A cold treachery - Charles Todd [67]
He asked Mr. Peterson the same questions—and once more met a blank wall. Mrs. Peterson, driven by curiosity, came out to see what it was the stranger wanted.
“We didn't know the lad, not really. Of course we'd seen him on market day with Gerald or his mum,” she told Rutledge. “But our children are grown, with lives of their own, and we had no reason to take special notice of Josh. I'd heard he was troublesome, but he seemed quiet enough when Gerald was about.”
“Troublesome?”
“I'm only repeating what Mrs. Haldnes told me. I don't know firsthand.”
Peterson's eyes slid towards the heights. “We did our best, searching. It was expected of us.” But the dissatisfaction of failure lurked in his voice.
“And you're sure there were no strangers in Urskdale, the week before the murders?” Rutledge asked again.
“Well, if a stranger was bent on mischief, he wasn't likely to call attention to himself, was he?” Mrs. Peterson asked reasonably. “Not many of us look out our windows of a night, to see who may be passing.”
“Besides,” her husband put in, “no need to stir up the dogs, if you're willing to walk wide of a farm. There's a hundred tracks to choose from, besides the lanes.”
But when asked why the Elcotts might have been killed, the Petersons, like the Haldneses, shook their heads.
“Gerald was a good man,” Peterson said. “Hardly the sort to find himself mixed up in something nasty. And that young wife of his was very mindful of her place. People like that aren't likely to find themselves in trouble, are they?”
“His father, Henry, was a good man, too. And of course his uncle. Sound stock, the Elcotts,” Mrs. Peterson agreed. Then she added anxiously, “I don't think I ever knew anyone murdered before. It's not something we're used to, is it?”
When Rutledge brought up Paul Elcott's name, a quick glance passed between husband and wife. “He's not Gerald, mind. But sound enough,” Peterson replied. “A shame the licensed house didn't fly, but there you are. He's young, yet.”
Mrs. Peterson nodded. “He reminds me of his uncle Theo. And look how he turned out!” It was, to Rutledge's ears, faint praise.
Hamish said, “A long shadow to live under for a lifetime.”
It was an interesting observation.
“Does Theo Elcott live here?” Rutledge asked. No one had mentioned another relative until now.
“Oh, Theo's been dead since 1906,” Mrs. Peterson assured him. Then, reverting to the murders, she said, “Henry would have been horrified. I just don't understand how something like this could have happened here in Urskdale!”
Driving away from South Farm, Rutledge marveled at the silence bred into these people. The willingness to shut their eyes, the refusal to be a brother's keeper. Searching was one thing. It was what they knew, the land they lived with. If someone needed help repairing a storm-damaged roof, or the loan of a team or plow, or a hand feeding livestock when he was ill, neighbors would come because they knew he would return the favor one day. It was a matter of survival, in a place where nature was against them all.
But whatever the Elcotts had done to call the wrath of the gods down upon them, their neighbors wanted no part of it.
The lane leading to the last farm on his list was deep with snow. His tires struggled up the incline, spinning, the motorcar rocking from side to side like a ship in a storm. Only the slightest indentation defined the lane as it wound around a knoll and then traveled a good mile over hilly ground before finally straggling upward again and into a farmyard. The outbuildings were weathered, tired. The snow lay heavy on their slate roofs, and in the gray sunlight, there was a dreariness about them that struck him at once.
Glancing down at the map, Rutledge read the name by this particular square. It was the Ingerson farm. An old name, surely, going back to the Scandinavian heritage of many families in the North.
He pulled into the yard and saw that seven or so sheep were penned near the house. Smoke rose from the chimney but the yard was empty, and no dogs barked.
Getting