A cold treachery - Charles Todd [20]
Rutledge, standing, leaned over the map shoulder to shoulder with Ward. He traced the unmade road he'd followed coming in, noting how it skirted the head of the lake and then came straight into the village, passing through to end somewhere near the bottom of Urskwater, blocked by the rising shoulder to the south that was notched at the top. Doublehead was neatly printed above it.
A vast expanse in which to search for one small boy. Or a murderer. But in such a storm, how far could either have got?
As in Wasdale, the road didn't circle the lake here. Urskwater was long and narrow, running east and west but on a tilt that put the head of the lake to the northeast, pointing towards Skiddaw, the highest peak in England. There appeared to be marshes along the shore opposite Urskdale, and craggy cliffs rose at the head, soaring like an eagle's lair. They were marked The Claws.
“How do you get to the other side of Urskwater at the southern end?”
“There're tracks, if you know where to look for them—”
Ward broke off as the door opened and Miss Fraser rolled herself into the room. “Good morning, Constable. Inspector.”
She looked as if she hadn't slept well, but her spirits were high.
Ward, turning beet red, almost bowed to her. “Good morning, Miss. I hope I didn't wake you, come clumping in at this hour.”
“No, I was already awake. If you see her husband, will you tell him that Mrs. Cummins is showing a little improvement? It will set his mind at peace. And you'll stay for breakfast, before you go?”
“Yes, Miss, I'll be happy to do both.” His eyes followed her as she rolled the chair around the table and began to prepare breakfast. There was a doglike devotion on his face.
Looking from Ward to Miss Fraser, Rutledge noted that she was an attractive woman, her hair so pale it was almost silvery, and her eyes very blue, the color of a deep sea under sunlight. There was Scandinavian blood, he thought, here in the North. But hers wasn't a Westmorland accent—
A thick porridge had been steaming on the back of the stove, and as she lifted down bowls and handed them to the constable, she said to Rutledge, pointing to a painted china pitcher on the table, “If you would—the milk is just through there. A neighbor has already seen to our cow and her own.”
He nodded and walked through the door she'd indicated. In the narrow stone room that kept milk and butter cool in the summer and warmer than the outside in winter, a large white pitcher stood on the middle shelf.
Miss Fraser was dipping the porridge into the bowls, and Ward was setting spoons and cups on the table for her. Rutledge said, “I made tea when I came down. It should be ready.” He filled the smaller vessel that was still holding down a corner of Ward's map, and then returned the foamy milk to the pantry.
“Yes, that's fine, thank you,” she said, handing him a bowl to set on the table as he came back.
“If you're making up a tray for Mrs. Cummins,” Ward said diffidently, “I'd be glad to take it in for you, Miss.”
“Would you, Constable? I'll prepare it when we've finished here.”
Rutledge added sugar and butter to his porridge, and then the milk, while Miss Fraser made toast for them. There was damson preserves for it. Ward set to with an appetite.
It was excellent porridge, creamy and hot.
They talked about the unexpected storms, the scope of the search, the various directions it had taken, but skirted any mention of the farm where the bodies had been found or the fate of the child lost in the cold and dark.
When Ward took the tray to Mrs. Cummins, Rutledge helped Miss Fraser clear away the dishes.
“If Mrs. Cummins isn't well—” he began, thinking it would be better to find other accommodations.
“She—drinks,” Elizabeth Fraser told him. “Not to put too fine a point on it. She began to drink while Harry was in France, and couldn't stop when