A cold treachery - Charles Todd [65]
An unexpected motive . . . an unhappy, frustrated child's solution to his private demons.
“Is it possible that Josh Robinson was wretched enough here in Urskdale to take matters into his own hands? So that he could live with his father?”
Blackwell stared at Rutledge. “Good God! Are you suggesting—? No, that's contemptible! We're talking about a child—!”
“A policeman doesn't have the luxury of making exceptions. I have to look at every possibility, no matter how distasteful it might be,” Rutledge answered mildly.
“He won't be eleven until January!” Blackwell exclaimed, shocked. “You must be out of your mind! I'd as easily believe Harry Cummins or I could have done such a thing!”
Rutledge said, “With a revolver there's no thought—there's no strength required. You simply point the weapon and pull the trigger. And people fall dead.”
Blackwell got to his feet. “I shan't waste breath on this question!”
“Is there anyone Josh might have turned to—anyone he trusted enough to make his way to them? You, his teacher, perhaps.”
The schoolmaster stopped at the door. “I wish I could say he would come to me. But of course he wouldn't have.” He shrugged deprecatingly. “I make it a habit never to show favoritism. I never gave that child any reason to believe he could trust me particularly. I never imagined there would come a time . . .”
Rutledge waited, and Blackwell added almost against his will, “That's my failure as a teacher, Inspector. Some men have the gift of inspiring the young. I merely teach them. For what that's worth.” And he was gone, a gust of frigid air swirling into the hall in his wake.
Rutledge discovered Elizabeth Fraser sitting in the kitchen, reading. He was surprised to find her still awake, and wondered if she found it as difficult to sleep sometimes as he did. And then remembered her standing in the door in the moonlight, taking tentative steps as if testing her will. When the house was dark and silent . . .
She looked up as he came through the passage door and said, “Was that news?”
“It was Blackwell, the schoolmaster. Did you know that Cummins has come home?”
“I heard him in the passage, speaking to his wife. She's not—well—tonight, as you saw.” She marked her place in the book. “You look tired. I've put your hot water bottle there on the table.”
“Were you waiting for me?” he asked, feeling a surge of guilt at the thought.
“No. I was trying to stay warm for a few minutes longer.” She smiled. “I was born along the south coast, where winters were milder. We seldom saw snow, and I used to dream of traveling to Lapland and riding in a sleigh. It sounded so exciting—to be wrapped in furs and follow the reindeer herds.”
“Why Lapland?”
“Because my mother often read to me from a little book about a child of the North.” Her smile faded. “I know the men can't search forever. They have farms and families and work to see to. But I can't help but feel we've somehow deserted Josh Robinson by giving up.”
“I haven't given up,” he reminded her. “We're just trying new directions. Tomorrow I'll call on several of the farms closest to the Elcott house. To see what they've heard or seen, to ask where we ought to look when this snow melts. To keep their minds on the possible, even if we've had no luck so far.”
“Do you think—is Robinson right about his son? He knows him best, but I—somehow I can't comprehend a child killing his own family! I've seen Josh; he was a child with unruly hair and a quick smile, and sometimes an imp of mischief in his face.” She paused. “There was loneliness, too. I must tell you that.”
Rutledge walked to the window and raised the shade to look out at the night.
“'Ware what you say,” Hamish warned him. And Rutledge turned away from the window, angry with the cautionary voice in his head.
“I've only begun the investigation—”
“It's just as hard to imagine Paul Elcott shooting his own brother.” Her face was troubled. “What if you don't find the killer? Ever? There'll be a cloud over