Free A Cold Treachery by Charles Todd Page B

have known by heart. But that might also mean that the killer wouldn't have stumbled across them, either, if he had found the Elcotts only by chance.
    The first priority of Greeley's search parties would have been to reach these farms, and make certain all was well.
    All right then. Where
could
Josh Robinson have gone, if he was still alive?
    Rutledge ran a finger across the face of the map. In fact, Urskdale itself was closer, if one came over the shoulder of the ridge. So, why hadn't the boy tried to reach the village? His uncle, Paul Elcott, was here. No, that wasn't quite true. Elcott wasn't an uncle by blood.
    If Josh Robinson didn't know Elcott well enough, then why not the rector? Or his schoolmaster?
    Even Inspector Greeley or Constable Ward? Or the sergeant—what was his name? Miller.
    Or had the child been cut off from the village, and forced to strike out into the darkness without knowing where he was heading?
    There was another possibility. Rutledge turned to stare out the window. Josh might have been terrified of coming to the village. Afraid he would run into the murderer here. It would mean that someone—
    Hamish objected, “It doesna' signify. He didna' have the time.”
    Yes. In spite of all their hopes, the boy must be dead. Rutledge bent over the map again. Perhaps the question now was where a body could be concealed?
    But why hide it? Why not leave it in plain sight, to show that the killer had wiped the slate clean—
    Lost in thought, he didn't hear the door from the passage open. The woman's voice startled him.
    “Good morning . . .” Her hair was crimped and straggling, and her clothes seemed to have been made for another woman, thinner and younger. She cast a glance around the room with an air of vague confusion, as if uncertain if this was where she ought to be.
    He straightened, looking up into drained eyes, a pale blue that seemed to be painted in place under paler lashes.
    “Good morning. Er—Mrs. Cummins? I'm Inspector Rutledge. Thank you for putting me up while I'm here in Urskdale. It was kind of you.”
    “It was my husband decided that,” she replied. “But I'm glad you're here. It isn't safe for two women to be in a house alone. I told my husband as much before he left. I told him if he didn't worry about me, he should worry about Elizabeth. She's helpless—” After a moment she added in a whisper, “He killed the
babies
, too, you know. This murderer.”
    “I'm afraid it's true—” he began, but let his voice trail away, for she appeared to have forgotten him.
    Unable to settle, she walked to the sideboard, her hands busy folding a pile of freshly ironed serviettes lying there. When she'd finished, she stood staring at them, as if unable to think where they ought to go now.
    Hamish remarked, “It isna' any wonder she needs a minder. The lass in the invalid chair canna' have an easy time of it!”
    Rutledge had seen other women like her. Driven to despair by fear and long months of uncertainty, they had taken comfort in the bottle. And more than one man had come to him to beg for compassionate leave, when a wife or fiancée had been taken up as a common drunk.
    Unaware that she was the subject of this silent exchange, Mrs. Cummins smiled distractedly at him. “Is there anything you need, Inspector? Would you like some tea?” Her attention was drawn back to the serviettes. She picked them up, put them in a drawer, and then took them out again. Finally she simply smoothed them once or twice and forgot them.
    “I've been well taken care of, Mrs. Cummins. Thank you.”
    “You might bring in more coal,” she said, walking unsteadily across to the window. “That's difficult for Elizabeth.”
    “I'll be happy to see to it,” he promised. He cursed himself for not thinking of offering.
    “My room is never warm. There must be something wrong with the chimney's flue. It can't be drawing well,” she fretted, clutching her shawl across her body as if needing something to hold