A cold treachery - Charles Todd [4]
“You will hang for this, see if you don't. That's my revenge, and you'll think about that when the rope goes round your neck and the black hood comes down—”
As a goad, the voice was crueler than any whip.
He was terrified of it.
Some time later he fell, the air whipped out of his body and his chin buried in the snow. For an instant he lay there, listening. Was it his heart beating so hard that it choked him—or was it the crunch of footsteps coming down the swale after him? Frantic, he clawed his way to his feet again. He turned to stare into the darkness behind him. But the sky and the land seemed inseparable, a blank gray-white swirl that offered neither hope nor sanctuary.
There was no one behind him. There couldn't be. And yet he could almost feel the warmth of a body coming towards him. He could see shapes dissolving and solidifying in the wild eddy of flakes caught by the bitter wind. Like a ghost.
A ghost . . .
He began to cry again as he ran on, wishing it was over, wishing that he was dead, like the others.
But he couldn't be dead like the others. He would be hanged when they found him, and the last thing he would ever feel was the jerk of the thick rope around his neck. . . .
CHAPTER THREE
From the village itself, Sergeant Miller had gathered some two dozen able-bodied men with a motley number of horses. The plan was to send these men posthaste to the nearest farms, where they would recruit others to go on to their outlying neighbors. A human chain, adding links at every stage, reaching across Urskdale.
As Inspector Greeley called out each area of search, Miller pulled forward those who knew the ground best, and sent them on their way. As if unperturbed by the dead, the sergeant worked steadily and tirelessly, offering encouragement and answering questions in his deep, gruff voice.
But a slow fury burned inside him, and he kept the faces of the children in the forefront of his mind. For more than twenty years he had been a policeman in Urskdale, and he had taken a personal pride in maintaining the peace through a combination of fatherly persuasion and stern authority. The murder of the Elcotts had forever shattered his complacency.
“And mind you speak to every single person,” Miller commanded. “It's not just the boy we're looking to find! The old granny and the newest babe, make certain you see with your own eyes that they're alive and not under duress. Don't be put off with excuses—you search every corner of every building, leaving nothing to chance. If there's any trouble, anybody hurt—or dead—send word at once. Don't forget the high pens or any fold or crevice that might hold a frightened lad. And don't forget to look down wells. Up chimneys. In the wardrobes and the coal bins. Comb the lot, anywhere a killer might hide himself as you come into the yard. Don't waste time dwelling on events. That's no help to anyone and will frighten some. Do your best, then come back here to report. Or send for the inspector here if need be. Don't be bloody heroes—keep in mind the killer is sure to be armed! We haven't found the murder weapon yet. Off with you, then.”
When Chief Superintendent Bowles was summoned from his bed by a messenger from the Yard, he tied the belt of his robe around his thickening waist and ran a hand over his hair before going down the stairs to find out what was so urgent he had to be awakened from a sound sleep.
He took the folded sheet the waiting constable handed him, and scanned it swiftly, then read through it more carefully.
“Hell and damnation!” he swore under his breath. And looked up at the constable with the fierce glare of a man who needs spectacles and is too vain to wear them.
“Sanders, is it? Any more than this, do you know?”
“That's all Sergeant Gibson gave me, sir. He said we've got a man close by, sir, who could be there in a matter of hours, if you like. Inspector Rutledge has just finished his testimony in Preston and is set to travel back to London in the morning.”
“Rutledge?”