CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Rutledge threw on his coat and headed for the door. Sybil refused to let him pass, growling and baring her teeth at him. Swearing, he turned and saw a door to another part of the house, shut off, cold and dark. But he went down the passage until he came to the front hall and the main door. He let himself out and trudged through the snow there to the lane that led to the main road.

He was a man, longer strides, younger, healthier by far.

But she had already made it to the Urskdale road, dragging the ax behind her.

When he caught up to her, Maggie swung it around in a circle, keeping him off.

“Let me go. He deserves to die, that bloody bastard! It's certain they won't hang him on the boy's word. They'll put the boy into an institution instead, and treat him as if he's mad. None of this would have happened if you'd left us alone!”

“Miss Ingerson—Maggie—listen to me. You'll never reach Urskdale. You can't make it that far. And if you did, they'd hang you for what you're intending to do.”

She still held him at bay. “What good am I with this leg? Sometimes I think dying is all that's left, and I'm not afraid of it. At least I'll do one deed worthy of the name before I'm done.”

“Maggie. I can see that Robinson hangs. I'll give you my word, I'll swear on anything you ask. Come back to the farm, before the boy wakes up and finds you gone. He needs you now, and he will need you in the days to come. Don't do this!”

She stood there in the starlight, staring at him.

He never knew what decided her.

She swung the ax in a wide circle, the sharp blade shimmering in the ambient light.

He thought for an instant that she was going to attack and kill him, and then she let the blade go, whirling and singing and gleaming, until it finally buried itself in the snow thirty feet away. And as it flew, she howled like a trapped animal, or a Viking warrior, a sound that sent the hairs on the back of his neck standing stiff and wild as if he'd stumbled onto something pagan, lost in the mists of time.

He got her to the house, and then went back to retrieve the ax and store it in the barn. It had been a long and painful journey for her, the cold and the strain of going so far telling on her. But she walked with her back upright and her head high, although he could see the streaks of tears down her face. He said nothing about them, and when, exhausted, she finally let him take her arm, he gave her the support he would have offered a comrade on the battlefield.

It was after four when he made the long journey back up the hill towards the sheep pen, and then over the saddle to the shed where he had left his motorcar.

It was cold and at first refused to crank. But after the third try he got it started and climbed in.

There was something he needed to do before he reached the hotel or spoke to Inspector Greeley.

The door to the rooms Paul Elcott used on the second floor of the licensed house was unlocked, and Rutledge went in, confident he would find Elcott asleep. He took the dark stairs two at a time, and opened the door to Elcott's bedroom, saying, “It's Rutledge. There's something you need to know—”

There was no light, only a shadow across the window, moving in an erratic pattern. Tired as he was, he stood there for an instant, trying to make sense of that curious motion as it came towards him and then retreated.

Hamish exclaimed, “Too late!”

Rutledge dug his torch out of his pocket and turned it on. The brilliant burst of light blinded him. But behind the flash, he could see Paul Elcott hanging from the ceiling where a lamp had once been.

It took him no more than a matter of seconds to kick the upended chair out of the way and shove a table under the dangling feet. And then he was on top of the table, his pocketknife sawing at the rope above Elcott's head. As the last strands parted, Elcott's body jackknifed, and hit Rutledge hard, knocking both of them to the floor. Winded, Rutledge lay there fighting for breath, and then he rolled to his knees. The torch, arcing in a half-circle, threw the room into bright relief and then shadow.

Elcott was gagging badly. Rutledge loosened the rope around his throat and turned him over, pushing air into his lungs as if he were a drowned swimmer.

Elcott was still struggling to breathe, and in the glow of the torch, kicked under the bed now, his face seemed suffused with blood.

Rutledge left him there, ran down the stairs, and up the street. He began pounding on Dr. Jarvis's door, calling to the house to wake up.

Jarvis testily put his head out of an upper window. “What now?”

“It's Elcott—get over there now!”

“Rutledge? I thought you'd gone back to London, man!”

“Hurry. Or he'll be dead before you reach him.”

He turned and raced back the way he'd come. Hamish was loud in his mind, reminding him that he hadn't searched The Ram's Head—

Elcott was breathing, the sound of each rasping inhalation carrying down the stairs as Rutledge came up them.

He lay as he'd been left, on the floor, and his eyes were open. As Rutledge found a lamp and lit it, he blinked and then began to struggle as if fearful of whoever was behind the light.

“It's Rutledge. What the hell were you trying to do, man!”

Some of the tension seeped out of Elcott, and he lay still, concentrating on trying to breathe.

Jarvis was pounding up the stairs, shouting Rutledge's name. He'd put a coat over his pajamas and shoved his bare feet into his shoes. He stopped short in the doorway, staring first at Elcott, and then his eyes traveled up to the dangling rope overhead.

“My good God!” was all he said, hurrying to his patient.

After a time he rocked back on his heels. “It was a near-run thing! But the bone here”—gesturing to the front of the throat—“hasn't been broken. And he was lucky his neck didn't snap.”

