A cold treachery - Charles Todd [134]
Hamish exclaimed, “Too late!”
Rutledge dug his torch out of his pocket and turned it on. The brilliant burst of light blinded him. But behind the flash, he could see Paul Elcott hanging from the ceiling where a lamp had once been.
It took him no more than a matter of seconds to kick the upended chair out of the way and shove a table under the dangling feet. And then he was on top of the table, his pocketknife sawing at the rope above Elcott's head. As the last strands parted, Elcott's body jackknifed, and hit Rutledge hard, knocking both of them to the floor. Winded, Rutledge lay there fighting for breath, and then he rolled to his knees. The torch, arcing in a half-circle, threw the room into bright relief and then shadow.
Elcott was gagging badly. Rutledge loosened the rope around his throat and turned him over, pushing air into his lungs as if he were a drowned swimmer.
Elcott was still struggling to breathe, and in the glow of the torch, kicked under the bed now, his face seemed suffused with blood.
Rutledge left him there, ran down the stairs, and up the street. He began pounding on Dr. Jarvis's door, calling to the house to wake up.
Jarvis testily put his head out of an upper window. “What now?”
“It's Elcott—get over there now!”
“Rutledge? I thought you'd gone back to London, man!”
“Hurry. Or he'll be dead before you reach him.”
He turned and raced back the way he'd come. Hamish was loud in his mind, reminding him that he hadn't searched The Ram's Head—
Elcott was breathing, the sound of each rasping inhalation carrying down the stairs as Rutledge came up them.
He lay as he'd been left, on the floor, and his eyes were open. As Rutledge found a lamp and lit it, he blinked and then began to struggle as if fearful of whoever was behind the light.
“It's Rutledge. What the hell were you trying to do, man!”
Some of the tension seeped out of Elcott, and he lay still, concentrating on trying to breathe.
Jarvis was pounding up the stairs, shouting Rutledge's name. He'd put a coat over his pajamas and shoved his bare feet into his shoes. He stopped short in the doorway, staring first at Elcott, and then his eyes traveled up to the dangling rope overhead.
“My good God!” was all he said, hurrying to his patient.
After a time he rocked back on his heels. “It was a near-run thing! But the bone here”—gesturing to the front of the throat—“hasn't been broken. And he was lucky his neck didn't snap.”
He turned back to Elcott. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing, man? The inspector here had ordered you released without prejudice. It was over—” He stopped and got slowly to his feet.
His eyes sought Rutledge's. “Or was this a confession of sorts?”
“It was meant to be.”
As the doctor had worked, Rutledge had retrieved a single sheet of crumpled paper stuck through by a pin to Elcott's pillow. He held it out now.
There were four words on the sheet, printed by a man under great stress—or duress. I did do it.
Jarvis said again, “My good God!” And then, “You shouldn't have stopped him. It will all have to be done again—”
“He didn't hang himself,” Rutledge said. “Did you, Elcott?”
The dazed man on the floor shook his head vehemently and struggled to sit. His limbs seemed to have a mind of their own, arms folding as if no longer able to hold his weight.
He tried to speak but his throat closed over the words.
Rutledge said them for him.
“It was Hugh Robinson, tidying up before Mickelson could dig into the past as I had done. It might not have worked twice, his act of grieving. He couldn't pretend to a second suicide attempt. Elcott?”
Elcott's eyes were on Rutledge's face. He nodded vigorously, a sound like a growl coming from his damaged throat.
Jarvis picked up the overturned chair and sat in it, his mouth open.
“Let's get Elcott to the bed,” Rutledge told the stunned doctor. But it was a moment or two before Jarvis could comply.
Elcott sank into the pillows, and tried again to find his voice. When it came it was no more than a harsh, raw whisper, hardly audible