A cold treachery - Charles Todd [30]
Hamish said, “It's no' the smell—”
Rutledge barely heard him. He stood there in the doorway for a moment longer. Even without the presence of the victims, the force of helplessness and terror lingered, like a miasma, as heavy as the acrid taint of blood. He could sense it, and with it, something else.
Surely it hadn't been done without an attempt at justification, the killing. There would have been no satisfaction in that, surely . . . only a massacre.
With a last look at the kitchen, he followed Greeley out into the cold afternoon.
They walked around to the front of the house, where the snow was beaten down by foot traffic.
“It was smooth as glass when we got here,” Greeley was saying. “And this door was tight shut.” He opened it and they stepped into a small hall, where wet, muddy tracks marred the smooth floor.
Rutledge thought, “Grace Elcott wouldn't care to have strangers see her floor in this condition. . . .”
The style of the furnishings in the parlor was Victorian, but the polished wood was a measurement of pride, and the small touches, a plant on a stand by the window, the coal scuttle filled, matches upright in a narrow blue vase beside it, a collection of picture frames with yellowing photographs of at least two generations, and the spotlessly clean chimneys of the lamps, indicated that Grace Elcott was a good wife. But what else was she?
They climbed the stairs to find that the twins shared a room, while the boy and girl had their own. Each was neat as a pin, with a wooden chest for the collection of toys and games in the boy's room and a small shelf for dolls in the girl's. Clothes were tidily folded in drawers or hung in the wardrobes.
There was a photograph by Hazel's bed, and judging by the Victorian style of dress, it had been taken around 1900. A young girl stood squarely facing the camera almost as one would face an enemy, straight on. Dressed in a plain white gown, her hair pulled back with a ribbon, she seemed to resent the photographer's intrusion, as if she had other things she'd rather be doing. At her feet lay a tennis racket, as if thrown there in anger. The little dog half hidden in her skirts looked up at her in adoration, unmindful of her mood, but Rutledge, holding the frame, could read the stormy face very well. Grace Elcott as a girl?
The master bedroom boasted a great carved bedstead, early Victorian, with a matching washstand and chest. On that was a set of silver-plated brushes with GLR on the backs. Mrs. Elcott's, from her first marriage?
If so, it might indicate that her present husband was a tolerant man, or that they were too expensive to be replaced easily.
Hamish said, “He accepted the children of the first marriage . . .”
Perhaps the initials didn't matter, or the brushes were kept for the daughter.
On the dressing table was another photograph. Rutledge found himself looking down into the faces of the dead. A man of middle height, fair-haired and exceptionally handsome. Beside him a woman who smiled with noticeable joy, her face tilted, her eyes alight. There was something about her that suited her name—Grace. Slim and leaning a little towards her husband, she appeared to be deeply in love. In her arms she held the twins, swathed in blankets, hardly more than tiny features blinking at the sun. Barely a month old when the photograph was taken, Rutledge judged. Grace Elcott had grown from a sulky child into a confident wife and mother.
A shy girl stood between Gerald and Grace Elcott, and Gerald's hand was on her shoulder, as if in reassurance. Hazel. Her eyes were looking up into his face. Next to the woman stood a boy, all legs and arms, scowling at the camera, his chin tucked into his chest, as if in protest. Josh Robinson. In the background was a church door.
Greeley said to Rutledge, “Taken by the rector, after the christening. Mrs. Elcott was that happy, that day. My wife remarked on it, how happy she was.” He shrugged his shoulders deeper into his heavy coat, as if to shut out the cold.
And only months