A cold treachery - Charles Todd [38]
Sybil, nosing the sleeping bundle, gave up and trotted beside her mistress, her head looking up for the usual “Well done!” that came with carrying out a task. But Maggie, her back into the rope, paid no heed. The silent lump on the wooden deck was heavier than it had any right to be, and the damned sled, with a mind of its own, wanted to go faster than she herself could manage. She thought, “If I were still young enough, I'd get on it and ride it down.” But that was foolishness and she knew it. The fell were not a sledding hill, and the hidden rocks that scarred its face would damage runners in short order, tumbling both rescued and rescuer into the snow. No doubt breaking her bad leg all over again.
With increasing exhaustion dogging her steps, Maggie worked at bringing the sled down, and as the familiar outline of the farm rose up out of the darkness, taking the shape of roof and lighted windows and barn almost under her feet, she was nearly at the end of her strength. Once she sat in the snow and wept from tiredness, and the dog licked her face, chilling her hot cheeks as the air cooled the wetness. Her knee throbbed from so much effort.
But in the end, she got herself and the boy to the yard door of the house.
It wasn't until she was beginning to untie the knotted ropes that had held the boy in place on the journey down to the farm that he woke up and began to scream, the high-pitched cries of a trapped and terrified animal.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rutledge found the Follets' dog in no kinder mood than it had been on his previous visit, and blew the motorcar's horn to raise the inhabitants of the house. The doctor, stretching himself, said, “Are they deaf, then?”
“No, just careful.” Clouds were banking over the fells, closing him in as surely as shutting a gate. He shook off the feeling and spoke to the dog.
Jarvis nodded. “Follet always was a careful man.”
Follet eventually came to the door, lantern in hand, called off the dog, and greeted Rutledge guardedly. Then, with considerable warmth, he added, “Dr. Jarvis! Now you're a welcomed sight. Mary was just saying she wished you was here to have a look at Miss Ashton's ribs.”
“How is the patient?” The doctor got stiffly out of his seat and shielded his eyes from the glare of the lantern.
Follet lowered it. “Well enough. According to Mary.”
He led his visitors inside and called to his wife from the kitchen. She came down the passage after a moment, smiling at Dr. Jarvis with a dip of her head—pupil to master—and shyly asked how one of his other patients was.
They exchanged news while Follet said in a subdued voice to Rutledge, “I was unprepared for the damage to Miss Ashton's carriage. My guess is it rolled several times after leaving the road. The incline just there is steep enough to do serious harm.”
“Yes, I was of the same opinion.” Rutledge paused, made certain that the two practitioners were still busy, and added, “I couldn't even be sure which direction it was traveling in.”
Follet answered, “I'd not like to place my hand on a Bible myself—” and then he broke off, as if aware that the reference to sworn testimony was not, perhaps, the proper comparison to make in jest to a policeman. “Any news of the boy? Or the killer?”
“None, I regret to say. The search parties are still out there.”
Mary turned to greet Rutledge, and then she led them down the passage to the small sitting room where Janet Ashton sat by the fire, swathed in blankets, cushions, and pillows. She winced as she tried to turn her head to see who her visitors were.
“Miss Ashton. I'm glad to see you're feeling a little better,” Rutledge said, though privately he thought she looked tired and still in considerable pain.
“I've had a very fine nurse,” she told him, smiling up at her hostess.
“Yes, indeed,