A cold treachery - Charles Todd [61]
Robinson pressed his hands to his face, as if the very bones ached. “If you want to know, that's why I came to Urskdale. Rather than send the gifts by express. Don't you see? Josh had been telling me all the autumn that he hated it here in the North, that his mother no longer had time or patience for him, that she loved the twins best because she loved their father best. I thought it would help if I talked to him, face to face. That's why I have to find Josh now, to help him, protect him. Whatever he's done.” He drew his hands down, his eyes haunted. “Do you think I like the idea? Do you think I don't want to believe in someone—anyone else—killing them? The doctor said it must have been someone they trusted. Please God, let it be anyone but Josh!”
Janet Ashton said, “Did you tell Grace what you're telling us? Did you talk to her about it?”
He shook his head. “I didn't need to. She assured me he'd outgrow it, that he was still struggling with the fact that I'd come home. And I told myself he was far too young to come and live with me—”
He broke off as Janet Ashton got up from the table.
“I won't hear any more of this—I was here when the twins were born, I would have seen for myself that he was troubled—”
But Hugh Robinson answered the thought behind what Janet was saying. “Gerald had been good to Josh. I don't think it was something Grace wanted to discuss with anyone but me.”
“Grief has turned your mind, Hugh,” Janet declared. “You should never have gone into that house or asked to see their bodies—it was not something you should have done!”
Janet walked quickly out of the kitchen, as if afraid their voices would follow her.
Robinson turned to look after her. “Grace wrote me, just before I was taken prisoner, telling me how Janet had stepped in after I'd been shipped to France. How she'd helped with Hazel and Josh, even going to London to find work and make sure the children had everything they needed. It was Janet's spirit that kept my family together. I owe her more than I can ever repay. But there are things between a husband and wife that no one else shares.” He folded his serviette with shaking fingers and got to his feet. “If you'll excuse me—”
As his footsteps faded down the passage, Elizabeth Fraser said into the silence that followed, “I wish I hadn't heard any of that. It's too horrible even to think about!”
“They're grieving. You can't always heed what someone says in the first hours of grief.” Rutledge had lost his appetite, the rest of his meal untouched on his plate.
Hamish stirred. “Then you didna' believe the man.”
“Children don't always think about the aftermath of an action. Only about what they want,” he answered, this time silently, for Hamish's ears only. “But I find it hard to believe that a child of ten could aim and fire a revolver accurately, six times.”
“It's no' difficult in sae small a room. He couldna' miss at that distance. If he was fashed—”
It was true, anger could have given a child the steadiness of purpose and the strength he needed. It would be over with quickly, surprise carrying the day for him, and only then would he begin to realize the horror of death. But where had he found a weapon?
“If Josh killed his family, then he's better off dead on the mountainside.”
“There was the lad in Preston. He was only eighteen.”
“Arthur Marlton was driven by voices—no one has said that Josh was anything but sane—”
Rutledge became aware that Elizabeth Fraser was speaking.
“—It must be hard to listen to such things. Even a policeman can't be inured to that kind of suffering!” She began to collect the plates, but he could see that her hands were trembling.
He thought of all the suffering he'd witnessed, in the war—in the course of his duties. He was abruptly tired of judging, of looking at the cruelty of violent death. He was tired of probing into the souls of people and digging out the nasty secrets he found there. This kitchen, with its cozy warmth, its small pleasures, shouldn't be the forum for questioning the motives of murderers.
He found himself longing for the