A cold treachery - Charles Todd [69]
As if she'd read his mind, Maggie Ingerson said, “He didn't grow up here. That boy. I don't see him running too far from home. In his shoes, that's what I'd have done. Stayed close and bided my time.”
“It would depend,” Rutledge answered, “on whether he was running from—or to—something.”
She shrugged. “I never had a child of my own. I don't know the answer to that.”
“There are five people dead—”
“And I didn't kill them. I liked Gerald Elcott well enough, but I have all I can do to survive here. If the boy escaped, as Sergeant Miller says he did, then he's dead, too, and I haven't energy to spare in mourning him. In my view, he's better off dead. I know what it's like to live alone and have no one to turn to. I wouldn't wish that on him. Now if you'll forgive me, I need to rest my leg. Standing isn't good for it.”
“Do you need help? Would you like to see Dr. Jarvis? Or to have someone bring you supplies?”
“It's Dr. Jarvis who's to blame for my leg. He told me he could set it again and it would be straight. But he was wrong. About that and the infection afterward. I manage with what I've got, and the rest I do without. Still, thank you for asking.”
She turned and walked back through the door, shutting it in his face.
Rutledge stood there for a moment longer in the yard of the Ingerson farm, remembering what the woman had just said.
The assumption was that Josh Robinson had fled that house of slaughter and run for his life—and that theory had served to galvanize Urskdale, sending searchers in every direction.
But what if it wasn't what had happened that stormy night—
What if he was still somewhere close by his home, waiting for his father to come for him?
Rutledge started the motorcar and drove back the way he'd come.
When Maggie came back into the kitchen, she found him standing there, rooted to the floor, eyes wide with fear.
“I wouldn't mind him,” she said, crossing to the stove to warm her hands. “He was lost.”
The child stared at her.
“From London, he said.”
The boy began to shake, as if from a fever. She thought at first he was having a seizure, and watched in concern, waiting for his eyes to roll back in his head. But he simply stood there, unable to move, in such a state of terror that she crossed to set her hands on his shoulders. He winced at her touch.
“What Sybil finds, she keeps,” Maggie said firmly. “Do you hear me? If you want to leave, there's the door. Open it and go. If you want to stay, then you'll have to trust me.” She moved on to her chair and sat down heavily. “The kettle's about to boil, and I've been on my feet long enough. If we're going to have tea, you'll have to make it. I'll cut the bread. And then we'll see about getting a little hay to the sheep on the hill. The snow's too deep, they'll be starving before it melts. I can't afford to lose them.”
Massaging her leg, she said, “I hate being in debt to any man. It's not how I was brought up. But you're here, and I need you, and that's all there is to it.”
He walked to the stove and lifted the heavy kettle as it began to whistle. It took all his concentration, and he set it carefully on the mat on the table before rooting in the cupboard for tea and sugar and cups.
Maggie watched him without seeming to.
“Do you have a name?” she asked. “I've got to call you something.”
But he didn't answer, his face turned away.
She let it go.
Sybil, lying by the bedroom door, heaved a sigh, as if something had been settled.
Maggie, hearing her, said nothing.
When Rutledge arrived at the Elcott farm, there was another vehicle there already, a small cart drawn by an old horse. He stopped the motorcar some distance away and went to the cart.
Laying a hand on the animal's shoulder, he could feel the sweat, still warm.
The interloper hadn't been there very long.
A curious neighbor? Or someone else?
He strode across the muddy yard to the kitchen door and opened it.
In the light of a lamp on the table, Paul Elcott, on his knees by the wall, looked up with terror in his eyes, and then swore