CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rutledge got to his feet as Mrs. Cummins walked from the room. He couldn't be sure how much of what she'd told him he could believe. Or whether years of drinking heavily had warped her memories.

Hamish said, “She's to be pitied.”

“People who make great sacrifices for love often live to regret it.” Rutledge was thinking of Jean, but it was Hamish who brought up the name of Fiona MacDonald.

“She didna' regret loving me.”

Rutledge stared into the fire.

He was tired of the grief and pain of others. He hadn't healed sufficiently himself to take on more suffering.

“How do I find this killer?” he asked into the silence. “I can't seem to put a finger on the truth. I can't seem to sort out the people and see them clearly. I can't seem to find the thread that will lead me to the answer.”

The Scot's voice seemed to fill the room. “First you must look at the key . . .”

 

When Maggie had latched the door on Rutledge, she stood for a moment, resting her leg, her back to the cold wooden panels.

“It's a bloody Picadilly Circus!” she said under her breath. Her eyes fell on the Wellingtons by the door. Then she looked up at the frightened boy waiting tensely across the room.

“Well, we're rid of him. But with so much coming and going, I'd recommend feeding the sheep after dark from now on. There's no use calling attention to ourselves, unless we need to.”

Taking off her coat, she hung it from the hook beside her. Sinking into her chair with relief, she put her head back and considered the ceiling. “If I knew what it was you were afraid of, I'd do better by you.”

But he said nothing.

She pointed to the table. “There's pen and paper there. I can go on talking to myself, if that's what pleases you. But my father, God rest him, always told me that facing the monsters under the bed gave you power over them.”

He didn't seem to understand what she was saying. Heaving herself out of her chair, she crossed to the table, found a clean sheet in the assortment of papers she kept there. Taking up a pencil, she concentrated on drawing for several minutes.

The boy stole closer, for a better look, and she shifted in her chair so that he couldn't see what it was she was doing.

Then, satisfied, she leaned back, set the pencil down, and got to her feet.

“That's what terrified me at your age. Now I'm going to rest for a little. This leg aches like the very devil! There must be a change coming in the weather.”

She walked to her room, closed the door, and sat down on the bed.

The boy crept to the table to see what she had drawn, and stood there fascinated.

A blackness against greater blackness, shaped like a hulking human figure, its broad shoulders crowding out everything else. It loomed above a child's narrow bed, menacing in the extreme. The image was crudely drawn, but the power of it was immense, the pencil strokes bold and vigorous, as if the memory was real and fresh.

Underneath, Maggie had scrawled The Man of the Mountain.

He had listened to Mr. Blackwell's classroom account of the man who had lived in one of the shielings on the mountains and crept down at night into the village, hungry for human flesh. It was an old Norse legend carried to England by early settlers in the region, and with the passage of time had come into local folklore as a threat for naughty children.

“If you don't mind your mother, the Man of the Mountain will come for you. Wait and see . . .”

“If you're not back by dark . . .”

“If you fail to say your prayers . . .”

Mr. Blackwell had called it superstitious nonsense, but there were those in the classroom who had surreptitiously crossed their fingers against invoking the Man. He had more reality than the Devil and was closer to home. The schoolmaster had also told his students that the Man owed much to Beowulf, but the boy hadn't recognized the name. Someone living in another valley, he thought.

To the boy, an outsider over whom the power of the legend held no sway, it was no more than a delicious tale meant to send a shiver down the spine.

He smiled a little as he looked at Maggie's work. And then, turning the sheet over, he studied the blank paper for a time.

Then he picked up the pencil and with shaking fingers made his own drawing before hiding it deep in the pile on the table.

After the boy had gone to bed, Maggie looked for and finally found the sheet. She was chilled to see a stark outline of a gallows, with a dangling, empty noose.

 

A swift foray into the kitchen was unsuccessful, but Rutledge found what he was looking for in the barn.

The cow, which the neighbor had been caring for while Harry Cummins was away, lifted her head from the manger where hay had been strewn for her, and stared at him with dark, soft eyes.

He spoke to her as he went out, and she went on placidly chewing.

Rutledge left the hotel to drive back to the Elcott farm. Paul's carriage was there, but he didn't go to the kitchen to find the man.

Instead, he got out of the motorcar and walked around to the front door.

