A Cold Treachery by Charles Todd Read Free Book Online Page B

Nothing to do with the overwhelming mountains outside or the duty he had come to carry out. He wanted only to sit down in one of the chairs and think about the crackle of the fire and the warmth that was spreading through him and the drowsiness that would follow. Without dreams, because the light kept them at bay and the woman in the chair somehow reminded him of Olivia Marlowe. . . .
    But Olivia Marlowe—the war poet O. A. Manning—was dead, buried in Cornwall. Beyond his reach.
    Shaking himself awake, he began to take off his gloves, scarf, and coat, setting them with his hat on one of the chairs. Miss Fraser was busy with the tea, and without getting in her way he stood to one side of the great iron stove, absorbing the heat. In the cupboard she found a plate of cakes left from tea and said, “I can make sandwiches, if you are hungry.”
    “Thank you, no.” He roused himself to ask, regretfully shattering the illusion of peace, “Any news? Have they found the boy?”
    “Not that I've heard. One of the men fell and twisted his knee. When he was brought down, he said his party had failed to find any signs. And there haven't been signals from the other search parties. Each carried a flare . . .” Elizabeth Fraser glanced at the window, though the curtain was drawn. “I can't see how Josh—the boy—could possibly survive in this weather. It's been brutal—and he's so young, barely ten . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    “Early storms are often the nastiest,” Rutledge agreed. “I wonder if the killer counted on that to cover his tracks—or if it was a matter of luck.” His limbs were on fire as circulation returned to them. The room felt stifling now, and he sat down on the far side of the table from the stove. Forcing his tired mind to concentrate, he said, “London wasn't able to give me the usual briefing. I was in Preston when they reached me. Did you know this family—the Elcotts?” He ought to be in his bed—but he wasn't sure he could stand up again.
    “Not all that well.” She smiled, her face lighting with it. “Up here, there isn't what you'd describe in London as an active social calendar. We see each other at market or at baptisms and weddings, often enough at funerals. But I've met them. A very nice family. Gerald has”—she stopped and bit her lip—“
had
a sizeable sheep farm he'd inherited from his father.”
    She set the pot of tea beside Rutledge and then brought him a fresh cup. He had noticed that everything was to hand, rather than on high shelves. It appeared the kitchen had been designed for her. “Go on,” he urged.
    “Gerald ran the sheep himself—except during the war years, when his brother, Paul, managed the farm for him. Then Gerald received a medical discharge and came home to take it up again. But while he was in hospital near London, he met Grace Robinson, a widow with two small children—the missing boy and a little girl. They fell in love and were married. Only, as it turned out, she wasn't a widow. Her husband had survived in a German camp, and came home to find his family gone.”
    “And no way to trace them,” Rutledge observed, “since she had remarried.”
    “Exactly so. It was the Army's fault, not his or Grace's. His name had been confused with another man's. Robinson is common enough. I expect it wasn't really easy, at the Front, to keep up with who was captured or wounded, and who had died.”
    Rutledge remembered the thousands of dead, Hamish among them. Stacked like logs, rank with the stench of blood and rotting flesh. And others blown to bits, listed simply as “missing.” “I expect it wasn't,” he answered simply.
    She sighed. “At any rate, they were married, Gerald and Grace, with twins on the way by the war's end. And then Robinson reappeared out of the blue. It was a shock for Grace. She hadn't seen her husband since Christmas of 1914, and even the boy, Josh, hardly remembered him. And yet—there he was.”
    “A dilemma of major