A cold treachery - Charles Todd [87]
She turned and smiled at Rutledge. “I'd fallen in love with Gerald, worst luck. And it wasn't me he loved. I was the wrong sister . . .”
When he said nothing, she added, “I had a reason to kill Grace, if you like. Jealousy. But I would never have harmed Gerald. He was no good to me dead!”
At ten o'clock that night Rutledge's motorcar returned from Keswick.
Constable Ward, getting down stiffly, said, “I've only half what you wanted. Sergeant Gibson will be sending on the rest in a day or two.”
He held out a sealed envelope. Rutledge opened it as he walked back into the parlor. In the lamplight he read the contents, refolded the sheet of paper, and stood there deep in thought.
Constable Ward broke the silence. “If you don't need me—”
“Yes,” Rutledge said, turning, “it's fine. Go home. I'll have a reply in the morning.”
When the constable had gone, Rutledge read the sheet of paper again.
One paragraph stood out.
I spoke with Gerald Elcott's commanding officer. He tells me Elcott was the chief witness against a private soldier who was found guilty of shooting and severely wounding his sergeant under cover of a German attack. Elcott's view was that the shooting was deliberate, because the sergeant had had words with Private Bertram Taylor some hours before over a woman. After sentencing, Private Taylor called Elcott a liar and threatened him. That was three years ago. A fortnight ago, Taylor was being transferred to hospital for what appeared to be a heart seizure. He managed to overpower his guard and escape. He hasn't been seen since. No one thought it necessary to warn Lieutenant Elcott . . .
A brief description of the escaped prisoner followed.
“It may be,” Hamish said in the back of Rutledge's mind, “that Inspector Greeley has finally got his stranger . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
In the night Maggie heard the boy crying.
She got out of bed, her feet chilled by the cold floor, and walked quietly to the door of his room.
The crying stopped.
She walked on, got herself a glass of water, and let Sybil out into the dark yard. The dog growled deep in her throat. But it was a fox trotting by, his long brush visible in the moonlight. She could hear the sheep in the pen stirring, but they were more than a match for a fox. It was a wolf that worried Maggie, not four-legged but two. Hunting her lamb.
The ax stood by the door, ready to hand.
But Sybil came back soon after that, and Maggie closed and barred the door.
When she crawled back into her cold bed, she listened for a moment. The room next to hers was quiet. Either he'd cried himself to sleep or he had heard her stirring and buried his head in the bedclothes.
After about five minutes, she heard Sybil scratch lightly on the door of the boy's room. The door opened quietly, and she heard the click of Sybil's nails as she crossed the room, and then nothing as the dog jumped up on the bed that had been Maggie's father's.
Satisfied, she pulled her blankets higher and settled herself for sleep.
When Rutledge brought him London's information the following morning, Inspector Greeley ordered copies made of the description given of Private Taylor, and asked Sergeant Miller to make certain these were distributed to everyone in Urskdale.
“I'll see to it,” he added, “that word also reaches the farms. But they were questioned about strangers earlier. None was reported. A needle in a haystack, finding any trace of Taylor. If he had any sense, he's made for the London stews where he can lose himself.”
Rutledge recalled what Mrs. Peterson had said, at South