A cold treachery - Charles Todd [80]
“I—I'm not worried. It isn't that. Curiosity . . . it's just curiosity.”
Hamish said, “He wouldna' ask if it wasna' something that mattered.”
“Well,” Cummins went on, summoning a smile. “I daresay dinner will be a little late. I apologize.”
“There's no need.”
“I'm not much of a hand in the kitchen. It isn't something . . .” His voice trailed off. “I'll just see if there's anything I can do. Thank you for bringing in the coal—I'll see to it myself from now on.”
And he was gone, leaving the parlor door wide. Currents of cold damp air made the flame in the lamp on the table flicker and dip.
Rutledge said aloud, to Hamish as well as to the shadows, “I wonder how well he knew the Elcotts . . .”
The potatoes were not thoroughly cooked, and the meat was tough. But the people around the table said nothing about that as they ate their meal in silence. A gray-faced Hugh Robinson had been allowed to join them, and he kept his eyes on his plate as if ashamed of his earlier emotional outbreak.
It was Rutledge who turned to Elizabeth Fraser and cut the roast mutton for her and buttered her bread. She thanked him with her eyes but said nothing. Her bandaged hand was paining her—he could tell from the way she held it close to her body, cushioning it.
Mrs. Cummins was chattering about the food, begging everyone to let her know whether it was to their liking. Cummins toyed with his meal, and Hugh Robinson ate mechanically. Janet Ashton answered Mrs. Cummins at first and then fell silent. The ticking of the kitchen clock and the shifting of the coals in the stove filled the room, and the sound of the rising wind.
Hamish, stirred into life by the uncomfortable atmosphere, said, “It wouldna' be sae cheerful at a wake.”
The wind was moaning around the eaves as they finished their flans. Mrs. Cummins began to clear away the dishes. Her husband rose to help her, his sudden cheerfulness forced and uncomfortable as he took them from her and stacked them by the sink. A fire had been lit in the small parlor, and he promised the tea tray there in a few minutes.
Janet Ashton was the first to leave the kitchen, and after a moment Rutledge followed her. As she went into the parlor, she said out of the blue, “When will we be allowed to bury our dead? It would be a kindness, if you'd tell Hugh.”
“I'll speak to Inspector Greeley tonight,” Rutledge replied. “There's no reason why you shouldn't make arrangements for a service.”
Hugh Robinson was on her heels but appeared not to have heard the question. He sat in his chair like a lump, speaking only when spoken to.
Rutledge added, “You understand that you won't be allowed to leave. Even if the roads are passable.”
“I didn't expect we could,” Janet Ashton answered tartly.
Everyone had gone to bed and the house was quiet when Rutledge brought himself up out of deep sleep. He had learned that trick over the months and years in the trenches, where it was too dangerous to light a match to see the time. An internal clock worked nearly as well, allowing him to snatch sleep where he could and still wake up for a change in the watch or the next attack.
He got up, dressed, and then walked silently down the passage towards the kitchen. The fire had been banked, and the air was already chilly. He pulled on his boots, then buttoned his coat.
Letting himself out the kitchen door, he kept to the shadows as far as a small shed, and there leaned his back against the rough wall facing The Knob. He had borrowed field glasses from Elizabeth Fraser, glasses kept for summer guests, and he warmed them under his coat as he waited.
And for the next five hours he kept watch on the heights.
A little after four in the morning, he gave up. Hamish had been telling him for an hour that no one would walk this way, but he was reluctant to leave too soon.
By that time his feet were icy in his boots and his face where the scarf didn't cover it was stinging with the cold.
Why had someone been out there on the heights last night and not tonight? A lost sheep—a shortcut home?
Then why had it