A cold treachery - Charles Todd [135]
“Smoth—smothered me—pillow. Then left—dangling—toes on chair back. Could—couldn't—rise up—loosen noose. Lost my bal—ance trying. Fell off.”
It was a hard way to die, choking slowly to death.
Jarvis wiped the palm of his hand over his mouth. “Robinson, you say?”
“Robinson. Carefully planned and executed, from the start,” Rutledge told him.
“He killed them all? But why? Why in God's name—they were his own children!”
“Revenge.” He stood by the bed. “And you were to be the scapegoat,” he said to Elcott. “I'd failed, but he was afraid the new man would be luckier.”
Jarvis got to his feet and went to the kitchen, rummaging in the dresser and the pantry. He came back with three glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Without a word he poured a finger for each of them, but had to hold Elcott as he sipped. The raw spirits sent him into a gasping fit.
Rutledge was saying, “Jarvis, I want you to stay here with him. I'll find Constable Ward and send him to keep you company. Don't leave until I've come back again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes. You'll find Ward sleeping in the back of the police station. Greeley has had someone there since the—er—murders.”
The doctor was right. Ward had prepared himself a cot in the cell, the door open, his shoes on the floor within easy reach. The constable's snores could be heard from the outer office.
He listened groggily as Rutledge briefly explained what he wanted done.
“With respect, sir, I've been told you're relieved.” He rubbed his eyes with his fists, then stretched to ease his shoulders.
“If you want to leave Jarvis and his patient to the mercy of the killer coming back to see the results of his handiwork,” Rutledge told him curtly, “by all means follow the rules. Meanwhile, I'm going to speak to Greeley.”
Ward was already shoving his feet into his shoes, and reaching for his tunic. “Then I'll be on my way, sir. Mr. Greeley did leave orders to be called if there was any new developments.”
Rutledge sat in the prim Greeley parlor for half an hour, speaking rapidly and carefully to his counterpart.
Greeley, half asleep when he began, was wide awake by the end.
“I've never heard the like!” he said grimly. “But what put you on to him? Along the coast they swore no one had asked directions about the old road.”
“He didn't have to ask. He must have heard about it and spent some time during his summer holiday, searching it out for himself. It was useful, and even though he was caught in the storm, he'd have made some sort of provision even for that. He's not a man to leave much to chance.”
“And the bastard made me take him to see his dead. To count them, more than likely!”
“It was a good excuse for his staying in his room much of the time. Waiting for his son's body to be found.”
“Should we summon Inspector Mickelson and tell him what's happened?” Greeley asked. “As he's in charge . . .”
“If we go to wake Mickelson now, Robinson will hear us. His room is just across from the inspector's. He'll think we've found Elcott, and he may come out into the passage to ask if there's news. Better to wait until everyone has come to the kitchen for breakfast.”
“And you say Ward's with Dr. Jarvis and Elcott?” Rutledge confirmed it and Greeley went on, “We'll just step around to Sergeant Miller's house and put him in the picture. We'll not take a man like Robinson without trouble.” Greeley started for the door. Then he stopped. “Where's the murder weapon, then?”
But Rutledge was ready for the question. “It was Theo's revolver. I daresay Robinson disposed of it somewhere between Urskdale and the coast. There had to be a weapon that Josh could have used. Otherwise, no one would believe the boy had killed them all.”
“I'd like to be there when the bastard hangs!” Greeley said vehemently, and hurried away to fetch his coat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A gray, overcast day greeted them as Rutledge, with Greeley and Sergeant Miller at his heels, walked down the street towards the hotel.
“We'll have to tell Inspector Mickelson,” Greeley was fretting. “Else it won't be done properly.”