A cold treachery - Charles Todd [41]
Rutledge glanced at Mary Follet. “Had she said anything about this before I came into the room?”
“No, oh, no! I can't believe—” Her voice faded and she reached out a hand in comfort. “There, there, my dear—” Looking back at Rutledge, she explained, “It's the shock. She can't mean what she's saying.”
It was several minutes before Rutledge could stem the flow of tears and make Miss Ashton face him again. He said gently, “You've just made very serious accusations—”
“I was bringing a weapon to my sister!” she cried. “She was the only one who believed me. And it's too late! I'm too late—”
“You must explain what you're talking about,” Rutledge said. “Why did you think Paul Elcott might want to harm his family? Why were you bringing a weapon?”
“The farm,” she said fiercely. “It was all about that horrid farm! Paul was the heir, don't you see? If anything happened to Gerald, Grace wouldn't be able to run sheep on her own, she wasn't bred to it. Josh couldn't inherit even if he'd wanted to. He isn't an Elcott. Gerald never adopted him—Grace wanted him to keep his father's name. It was always understood that Paul— Then the twins were born, and circumstances changed.” Janet Ashton shook her head. “They were his, don't you see? Gerald's own flesh and blood! And Paul was beside himself.”
Hamish was reminding him, “He was the first to find the bodies. After no one came to the house for two days.”
And therefore any clues that might point his way would be explained—it was an old ploy, one that sometimes succeeded.
Rutledge leaned back in his chair. Janet Ashton, as far as he could tell, believed what she was saying. And there was the revolver, to back up her account.
Or to explain it away, Hamish countered.
“How did you come by the weapon?” he asked Janet Ashton. Mary Follet glanced at him in surprise. He thought, “Her husband hasn't told her—”
“A friend of mine, in the war. He'd been gassed and gave it to me just before he died.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Why should I have to do any such thing! I've just told you—”
“The police are thorough,” he said, quietly. “We have to be. I'll need the name of the friend, and the date of his death.”
She turned away from him. “I'd like to be alone, please. I've still not—I can't really believe—” Taking a fresh handkerchief from Mary Follet, she buried her face in it, as if hiding from his questions.
Rutledge rose, nodding to Mrs. Follet. He found himself thinking that Janet Ashton had come a long way to hear tragic news . . . and sometimes at that first emotional blow, people said things they later wished they hadn't. Would this woman feel the same way tomorrow?
Or truth can come tumbling out— Hamish reminded him.
As Rutledge walked back to the kitchen, he agreed. Murder brought to the surface odd antagonisms and old scores wanting settling.
Jarvis said, hearing his footstep in the passage, “How is she?”
“Quite upset. As you might imagine.” He went to the window and looked out. The dog was lying in the barn door, watchful as ever. “How well do you know her, Dr. Jarvis?”
“She was there for Grace's lying-in. I found her to be efficient and levelheaded, which is what I needed at the time. The twins were small and required good care. And there were the other children to think about. I could see that Grace was fond of her, and indeed Gerald depended on her.”
“The children got on well with her, then.”
“The little girl, Hazel, was Miss Ashton's goddaughter and kept a photograph by her bed. I've seen it while treating her for frequent sore throats. Miss Ashton was younger when the photograph was taken, hardly more than Hazel's age. It wasn't a flattering likeness. I wondered a time or two why it hadn't been replaced. Hazel told me it was a favorite because of the dog, Bones. Seems Miss Ashton made up stories about him at bedtime.”
Rutledge himself had seen that photograph—and hadn't made the connection with Janet Ashton. Jarvis was right. The sulky child was nothing at all like the grown woman.
“And Josh?”
“He was at