A cold treachery - Charles Todd [84]
It was an astute comment.
“I'm used to that,” Rutledge answered, making an effort to smile.
And yet, as Hamish was reminding him, their murderer had to be one of a handful of possibilities. Josh Robinson. Janet Ashton. Paul Elcott. Even if the murder weapon never turned up, even if the motive for murder proved to be elusive, there would be something, somewhere, to point him towards the killer.
Was it because he'd saved Janet Ashton's life that he didn't want it to be her? What was it the Arabs of the desert believed? Save a person's life and that person was indebted forever. He belonged to his savior as surely as if he were enslaved. Not in the physical sense of enslaved, but in the emotional ties that lay between two people.
But he didn't want Janet Ashton to belong to him.
Perhaps, as Hamish was telling him, he just wanted to believe that her life had been worth saving. For better things than the hangman.
Restless, Rutledge retrieved his damp coat and hat and went to walk down the streets of Urskdale. The rain had stopped, but he tugged his coat collar up against the raw wind that continued to blow down from the fells, bringing the bite of snow with it.
The houses huddled along the road with a grim determination, the stone they were built of hardly distinguishable from the saddle looming behind them. Here and there a plum or apple tree grew in the gardens behind the homes, but for the most part no trees broke the stark line of the roofs. There was a bleak beauty here, but in winter, with snow piled high against stone walls and slate tiles, there weren't many people on the streets, and those who were out seemed to hurry, heads down, nodding briefly to others as they passed.
Many of the shops had been boarded up, closed while the storm raged and left as they were while the men were out searching the fells. It was, Rutledge found himself thinking, hard to keep shelves stocked when goods lorries and wagons couldn't get through. On the other hand, short of the drive to Keswick, these had little competition.
He couldn't help but remember what Janet Ashton had told him about her sister, that Grace had grown up in very different surroundings. How happy had she been here in Urskdale? Had the isolation and the loneliness made her regret her choice?
Hamish reminded him that she'd had the opportunity to leave when her first husband returned from the dead.
But she was pregnant again by that time. With twins . . .
Beyond the church, where the road curved to run along the top of the lake, he could see the bare earth where the bodies of the Elcotts had been buried.
You would think, Rutledge told himself, that in such a tiny community, everyone would have known everyone else's business, and gossip might have pointed to some troublesome questions about the Elcott family—their enemies—their problems.
Hamish answered him. “There hasna' been time for gossip. No' wi' the storm and then the business of finding the laddie.”
Which was true. But even when the gossip began, he would be the last to hear it.
Dr. Jarvis came out of a house door and seemed startled to find Rutledge in his path.
“Has there been news?” the doctor asked quickly. “Are you looking for me?”
“I wasn't,” Rutledge answered pleasantly, “but I'd like to speak to you now that we've met.”
“It's as cold as hell out here,” Jarvis said, “but my surgery is just over there. I expect I've missed my tea, but I have some medicinal sherry that's warming.”
He led Rutledge to a house that was larger than most, with a small surgery attached in what had once been the carriageway to the yard. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and lit a lamp. Rutledge looked around with interest. A tiny waiting room and two doors on the inner wall, one to the examining room and the other to an office where comfort appeared to matter more than professional status. There were no windows, as the office abutted the house, but large paintings on the wall added brightness.
Catching Rutledge's eye on them, Jarvis said, “We had a local