Shoveling coal from the bin into each, he found the physical effort released some of the tension that had built up at the Elcott farm.
On his last trip the stars were pushing their way through thinning clouds, and he looked up at them, his breath coming in white puffs.
Hamish said, jarring him, “Ye're reduced to carrying coal, like a dustman.”
Ignoring him, Rutledge walked past the barn and into the field beyond, then began to climb the slope of the fell that rose in the darkness like a hunched figure out of some wild mythology. The snow, giving light back to the stars, seemed more sinister in the darkness, as if holding secrets within its white mantle. And there was nothing to show him a path to follow, although in summer when he had come to the Lake Country with his father, there had always been tracks, clear on the ground where thousands of feet—man and beast—had preceded him. Worn ground, giving up its secrets easily in some places, holding to them tightly in others. But the snow obliterated even the clearest signs, offering silence and mystery instead. And it was no use trying to read what the snow shrouded. It would be too easy to find oneself in a place where retreat was as dangerous as going on.
But he had always believed in knowing his enemy. And these fells were his, in more ways than one. Professionally they foiled him, hiding what he needed to know. Personally they threatened him, as if intent on sending him out of the valley before his work was done.
He climbed another fifty feet, and then fifty more. Looking back at the winding street of houses and the lights in the inn, the plain stone church at the far end of the village, and at the head of Urskwater, the great bulge of The Claws black against the sky, Rutledge could see the paper map come to life. Where a light faintly twinkled, he could name the farm, traveling in his mind's eye the track that led there. He scanned the heights for a telltale bobbing line of lanterns traversing a slope, but there was nothing: Either too great a distance lay between them or the searchers were asleep in a house or barn, dead to everything but the needs of their weary bodies.
Like it or not, it
was
time to call a halt to the search. If Josh Robinson had survived this long without shelter, it would be a miracle. Exposure would quickly finish what exhaustion had begun.
If the murderer had also failed to find him, then the boy missing would be in as great a danger as the boy found and in the custody of the police. . . .
And what would he do then, this killer of children?
It would be ironic if the weather that had doomed the boy had also doomed his murderer. Two bodies to find in the spring.
But all the reports claimed that no one else was missing . . . Where had the killer gone to ground? Or had he come here by chance?
Below him, a carriage was turning into the inn's yard. He could see the side lamps gleaming in the darkness, and then the light from the kitchen door as someone opened it.
Rutledge began to walk quickly back the way he had come, his feet slipping once or twice as his boots pressed into the icy crust. Pausing only to pick up the last coal scuttle, he turned towards the kitchen door. And instead of opening it, he looked through the window at the lighted scene inside.
A middle-aged man was there, speaking to Elizabeth Fraser, and at his side was a white-faced Hugh Robinson, his hands gripping a chair's back as if desperate for its support. Then the men followed Elizabeth through the door to the passage and disappeared.
Rutledge stepped into the empty kitchen, setting the scuttle by the stove, and stood there, warming his cold hands, listening to the sounds of the house. Faint voices, doors opening and closing. Steps coming this way.
The middle-aged man returned, and looked up at Rutledge with some surprise. “Shall I fetch Miss Fraser or Mrs. Cummins . . . ?”
Rutledge introduced himself, and the other man said in his turn, “Jarvis. Local
On his last trip the stars were pushing their way through thinning clouds, and he looked up at them, his breath coming in white puffs.
Hamish said, jarring him, “Ye're reduced to carrying coal, like a dustman.”
Ignoring him, Rutledge walked past the barn and into the field beyond, then began to climb the slope of the fell that rose in the darkness like a hunched figure out of some wild mythology. The snow, giving light back to the stars, seemed more sinister in the darkness, as if holding secrets within its white mantle. And there was nothing to show him a path to follow, although in summer when he had come to the Lake Country with his father, there had always been tracks, clear on the ground where thousands of feet—man and beast—had preceded him. Worn ground, giving up its secrets easily in some places, holding to them tightly in others. But the snow obliterated even the clearest signs, offering silence and mystery instead. And it was no use trying to read what the snow shrouded. It would be too easy to find oneself in a place where retreat was as dangerous as going on.
But he had always believed in knowing his enemy. And these fells were his, in more ways than one. Professionally they foiled him, hiding what he needed to know. Personally they threatened him, as if intent on sending him out of the valley before his work was done.
He climbed another fifty feet, and then fifty more. Looking back at the winding street of houses and the lights in the inn, the plain stone church at the far end of the village, and at the head of Urskwater, the great bulge of The Claws black against the sky, Rutledge could see the paper map come to life. Where a light faintly twinkled, he could name the farm, traveling in his mind's eye the track that led there. He scanned the heights for a telltale bobbing line of lanterns traversing a slope, but there was nothing: Either too great a distance lay between them or the searchers were asleep in a house or barn, dead to everything but the needs of their weary bodies.
Like it or not, it
was
time to call a halt to the search. If Josh Robinson had survived this long without shelter, it would be a miracle. Exposure would quickly finish what exhaustion had begun.
If the murderer had also failed to find him, then the boy missing would be in as great a danger as the boy found and in the custody of the police. . . .
And what would he do then, this killer of children?
It would be ironic if the weather that had doomed the boy had also doomed his murderer. Two bodies to find in the spring.
But all the reports claimed that no one else was missing . . . Where had the killer gone to ground? Or had he come here by chance?
Below him, a carriage was turning into the inn's yard. He could see the side lamps gleaming in the darkness, and then the light from the kitchen door as someone opened it.
Rutledge began to walk quickly back the way he had come, his feet slipping once or twice as his boots pressed into the icy crust. Pausing only to pick up the last coal scuttle, he turned towards the kitchen door. And instead of opening it, he looked through the window at the lighted scene inside.
A middle-aged man was there, speaking to Elizabeth Fraser, and at his side was a white-faced Hugh Robinson, his hands gripping a chair's back as if desperate for its support. Then the men followed Elizabeth through the door to the passage and disappeared.
Rutledge stepped into the empty kitchen, setting the scuttle by the stove, and stood there, warming his cold hands, listening to the sounds of the house. Faint voices, doors opening and closing. Steps coming this way.
The middle-aged man returned, and looked up at Rutledge with some surprise. “Shall I fetch Miss Fraser or Mrs. Cummins . . . ?”
Rutledge introduced himself, and the other man said in his turn, “Jarvis. Local
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