A cold treachery - Charles Todd [13]
Rutledge got out, walked around the bonnet, and came to the passenger door. Opening it, he said gently, “It will hurt, to help you out. Can you manage?”
A ghost of a smile appeared on the strained face. “If there's a fire—”
The farmer, a burly man, said, “Come along, lass. I'd lift you myself but for the ribs, now. Between us, we'll have you in the kitchen in the blink of an eye. My wife already has the kettle on!” His accent was heavy, the words gruff, but his intentions were kind.
They got her down, and between them on their crossed wrists, to the house, the dog sniffing at their heels. A heavyset woman with a red face, cheeks permanently windburned, was waiting for them in the kitchen, her hands tight together.
As they came through the door, her expression softened. She said, “My sweet Lord! Oh, the poor lass! Bring her here, by the stove!” Over the injured woman's head she said to Rutledge, “What's happened to her?” He could see the shadow of alarm in her eyes, as if the older woman expected him to say his companion had been attacked by a murderer.
He explained again as his passenger was urged into a chair, her blankets hastily settled around her like cushions. She tried to lean back and gasped.
The farmer's wife, tightening the sash of her robe about her thick waist, said, “Jim, take the inspector into the sitting room, if you please. I'll just have a look at this young lady.”
Rutledge followed Jim into a small sitting room. It was already losing the evening's heat but was still comfortable, compared to the raw night outside. The man lit a lamp on a table, settled the chimney in place again, and motioned Rutledge towards the best chair. The fire on the hearth had been banked for morning, but the farmer stirred it into life, still holding the poker as he turned back to his unexpected guest.
“If you're a policeman, you'll have something to show me.”
Rutledge reached into his coat and withdrew his card. The farmer examined it. “Scotland Yard, is it, then? You've made rare good time!”
“I was in Preston when the summons came.”
The farmer set the poker back in its place, shaking his head. “Bad business, this! There was a search party come through early this morning. I asked if they needed me as well, but they said they had enough men for this part of the valley. They hadn't found the boy—more's the pity.” He sat heavily in the next chair. “Tonight I put the dog in the barn, with the door ajar. A precaution, belated though it was! I don't put much faith in anyone except myself, out here. There's a shotgun in the entry, behind the pantry door. If I'd needed it.” He held out a rough hand. “James Follet.”
Rutledge acknowledged the introduction, but couldn't stop himself from casting a glance towards the kitchen.
“Don't worry about the lass,” Jim Follet told him. “The nearest medical man is a good twenty mile from here as the crow flies. Jarvis, his name is. My Mary's been doctoring the family and the animals for thirty year or more.”
Rutledge believed him. In such isolated farms, the wife was usually the first and sometimes the only help to be had in an emergency.
Follet stretched his legs out to the hearth. “Where did she go off the road?”
Rutledge told him what he could. Follet said, “Aye, I know the place. She's not the first to come to grief there! Even heavy rains make that stretch hazardous. Well. I'll have a team up there at first light. A pity about the horse.”
“I don't know if there's any luggage in the back. But if she drove from Carlisle . . .”
“There'll be a valise of some sort. Yes, I'll look.”
Follet reached across the table to a pipe rack and began to fill one, tamping it carefully before lighting a spill at the hearth and holding it to the tobacco. His hair was iron gray, his skin toughened by wind and cold. The blue eyes squinting through the pipe smoke were sharp. Rutledge noticed that he'd hastily pulled on his trousers and a sweater over his night clothes, his braces hanging down to his hips.
“Nasty business,” Follet said again, referring to the murders. “Not