Moving quietly, he went up the stairs to Josh Robinson's bedchamber. He went carefully through the boy's belongings again, frowning as he worked. Clothes, shoes, stockings, belts—a cricket bat and ball—

And then he remembered the set of broken cuff links. Taking them, he put everything else back where he'd found it.

Outside again, he climbed the slope behind the house. The going was still difficult, but he took his time and watched where he set his boots.

Far up on the shoulder, where the scree began, was the Elcott sheep pen.

A pregnant ewe had taken shelter there, scraping at the snow cover in search of grass. She sneezed as Rutledge came towards her, and then edged nervously away.

He kept walking, heading for the ruin of a hut higher up.

The roof had fallen in, snow had banked high against the walls, and there were heavy tracks all around the hut. It was here that Paul Elcott had once retreated. And here that Josh had retreated the day his mother had gone into false labor.

The search party had been thorough, poking their staffs into the drifts and trying to probe the narrow opening under a part of the collapsed roof that formed a tiny shelter. If there was anything to be found, they would have seen it. But even they, in the first aftermath of the storm, might have missed something that the rain and sun had brought to the surface like old bones.

Rutledge knelt and looked inside.

This was the likeliest place for a child to take shelter. Jarvis had been right. And although the search party hadn't found him here, small traces might have been buried deep in the snow, impossible to see in the light of a lamp or torch.

What he was about to do would be accepted as truth.

Reaching into his pocket, he took out one of the cuff links and dropped it into a crevice between stones in the corner nearest what had been the door.

Satisfied, he squatted there and looked at what he'd done. The cuff link was completely out of sight. He got to his feet and dusted off his gloves.

Paul Elcott had stepped out into the yard, shielding his eyes as he looked up the fell towards Rutledge.

Rutledge lifted a hand as if he'd just realized Elcott was there, and began to descend the slope, Hamish arguing with him every step of the way.

By the time he reached the yard, Elcott had closed the kitchen door and stored his painting gear in the barn. He stood there by his carriage as Rutledge slipped and skidded down the last hundred yards.

“What possessed you to go up there? It's been searched, that hut.”

Rutledge, breathless, shook his head. “I'm sure it was. The report said nothing was found. But the snow has melted considerably. I was luckier. I came across these.”

In the palm of his hand he held out a stub of candle and a burnt match.

“Someone was there. Either the night it happened, or afterward. I expect it was Josh. But it might have been the killer.”

Elcott stared at the candle. “You can't be sure—”

“No. Of course I can't. I didn't have any tools with me. I'll come back tomorrow and look again.”

“It doesn't make sense. I mean, if he was there—if he had a candle—why didn't he come out when the searchers were calling his name?”

“You may be right,” Rutledge said, with reluctance. “But this candle hasn't been out in the weather long. Who else has been up there, if not the boy?”

“Gerry might have been—”

“I can't see Gerald taking a candle and hunkering down in the hut. But I'll come back tomorrow and take my time.”

He cranked the motor and stepped into the driver's seat.

“Did you ever go up there as a child, and hide? Is it a likely place?”

“I—yes. I could see the yard, and come down when my father was in a better temper,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I doubt Josh ever did that.”

“I wouldn't say anything about this in Urskdale. Until I can be sure what the candle means.”

“No. Of course not. I—I'll be working out here again tomorrow. You'll let me know—”

“Yes, I'll be sure to do that.”

 

At the hotel, Rutledge found Mrs. Cummins in the kitchen boiling carrots for dinner.

He took out the candle stub and held it out.

“I found this above the Elcott farm—in a hut that's beyond the sheep pen. Does it look as if this candle is one that could be bought here in Urskdale?”

She studied it. “Harry has a box just like it that he bought in one of the shops. He keeps them in the barn. What's it doing up in a hut? That's an unlikely place to store candles!”

“I can't be sure what it means. I'm going back tomorrow to search again. There was no time to do more—I didn't have a spade or a torch with me.”

Mrs. Cummins said, “You ought to ask Sergeant Miller to go with you. He's a good man with a spade. You should see the garden behind his house!”

“Thank you. I'll do that.”

 

It was Janet Ashton who made a comment at the dinner table about the candle.

“I can't see that it's important. That candle you found. I mean, Josh had probably played up there a hundred times. He liked walking about on his own.”

“I don't know that it matters,” Rutledge agreed. “But I'll have a look tomorrow. I could have missed something today.”

“It's silly,” she said doubtfully. “But you know your own business best.”

