A cold treachery - Charles Todd [36]
They were gone in the next five minutes, heading out of Urskdale and taking in reverse the route Rutledge had followed coming in. The verges were even harder to see now than in the snow, churned and rutted as the unmade road was.
Hamish was already reliving the accident, but Rutledge was too busy keeping his eyes on the swath of his headlamps to satisfy Jarvis's curiosity about Janet Ashton except to say, “She was on the road when the storm caught her. The carriage went off at a steep incline and turned over, killing the horse and leaving her stranded.”
“What in God's name was she doing out in such a storm? I doubt we've seen its match since before the century turned!”
“I'd like very much to know the answer myself,” Rutledge told him grimly.
“What about your family? Is there someone I can contact? They must be worried about you.”
She'd shaken her head. “No—there's no one. No—”
“We assumed, Follet and I,” he went on, as he passed under The Claws, no more than a looming shape far above him, “that she was what she appeared to be—a traveler injured and in need of help. The fingerposts had been blown about by the wind. It was hard to follow the road. She might have been heading for Buttermere, and missed her turn.”
“She wouldna' be lost, if she's been to Urskdale before . . .” Hamish pointed out. “Fingerpost or no'.”
Jarvis said, “If she was found close by the Follet house, she had a long way to go before reaching her sister's farm. It might have saved her life, don't you see? That her trip was held up by the storm. If she'd been there Sunday, she'd have been killed along with the others!”
Hamish said, “If Elcott was expecting his sister-in-law, he'd no' ha' thought twice when a carriage turned into his yard.”
It would explain why Josh had opened the door. After a moment, Rutledge asked the doctor, “If the boy had survived the shooting that Sunday night, he was out in the worst of the storm. Could you be wrong about the timing of the murders? Could they have happened on Monday night? When he might have had a better chance?”
“I'm not wrong about the timing. I'd take my oath on that. As for his chances, people don't often walk off cliffs when the weather comes down here unexpectedly. But that's not to say there aren't places—nasty ones—where a fall results in serious injury, even broken bones. He could have hurt himself badly enough that he died of exposure where he lay. My wife thinks he made it to the village and is hiding out in someone's barn or cellar, but we've searched too thoroughly for that to be true. A patient told me today that we ought to drag Urskwater—that the killer drowned Josh to conceal the body. On the other hand, there are old shielings about that could offer some shelter from the cold. The question then becomes, how did Josh know where to find them? Why didn't the search parties see signs that he'd been there? And if he did manage to survive, why hasn't he shown himself to one of the search parties?”
“What sort of boy is he?”
“Troublesome. Not surprising. He knew damn all about sheep, and I expect his lack of enthusiasm for them tested Gerald's patience more than once. Grace had her hands full with the house and the twins, and her only help was little Hazel. Grace might not have been sympathetic with him if he failed to do his share about the place.” Jarvis grimaced as the tires hit a rut and the motorcar bounced heavily. “Children learn their duty early on. Few of my patients see a great age. Life is inherently hard here, and they begin as soon as they can walk doing what they're told, from feeding the chickens to minding the baby or the bedridden old granny. But Josh came from London and a different life. Look, I've been up for nearly forty hours straight and I've answered your questions. Now I'm making the most of this opportunity to sleep without feeling guilty.” Jarvis buried his chin deeper into the collar of his coat and was soon snoring lightly.
Rutledge