A cold treachery - Charles Todd [28]
“A boy of ten couldn't survive this long, surely!” Greeley rubbed his face with his fingers, massaging stiff muscles. “It's hopeless.”
“It would depend on his resourcefulness and his knowledge of the land. He could have taken shelter somewhere—”
“We don't even know how he was dressed,” Greeley said. “Or which direction he took. By the time we got to the farm, any tracks had been well covered by several inches of snow. His and the murderer's.” His eyes veered away from Rutledge's. “I suppose you want to see the Elcott house.” The reluctance in his voice was only half concealed.
“I shall have to, yes.”
“I'd as soon never set foot in it again. I can't close my eyes without seeing them lying there. Shocking, that's the only word to describe it.” He heaved himself to his feet. “All right. Let's get it over with. Is that your motorcar in the yard? We'll take that. It's faster. The roads are wretched, but we can manage.”
“Let me tell Miss Fraser that I'll be leaving.”
Rutledge went down the passage and quietly called her name. She was sitting in the small, chilly parlor, a book in her lap, and the door open.
“I heard Inspector Greeley arrive,” she told him, closing the book. “I thought perhaps you'd like a little privacy.”
“He's—er—we're going to be away for a time,” Rutledge said, trying to spare her feelings. “I don't know if I'll be here for dinner. But don't worry about that. I'll manage well enough.”
“Thank you for telling me, Inspector.” She smiled, and he noticed again how it lighted her face from within.
From somewhere the thought came, Olivia Marlowe might have looked like this woman. . . .
Elizabeth Fraser was saying, “Is there any message you'd like for me to give to anyone who needs you?”
“Just that I'll be back as soon as possible. And you might note on the map whatever information they've brought. If it's urgent, Inspector Greeley can be found at the Elcott farm.”
Her expression stilled. “Yes. I'll do that, Inspector.”
It was a silent drive. Rutledge was nearly certain that Greeley had nodded off, his head down on his chest, his hat shadowing his eyes. But he could have been lost in thought. Or preparing himself for what was to come . . .
Following the map in his head, Rutledge was able to find the rough road on which the farm stood, but after that asked Greeley for directions.
They drove up a muddy lane and into the back of a tall whitewashed stone farmhouse with nothing to set it apart from dozens of its neighbors except for the traffic that had passed in and out of the yard over the past several days, churning the snow into black muck.
Hamish said, “A stalker couldna' find the lad's tracks in that . . .” He was referring to the Highland gillies who could follow the red deer over bare rock. Or so it was said. They had hunted snipers in France with equal skill and cunning.
Greeley got out stiffly, and stretched his back. More, Rutledge thought, to postpone the inevitable than to ease his tired spine. Then he turned to scan the horizon, almost a reflex action, looking for any sign of movement or activity. But there were no flares, no line of men on the heights. “This way,” he said finally, and Rutledge preceded him into the tiny stone entry that led into the kitchen.
It wasn't, he found himself thinking, so very different from the one where he had spent most of the morning. Large, square, with windows looking out on two sides and a great black cooker in one corner, it had been pretty once. Rose-patterned curtains hung at the windows, chintz cushions in a matching style covered the chairs, and the cloth on the table had roses embroidered in the center, great cabbage roses in cream and pink.
In stark contrast, blood marred everything—the floor, the walls, the furnishings—as if flung there by a mad painter. No longer a bright red, but an ugly black. The bodies had been removed, but