A cold treachery - Charles Todd [129]
The relief in the drawn little face touched her heart.
But later in the evening after the fire had burned low and she was sitting at ease in her chair, her leg for once comfortable, she remembered another expression on his face, as he held the heavy ax in both hands.
And she found herself wondering what he would have done with it.
“You're a fool, Maggie Ingerson!” she scolded herself. But a twinge of pain in her leg reminded her that beggars couldn't be choosers.
When night fell, Rutledge moved again, taking up a position in a sheep pen. The grazing animals moved silently along the slopes, hooves scraping away the snow for whatever nourishment they could find. A ewe stared at him briefly and sneezed before moving on. Finally they settled for the night, lumps of dirty white were hardly different from the snow around them. One was near enough that he could hear it breathing, and he found the sound comforting.
There were stars overhead, great sweeps of them, and he picked out the winter constellations one by one. His feet were nearly numb now, the icy crust under them offering no warmth. And the wind picked up an hour later, the soft whistle of it coming over the western fells promising a deeper cold by morning.
It was nearly three, he thought, when the square of lamplight brightened the yard door of the Ingerson farm. He brought up his field glasses and thought he could just define Maggie's bulk in her old coat, standing against the light.
She seemed to be sniffing the air, almost like a cornered animal searching for danger. And then she moved away from the door.
The dog leaped out into the yard, and scrambled towards the pen by the shed where Rutledge had seen some dozen or so animals kept safely while they healed or regained their strength. Behind the dog, stepping out the door came an oddly shaped figure that seemed to be half gnome, half monster.
A superstitious man, Rutledge thought, would have a wild tale to tell about what was living in Maggie Ingerson's house.
The Norwegians had their share of small monsters, and the Irish, too.
But Rutledge didn't need Hamish to tell him what was walking up to the pen, bundled in a man's coat that was as long as he was tall, Wellingtons that were too large scuffing through the snow, a pail of some sort in both hands.
It was a boy, and unless Maggie had more secrets than he'd guessed already, the boy was Josh Robinson.
Rutledge spent a very uncomfortable night in the shearing shed, once he'd reached it again. He thought about the feather bed he'd left behind at the hotel, with a warm bottle at his feet and a dying fire in the kitchen that wrapped its heat around cold shoulders and frozen ears.
But the elation he felt kept him from sleeping.
Tomorrow he would brave the ogre in the farmhouse and ask Maggie Ingerson what she thought she was about.
It was Hamish who kept bringing up the question of what would become of Josh Robinson once the fact that somehow he'd survived was known.
What do you do, if a child has killed?
And what could he tell the world about what had happened that Sunday evening when the snow was thick and the door had opened on Death?
By morning the house was hushed. Smoke coiled from the chimney, but there was nothing else to indicate whether the people inside were asleep or awake.
Rutledge made his way down the slippery, icy rocks towards the farm. He was stiff with cold, and in no mood to brook obstruction. By the time he had reached the house, he was sweating under his heavy coat.
But he knocked with firmness on the door, rather than pounding.
After a time it opened and Maggie stepped out to confront him, almost close enough to him there in the little space between her and the shutting door to touch him.
“I know the boy is here. I'm cold, tired, and I need to come in and warm up. It would be better if you didn't make a fuss.”
She stared at him, her face hard, revealing nothing. “I don't know what you're talking about. And I know my rights. You can't come in without a warrant to search.”
“I'm here as a private citizen. Not a policeman.