He turned back to Elcott. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing, man? The inspector here had ordered you released without prejudice. It was over—” He stopped and got slowly to his feet.

His eyes sought Rutledge's. “Or was this a confession of sorts?”

“It was meant to be.”

As the doctor had worked, Rutledge had retrieved a single sheet of crumpled paper stuck through by a pin to Elcott's pillow. He held it out now.

There were four words on the sheet, printed by a man under great stress—or duress. I did do it.

Jarvis said again, “My good God!” And then, “You shouldn't have stopped him. It will all have to be done again—”

“He didn't hang himself,” Rutledge said. “Did you, Elcott?”

The dazed man on the floor shook his head vehemently and struggled to sit. His limbs seemed to have a mind of their own, arms folding as if no longer able to hold his weight.

He tried to speak but his throat closed over the words.

Rutledge said them for him.

“It was Hugh Robinson, tidying up before Mickelson could dig into the past as I had done. It might not have worked twice, his act of grieving. He couldn't pretend to a second suicide attempt. Elcott?”

Elcott's eyes were on Rutledge's face. He nodded vigorously, a sound like a growl coming from his damaged throat.

Jarvis picked up the overturned chair and sat in it, his mouth open.

“Let's get Elcott to the bed,” Rutledge told the stunned doctor. But it was a moment or two before Jarvis could comply.

Elcott sank into the pillows, and tried again to find his voice. When it came it was no more than a harsh, raw whisper, hardly audible as words.

“Smoth—smothered me—pillow. Then left—dangling—toes on chair back. Could—couldn't—rise up—loosen noose. Lost my bal—ance trying. Fell off.”

It was a hard way to die, choking slowly to death.

Jarvis wiped the palm of his hand over his mouth. “Robinson, you say?”

“Robinson. Carefully planned and executed, from the start,” Rutledge told him.

“He killed them all? But why? Why in God's name—they were his own children!”

“Revenge.” He stood by the bed. “And you were to be the scapegoat,” he said to Elcott. “I'd failed, but he was afraid the new man would be luckier.”

Jarvis got to his feet and went to the kitchen, rummaging in the dresser and the pantry. He came back with three glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Without a word he poured a finger for each of them, but had to hold Elcott as he sipped. The raw spirits sent him into a gasping fit.

Rutledge was saying, “Jarvis, I want you to stay here with him. I'll find Constable Ward and send him to keep you company. Don't leave until I've come back again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes. You'll find Ward sleeping in the back of the police station. Greeley has had someone there since the—er—murders.”

The doctor was right. Ward had prepared himself a cot in the cell, the door open, his shoes on the floor within easy reach. The constable's snores could be heard from the outer office.

He listened groggily as Rutledge briefly explained what he wanted done.

“With respect, sir, I've been told you're relieved.” He rubbed his eyes with his fists, then stretched to ease his shoulders.

“If you want to leave Jarvis and his patient to the mercy of the killer coming back to see the results of his handiwork,” Rutledge told him curtly, “by all means follow the rules. Meanwhile, I'm going to speak to Greeley.”

Ward was already shoving his feet into his shoes, and reaching for his tunic. “Then I'll be on my way, sir. Mr. Greeley did leave orders to be called if there was any new developments.”

Rutledge sat in the prim Greeley parlor for half an hour, speaking rapidly and carefully to his counterpart.

Greeley, half asleep when he began, was wide awake by the end.

“I've never heard the like!” he said grimly. “But what put you on to him? Along the coast they swore no one had asked directions about the old road.”

“He didn't have to ask. He must have heard about it and spent some time during his summer holiday, searching it out for himself. It was useful, and even though he was caught in the storm, he'd have made some sort of provision even for that. He's not a man to leave much to chance.”

“And the bastard made me take him to see his dead. To count them, more than likely!”

“It was a good excuse for his staying in his room much of the time. Waiting for his son's body to be found.”

“Should we summon Inspector Mickelson and tell him what's happened?” Greeley asked. “As he's in charge . . .”

“If we go to wake Mickelson now, Robinson will hear us. His room is just across from the inspector's. He'll think we've found Elcott, and he may come out into the passage to ask if there's news. Better to wait until everyone has come to the kitchen for breakfast.”

“And you say Ward's with Dr. Jarvis and Elcott?” Rutledge confirmed it and Greeley went on, “We'll just step around to Sergeant Miller's house and put him in the picture. We'll not take a man like Robinson without trouble.” Greeley started for the door. Then he stopped. “Where's the murder weapon, then?”

But Rutledge was ready for the question. “It was Theo's revolver. I daresay Robinson disposed of it somewhere between Urskdale and the coast. There had to be a weapon that Josh could have used. Otherwise, no one would believe the boy had killed them all.”

“I'd like to be there when the bastard hangs!” Greeley said vehemently, and hurried away to fetch his coat.