A cold treachery - Charles Todd [83]
Elizabeth Fraser was there, in her chair. She bit her lip once during the final words of interment, and ran a gloved finger over the raindrops that glistened on the black robe across her knees. Once she looked up and caught his eyes on her, and seemed disconcerted for a moment.
Harry Cummins had attended, but his wife hadn't come to the graveside, pleading dizziness. He frowned as he watched the coffins sink into the wet earth, and something made him glance towards Elizabeth Fraser as if he could sense what she was thinking.
Belfors, the ironmonger, was there with his wife. She was a fair woman with gray eyes, tall and slender and carrying her years well. They had brought Paul Elcott in their carriage. Friends and neighbors formed a ring around the raw earth, their faces a blend of sadness and uneasiness.
Hamish said, as the rain pattered down gently on Rutledge's umbrella, “It's no' verra comforting. I'd ha' had a piper for my funeral.”
Rutledge winced, thinking that Hamish must be close enough to stand under the spread of black silk with him.
“No pipers here,” he said under his breath. But the mountains ringing the valley and the wide expanse of black water in the lake would have echoed the chilling skirl and sent it back again a dozen times.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The funeral's baked meats were sandwiches and cups of tea provided by Harry Cummins for those mourners who chose to accompany the survivors of Gerald Elcott's family to the hotel. Comforting words were quietly offered to Robinson, Miss Ashton, and Elcott, but no one mentioned the house at the farm, where bloodstains were still visible in spite of repeated scrubbings. And no one in Rutledge's hearing referred to the way five people had died.
But both would, as Hamish noted, be discussed in hushed voices on the way home.
Some had said their farewells at the church, unwilling to be caught on the road by December's early dusk. Jim and Mary Follet had come to the hotel, out of respect, but soon took their leave. Follet, shrugging into his coat in the front hall, commented to Rutledge that it was a sad day for Urskdale—and would be sadder still when everyone learned who was to blame. A few villagers lingered, most of them friends of Paul Elcott's, exchanging reminiscences with him. Mr. and Mrs. Belfors, who carried Elcott off with the last of the mourners, ignored Rutledge in their farewells.
Janet Ashton and Hugh Robinson sat together awkwardly talking for several minutes longer, and then Janet went to her room, saying she wouldn't be dining that night. Hugh soon followed. Since his attempt at suicide, he'd kept to himself.
Inspector Greeley saw them all off and then departed, with Dr. Jarvis following on his heels.
Harry Cummins excused himself and went to see to his wife. She had made a brief appearance in the dining room and then wandered away as if distracted by her thoughts.
Rutledge, standing by the dining room windows, wasn't aware that he was being watched. His eyes were on the dark line of Urskwater.
Finally Elizabeth Fraser's voice broke into the tangle of his thoughts. “You're tired. How do you expect to see clearly when you drive yourself like this?”
He turned, staring at her. “You know the right things to say, don't you?” he asked with surprise. Old Bowels, his superior in London, would have wasted no time in pointing out Rutledge's failure. Hamish knew his shortcomings. For years he'd grown used to judging himself harshly as well.
Elizabeth Fraser smiled faintly. “It's common sense, that's all. And to be truthful, because you're the stranger, you may well see us for what we are, no matter how hard we try to hide ourselves behind masks. That's what Inspector Greeley can't do, don't you see? He's lived here too long to step aside. You're to be his scapegoat, and after you've gone