A cold treachery - Charles Todd [29]
Hamish said, with feeling, “It brings back the war . . .”
Rutledge thought: “The refugees we found in that cellar—”
There were plates of food on the table, and covered pots on the stove. One glass overturned. A stained fork lying on the floor. A chair on its side. The unexpectedness of the attack witnessed by such insignificant things . . .
Greeley was explaining, as if by rote, “Gerald Elcott was there, by the cooker. From what Jarvis told me, it took him nearly a minute to die. The little girl—Hazel—was lying by the door—She died quickly, thank God. And the twins were close by the table, beside their mother. She was half draped over them, as if to shield them. Jarvis thinks she saw them shot before she herself died. It was ruthless—venomous—”
Rutledge could picture the scramble as the family realized what was about to happen. The father too far from the outer door to stop the killing—the little girl racing to reach safety in another room. The mother flinging herself towards the infants. Shouts and screams—the deafening sound of the revolver—and then silence. And Josh? Where was Josh?
“How many shots were fired?”
“As far as we can tell at this stage, there were six. One in each of the dead, and one there in the wall. It must have missed the boy as he ran out the door. We haven't found the revolver. We've searched the house top to bottom, and the outbuildings. Our man is still armed, wherever he is.”
“And the killer stood where?”
“Here, where we are. It would give him command of the room, an open field of fire. No one had disturbed the scene. The murderer made no effort to find out if all of them were dead. He didn't care. Paul Elcott never approached the victims, either. I don't think he could bear it—” Greeley broke off and then blurted, “You know the worst of it? I helped Sergeant Miller carry them out. And I think if I'd had their murderer within reach, I'd have killed him myself!” He cleared his throat in embarrassment before going on in a steadier voice. “It seems to me that he came in from the yard and caught them all off guard. There was no way to tell if there was any exchange before he began shooting. But it must have happened very quickly. Gerald Elcott—the father—was shot first, before he could put up a fight to save his family. That would make sense. And it would have been less than two minutes before the killer turned to go after the boy. Not much of a head start, really.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “I have to ask myself if the parents knew why this was happening. Or if it was as senseless to them—”
“Whoever it was, if he came into the kitchen as we did, he must have known the family.”
“That's possible. But here in the North, the kitchen is always the warmest room in winter, and we generally go round to the yard door rather than the front of the house. I don't think it signifies. And a stranger would have come to where the lamp was lit.”
“Still, Gerald Elcott was standing by the stove. That means the son opened the outside door, and must have known the killer at least well enough to allow him to step inside. Otherwise, Elcott would have been here, where we are, in the murderer's way. Think about it.”
Greeley sighed. “Yes, I agree. Not a stranger, then . . .”
“But not necessarily someone you may know,” Rutledge pointed out. He recognized the propensity of local police to prefer outsiders, not their own.
Brightening, Greeley said, “Yes, that's possible.”
“How many members of the family live close enough to call in without notice?”
“Only Gerald's brother, Paul, lives here in Urskdale. Grace has a sister, who sometimes visits in the summer. I've never known her to come in winter. We haven't been able to reach her, but the wires were down for a day and a half. And there's the father of the two older children. Robinson. He lives in London.”
“Any close friends, then?”
Greeley shrugged. “Anyone from Urskdale might stop in. And be welcomed.” He turned away and stumbled