A cold treachery - Charles Todd [19]
She smiled again. “Don't be. I'd rather everyone forgot that I don't walk. Pity is far worse than simple acceptance.”
He believed her. He wanted no pity for his shell shock. Nor reminders that he had failed himself and his men. Dr. Fleming had been right—it was better to fight through it on his own, whatever the toll.
Standing, he reached clumsily for his coat and gloves, and watched his hat roll across the floor like an oddly shaped football. Retrieving it, he said, “If you'll tell me where I shall be sleeping—I wouldn't want to walk in on Mrs. Cummins.”
“Go down the passage again, and through the second door on your right. It leads to rooms that are kept ready for guests. Yours is at the end. A hot water bottle is over there by the hearth, wrapped in a towel,” she added, pointing. “I'd recommend it. The house can be quite cold in the early morning. I'll see that you have warm water for shaving—”
“I can fetch it myself, if you leave the kettle on the stove. You must be as tired as I am, watching for my arrival.”
“Fair enough. Well, then, good night, Inspector. I hope tomorrow brings news that Josh is safe. If anyone comes, I'll wake you at once.”
“Good night. And thank you.”
His luggage was in the car and he retrieved that before making his way to his room. It was, thankfully, commodious, and his windows looked out on the distant lake. But Miss Fraser was right, it felt like ice, and the sheets were cold enough for Greenlanders, he thought when he finally got into bed. The hot water bottle, a welcome bit of warmth, made it possible to slip into quiet sleep, lulled by the wind off the fells brushing the corners of the house.
Dreams came after first light, the candle guttered and the room still dark with the long winter nights. Rutledge awoke with a start, the image of a frozen child lying deep in the snow still with him when he opened his eyes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
There was still no news in the morning.
Inspector Greeley sent a man to the hotel; he arrived just as Rutledge had come down to the kitchen. Shaking snow off his shoes and his coat, he strode through the yard door. His nose was cherry red, and he nodded as he walked to the stove and held out his hands to the warmth.
“God, it's miserable out there,” he said without preamble. “And I've lived here all my life. I won't shake hands, sir—the fingers will surely fall off. Constable Ward. Mr. Greeley sends his apologies for not coming in person and asked me to report that there's been no change. And with all respect, sir, he'd as soon not have you searching on your own and getting lost.”
“I can appreciate that,” Rutledge answered. “But I've walked here from time to time—”
“It isn't the same in winter, sir, when you can't see the landmarks.” The constable was a thickset man with graying hair and a square face. “Instead, Mr. Greeley has arranged for all the search parties to report to you here. He doesn't want them trampling the yard at the Elcott farm, and this hotel is as near middle ground as you can find. And a good deal more comfortable than the station.”
“Any sign of the boy? Any idea of the direction he may have taken?”
“Sadly, no, sir.” Ward glanced around the room, as if worried about being overheard. “He can't have survived. Someone will find what's left of him, come the spring.”
“And the killer? Any news there?”
Ward shifted, as if the admission made him uncomfortable. “We're no closer to him than we were yesterday.”
“Have you a map? I need a better sense of where I am.”
“Yes, sir, a fairly good one as it happens. All the farms are shown, and the elevation, with the names of landmarks. Else, the map sometimes lies—tracks are not always where they're marked. You mustn't count on them.”
He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a folded square of paper, spreading it out on the kitchen table and weighting it with the salt and pepper, the sugar bowl, and the empty cream pitcher.
“We're here,” he said, one thick finger pointing to the line of houses along the road. “And this is the Elcott farm.” He moved his hand to indicate an