“What troubles me,” Rutledge said, “is that the boy may be alive somewhere. I'm considering sending out search parties again. Who else could have been using a candle in that hut? What was he waiting for? Was he looking for you, Robinson? Or afraid to come to the authorities? And if it wasn't the boy, someone was waiting, possibly watching the farm. You can see the yard quite clearly from there. It's an ideal observation post.”

“For what?” Harry Cummins asked.

“Opportunity,” Rutledge answered him. “He might not have been certain whose farm he'd come across. Or how many people lived there. What the best time for attack might be. In short, reconnaissance.”

“What you're telling us is that it was a cold-blooded attack. Well planned and scouted,” Robinson retorted. “No one living in Urskdale would need to do that. Josh wouldn't have to conceal himself and spy. And I refuse to believe he acted with such chilling premeditation.”

“That's why I'm going back. The candle and match prove nothing. But if the searchers missed this, what else did they overlook?”

Elizabeth Fraser said, “It's a frightful thought. That someone could sit and watch, like a monstrous animal in search of prey. But even animals have a reason for what they do. Why should someone stalk and kill the Elcotts?”

Mrs. Cummins said, “Oh, don't! I don't want to know! That someone could be out there right now, watching us.”

“My dear, it's supposition. You needn't be afraid! Not with this many people about. You're safe!” Harry Cummins assured his wife, and then deliberately turned the subject. “And that reminds me, Mr. Rutledge, if you're intending to send your motorcar back to Keswick, I'd like to ride with the constable—we're in need of supplies.”

There was an apple pudding for dessert. As he finished his, Rutledge said, “I'm sorry—I haven't had a chance to speak to Inspector Greeley. If you'll excuse me, I'll do that now and turn in early.”

He rose from his seat at the table and went to his room to get his coat and hat.

Passing the dining room five minutes later, he could hear the discussion going on.

And Elizabeth Fraser was saying, “I really think it was unwise to tell us what he'd found. Or for us to speculate this way.”

But Janet Ashton was furious. “I don't care how many candles he found, or where he might have found them. It's not proof that will stand up in a court of law, and for all we know it has nothing to do with our killer. It's a waste of time, and I for one think we ought to tell the Chief Constable as much. Inspector Rutledge saved my life, and I'm grateful. But I am tired of sitting here waiting for him to get to the bottom of this wretched business.”

Hugh Robinson's deeper voice cut across something that Harry Cummins was about to say. “What if Josh came back, waiting for me? He might have taken shelter in that hut, thinking I'd be sent for and would come looking for him. It's possible, for God's sake! We're dealing with a ten-year-old!”

“Elizabeth is right,” Cummins intervened. “It's not proper to be talking about this. My dear, shall I bring in the tea tray, or will you?”

 

Rutledge found Sergeant Miller at the police station, thumbing through a catalog of gardening supplies.

He looked up at Rutledge and said, “Something I can do for you, then, sir?”

“I need your help. Will you drive me now to the Elcott farm, and then bring the motorcar back here, and leave it in the yard of the hotel?”

Miller frowned. “I don't understand, sir. Take you out there and leave you? What's that in aid of?”

“Let's call it an experiment, shall we? As far as anyone knows, I'm at the hotel, asleep. And you'll say nothing to the contrary. Tomorrow morning, at first light, you can come and fetch me again.”

“You think you're on to something, then?” Miller's face was alert, intrigued.

“Possibly. Yes. Will you do it?”

As if indulging a superior's whim, Miller answered, “I'll just get my coat, sir, and we'll be off.”

 

When Miller had left him at the farm, Rutledge looked up at the still, silent house, and felt a chill.

He was not superstitious, and yet the horror of what had happened here had left its mark.

The odor of fresh paint met him as he let himself into the dark kitchen, and he flicked on the torch he was carrying to make his way across the floor.

Hamish had been arguing incessantly with him for hours, and Rutledge found himself on the brink of a headache.

He climbed the stairs up to the small room where Hazel Robinson had slept.

It looked out across the yard and up the fell. He walked to the window, pulled up the only chair in the room, and settled down to watch. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Rutledge began to pick out details. The path he'd taken earlier. The sheep pen. The hut. And looming over them was the fell, massive and dark and somehow sinister.

Around him the house creaked and stirred in the cold night air. He could imagine people walking about downstairs, the way the floorboards groaned in the dark. Or someone on the roof above his head, moving stealthily.

