A cold treachery - Charles Todd [22]
Hamish reminded Rutledge that the farmer Follet had made a similar comment.
“Or perhaps he used the storm to his own advantage.”
Ward met his eyes squarely. “Shall I leave the map, sir? I shan't need it myself. It might be more useful to you. Inspector Greeley said I should ask.”
“Leave it, if you can spare it.”
And Ward was gone, brusquely thanking Miss Fraser for his breakfast and pulling on the heavy boots he'd left by the yard door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After a moment, Rutledge opened the outside door again and walked out into the snow. The small back garden was pretty in a pale light that filtered through the clouds. The humps and arcs of last year's vegetables were etched in white now, a magical landscape in miniature.
This was not agricultural country. The season was brief, the ground stony. Root crops did poorly, but a few hardy varieties such as cabbages and whatever else could be coaxed into growing in the shelter provided by the house survived long enough to be harvested.
The well and then a stable led the eye to the barn that stood at the end of the yard. A stone feeding trough ran along one side of a large pen, a shed next to it. An outbuilding provided cover for a farm cart and a carriage. Beyond a patch of raspberries and gooseberries, bare-branched now, a track made its way out into an open field. Looking up, Rutledge could see the faint outline of the fell behind the inn, a long slope that climbed to a ridge and ran, humpbacked, in both directions. Shadows carved rocky defiles and boulders, tricked the eye with deceptive smoothness where loose scree or crevices lay waiting for the unsuspecting foot, and then changed shape again as the clouds thinned, presenting a different face entirely. Except for the wind, there was only silence.
Now that he could see the open sky, Rutledge found the mountains less oppressive than they had been last night. But there was still that uncomfortable sense of being shut off. A sense of claustrophobia.
“They're treacherous, the fells,” Miss Fraser said at his back, startling him. “That's probably their attraction. And Wordsworth, of course, with his belief that pristine Nature holds secrets civilized people have lost. I don't think he tried to make a living here—he never saw how hard life can be for those who do. It's harsh country, demanding, and it seldom offers a second chance. I wonder, sometimes, if their roots didn't run so deep here, holding them back, whether people in these valleys wouldn't rather live in Kent or Somerset or Essex. If there was any choice at all.” Her voice was sad.
He turned to see her in her chair, shawl over her hair against the cold air, looking out at the long run of fell faintly outlined against the gray sky.
When he said nothing, she went on, “That child must have been terrified. I can't help but agree with Constable Ward, that the killer had better luck finding him and disposing of him that awful night. That's why the search parties have come up empty-handed. How can a ten-year-old boy outrun a grown man? I want to hope—and dare not! It would be too cruel to have hope dashed.”
“Is there any other way out of the valley? From the Elcott farm?”
“There's a track farther to the south that runs over the mountains and is said to meet a road coming up from the coast. Sheep were driven to market that way, a long time ago, or so some of the older men claim. I doubt if many people outside Urskdale know how to find it . . .” She looked up at him, her blue eyes troubled. “Do you suppose he—whoever he is—escaped that way?”
“It's possible. I'm sure Inspector Greeley sent a party in that direction to look for traces of him.” But what would bring a man over such rough terrain to kill and then vanish again? There would be easier opportunities along the coast. A lunatic . . .
“You'll never find him, if he got out of Urskdale. And that brings up the question of whether or not he'll—come back. Whether he's finished—satisfied