A cold treachery - Charles Todd [76]
“Um, I daresay it would be the ironmonger. Belfors. He was a friend of Paul's father and uncle.”
Rutledge stood. “Then it's time to ask him.”
When Rutledge opened the door of the ironmonger's shop, Greeley at his heels, very blue eyes examined the Londoner as if weighing him up.
The man behind the counter was elderly, with shoulders that were still broad and heavy. His face was rugged, pocked with scars from working hot iron, and his broad hands were gnarled and twisted.
“What can I do for you, then?” Belfors asked, palms resting flat on the worn surface.
There was a clutter of goods everywhere: Barrels of nails and hinges and locks were stocked in front of ax heads, shovels, and spades. Gates for fences leaned against one wall, rakes and pitchforks on either side. And all manner of chains and hammers and spanners filled shelves. A sharp odor of metal mixed with the scent of pipe smoke filled the air.
“My name is Rutledge—”
“Aye, from London.”
“That's right. I'm told you knew Gerald Elcott's father.”
“His father?” He stared at Rutledge for a moment, as if this was a question he'd never expected. “He's been dead for going on ten years. But yes, we were in school together, Henry and I.” Belfors straightened. “We courted the same girl for a time.” A grin creased his face. “Until she married someone else.”
“And did you know his brother, Theo?”
“The inspector here has no doubt already told you I did.”
“Tell me about Theo Elcott.”
“What's this about, then?” Belfors glanced at Greeley as if seeking an explanation.
But Greeley said only, “Answer the inspector, if you will.”
“Theo was railway-mad. Since he was a lad. Read everything he could find about trains. That finally carried him off from here at the age of nineteen, and I saw him but once after that.”
“Where did this passion for railways take him?” Rutledge asked patiently.
“Slough, for a time. Then he was offered a position in South Africa, and he took it. Did well enough for himself out there. But he died before he could return to England.” Belfors glanced from Greeley to Rutledge. “What's this in aid of, then?” he asked a second time. “You don't think Theo's come home to murder people, do you?” There was a thread of sarcasm in the man's voice.
Greeley started to speak, but Rutledge was already answering. “Hardly. We're looking for his trunk. The one holding his belongings, the one that came back after he was buried at sea.”
Belfors sighed. “I can tell you the answer to that. It was given to my sister when she went to Northumberland to live.”
“And the contents? What became of those?”
“How should I know? Clothes and shoes and hats and the like? Donated to the Mission boxes, most likely.”
“Did he bring any souvenirs out of Africa with him?”
“Ah. It's the revolver you want to know about, then! Why didn't you say so? The revolver he used to shoot the Boer. I saw it once. Henry brought it in to show me. He was that proud of his brother. To be honest, I'd have never thought of Theo as a brave man. He had his head in machinery when I knew him. But I suppose he must have been brave enough, when the time came.”
Rutledge held on to his patience. “What became of Theo's revolver, do you know?”
“Henry is the only one who can answer that. And Henry, God rest him, is in the churchyard.”
“Surely one of his sons would have wanted it. A token, as it were, of their uncle's courage?”
The bright blue eyes stared into Rutledge's dark ones.
“I never thought to ask, to tell you the truth. I never knew.”
And Rutledge had to be satisfied with that. But he had the oddest sense that Belfors could have told him more, that he was holding back the whole truth and palming off this stranger from London with bland half-lies.
Who was the old man protecting?
Hamish answered the thought. The only Elcott that's left. Paul.
But Rutledge was groping for something else, something that seemed elusive and fragmentary. At length he said, “By any chance, did you offer to buy the revolver from Henry, when he brought it in to show you?”
There was a flicker of change