A cold treachery - Charles Todd [27]
“You might bring in more coal,” she said, walking unsteadily across to the window. “That's difficult for Elizabeth.”
“I'll be happy to see to it,” he promised. He cursed himself for not thinking of offering.
“My room is never warm. There must be something wrong with the chimney's flue. It can't be drawing well,” she fretted, clutching her shawl across her body as if needing something to hold to. “This used to be a fine hotel, before the war. I don't know what's to become of it now. Or us.”
“I'm sure,” Rutledge said gently, “that the climbers and walkers will return next summer.”
“I grew up in London. But my grandfather could find his way blindfolded over most of Cumberland and half of Westmorland. He told me more than once he could tell by the smell of the ground where he was. Like the sheep. He said if he ever lost his sight, he could find his way about without it. We had an old dog who was just the same. You could set her down anywhere, and she'd know her way home.”
“A gift,” Rutledge agreed.
“They say sheep are stupid, but they aren't.”
The silence between them lengthened. “Any word of the child?” she asked finally, her voice trembling on the last word. “Have they found the little Robinson boy yet?”
“No, I'm afraid not. But several of the search parties have yet to report.”
She continued to stand by the window, as if the wintry scene drew her. “I pray for him every night . . .”
“That's kind—” Rutledge began.
Her eyes flicked back to him. “Does anyone hear prayers, do you think? Really—hear them?”
“I'm sure someone does,” he answered.
“Oh—I can see the Long Back—our ridge,” she exclaimed suddenly. “The clouds have lifted.” And then with agitation she begged, “Look—there! Do you think that dark spot up there—over to the left, by The Knob—do you think that might be him?”
Rutledge came to stand behind her, picking up the faint smell of whisky, lavishly overlaid with rose water.
There was nothing where she was pointing except for a shallow depression that the sun had not found yet.
“Shadows play tricks,” Rutledge told her, moving on to the pump for a glass of water. “The boy can't have traveled this far.”
“No . . . probably not.” She turned, losing her animation, and walked to the passage doorway. “You won't forget about the coal, will you?”
“No—”
But she was gone, a ghost in her own house, flitting between awareness and stupor.
“A pity,” Hamish was saying.
And then the soft voice floated down the passage as the door swung closed. “What if he's hunting for the child too? What if he finds him first? I can't sleep for thinking about it!”
It was barely ten minutes later that Inspector Greeley came striding into the kitchen from the front of the house, his voice carrying, answering Elizabeth Fraser somewhere behind him.
There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his chin was patchy with missed beard, as if he'd shaved quickly, without a mirror. Lines of strain bracketed his mouth, aging him.
“I'm sorry,” he said, extending his hand as he introduced himself, “that I wasn't here earlier. I snatched a few hours' rest this morning.”
“You look as if you could use more,” Rutledge answered sympathetically. “A number of your men reported in when they could. I've noted the names and the areas they've searched. No luck, I'm afraid.”
With a nod Greeley walked to the map and glanced down at it. “Yes, that's what I'd expected, more or less. But we had to try, you see. Hard as hell to find your way out there, much less hunt for a veritable needle in a haystack. I don't know how to handle this any differently,” he added. “I've never had to deal with anything like it.”
He pulled out a chair, and sat down heavily. “I see you've more or less set up your headquarters here. Just as well. The chimney at the station hasn't been drawing worth a damn. Smoked me out again just last week! But I should think the parlor would be more comfortable.”
“Men coming and going here are less likely to disturb Mrs. Cummins in her room, and to be honest, it's the only truly warm part of the house.” Rutledge