'd have no reason to hide them,” Rutledge said, and was gone.
He asked Harry Cummins and Hugh Robinson to try the fit next. Robinson's feet were nearer to the size of the boot than Elcott's, but on Cummins they were nearly a perfect match.
Cummins looked down at them. “A shame they've lost a heel. I could do with a new pair . . .”
Maggie Ingerson came to the door at the sound of Rutledge's motorcar pulling into the yard at dusk.
“You again,” she said.
“I want to ask you about that old drift road over the fells—”
“I've told you what I know. You'll have to be satisfied with that, unless you can speak to the dead. My father claimed he took it once. But that was before I was born, so I can't be sure whether or not it was the truth or bragging.”
“Why did he take it?” Rutledge watched clouds slide down over The Long Back.
“For a lark, I expect. That was the way he was.”
“How long do you think it would take to reach the coast?”
“I can't answer that. In daylight and good weather? The better part of two days. It's not so far as the crow flies, but there's the elevation to consider. In heavy snow, longer than that. You're not thinking that boy could have got out by the road?”
“No. I doubt he had the strength to walk that far.”
“Then someone coming in.”
“Yes.”
She pointed towards the sheds up the rise from the barn. “Then you might want to go look at what Sybil brought me last night. I left it there by the shed when I fed the sheep.”
He switched off the motor and got down to walk up the hillside towards the shed. The prints of a dozen Wellingtons went up and down ahead of him, mucking up the snow. It was hard to separate them now, overlapping in the slush and mud.
When he had reached the shed, he turned and looked back at her.
“That's right, just there. Maybe a little to your left . . .”
He looked around at the snow by the shed, and saw that something had been dropped in one place.
Pulling it out, he could see that it was a leather cap.
Hamish said, “Ye've got the boots, and now the cap. That's how he came and went.”
Rutledge slapped the snow off the hat and examined it. He would have sworn it was made before the war, when leather was better quality.
Taylor? He'd been in prison, he wouldn't have had access to newer clothes . . .
He walked back to the woman standing there leaning on her cane, watching him.
“The dog brought it? From where?”
“How am I to know? I sent her to bring in some sheep that were straying towards the Petersons'. That was two nights ago. She came back with this in her mouth. If it belongs to Peterson, you'll oblige me by taking it back to him. I'm not well enough to get there and back.”
“You're certain that the dog went in that direction?”
“Sybil's been running sheep for seven years. She does what she's told, and there's an end to it.”
“Thank you, Miss Ingerson. I'll speak to the Petersons.”
She