War had inured him to the stirring of the dead. He sat there and waited.

The hours seemed to drag by. Watching the stars, he could see that time was passing. He had scanned them in the night at the Front, when all was quiet. The silence before an attack, when it wasn't safe to light a match for a last cigarette, and faceless men coughed or stamped their feet, their nerves taut as they pretended to sleep. The unrelieved tension had been telling.

Hamish was reminding him of the sniper who had crept forward, invisible, deadly, eyes sweeping the English lines for any indication of where a careless man might be standing, where the tension might drive a soldier to peer across No Man's Land and think anxiously about tomorrow.

“There will be no sniper here,” Rutledge answered him aloud, startling himself as his voice filled the small room.

It was well after two when he thought he heard the trot of a horse coming down the lane.

His eyes told him nothing was there, that the night was still empty.

Hamish was intent behind him in the darkness; Rutledge could feel it. How many nights had they stood shoulder to shoulder in the trenches, patient, alert, and yet drowsing as only a soldier can . . .

Yes, it was a horse. He could see it now, moving up the lane, a stark outline against the whiteness of the snow. The figure on its back was an uneven bundle of dark clothing, head and shoulders hunched together against the cold.

Man or woman? There was no way of knowing.

He waited, and the horse slowed as it approached the house, reined in and guided to the shadows cast by the barn.

It stood there for a time, not moving except for the swish of its tail and the occasional nod of its head as it chewed at the bit.

There was no saddle.

Rutledge could see that now.

After a time the figure stirred and dismounted. Holding the reins, it stared up at the house, and Rutledge almost had the feeling that whoever it was could see him, back from the window though he was. He kept very still.

Finally, as if convinced there was no one about, the intruder began to climb the track that led up from the yard. Easily seen, silhouetted against the snow, even without the torch that was flicked on to guide feet through the ruts that Rutledge and Drew and the searchers had made, it was not difficult to follow.

In time it reached the sheep pen and then moved on to the hut.

Rutledge, with only Hamish for company, waited.

The light seemed to lose itself in the hut's thick walls. He could see that whoever had come in the night to search was being thorough.

And it was a long time before the figure turned and made its way down the long treacherous slope.

Rutledge had already slipped out of the house and was standing in the deep shadow cast by the shed where sheep were brought down to be bred or birthed.

He could hear the crunch of snow even before he saw the beam of the torch. Tired footsteps, making no effort to hide their approach, came nearer with every breath.

And then, as the torch's light grew brighter in the churned snow, Rutledge stepped out of the shadows. Dark and half seen against the house.

A cry of alarm was cut off as the intruder realized that a man, not a ghost, stood in its way.

Then it turned and tried to run back the way it had come.

Rutledge, faster, was at its heels, and as it missed its step on the stony track, he caught up to it and brought it down.

The bundled figure writhed in his grasp, crying out in pain.

“No—my ribs—”

He rolled off Janet Ashton and swore.

“What the hell are you doing out here at this hour of the night?”

She answered, “I could ask you the same thing! God, but you frightened me!”

She was shaking.

“Come on, up with you.”

He gave her his hand and helped her to her feet.

“Back to the house,” he ordered, “where I can light a lamp and see you.”

But she pulled away from him in a fierce effort to free herself. “No! I won't go in there! You'll have to carry me, fighting all the way!” Her voice rose as she struggled.

“The barn, then,” he said roughly, catching her arm and dragging her with him.

The barn was marginally warmer. With the stock taken away to be cared for elsewhere, there was none of the comforting security of animals in their stalls. He took her into the depths of the cavernous darkness and shone his torch into her face. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she stared defiantly back at him.

“What brought you here?” he asked.

“I was afraid whatever it was you thought you'd discovered here would distract you. Josh lived on this farm! He might have used a candle up there in the hut any time. You don't understand him, the way he worried about his mother, the way the twins changed his life. I can imagine him slipping out of bed and running away for an hour or two, to get his head together again. But that's no proof he's a murderer. I don't care what Hugh says, I knew Josh just as well—better, probably—and he isn't a murderer!”

“It was a foolish thing to do. To come here—alone—at night.”

“Yes, but I found something up there—look!”

He expected her to show him the cuff link he'd concealed hours earlier.

But in the palm of her gloved hand was something entirely different.

He turned the torch to see it clearly.

It was the black button from a man's coat.

Hamish mocked, “She's as clever as you.”