A Cold Treachery by Charles Todd

proportions,” Rutledge agreed. “How was it resolved?” He took one of the cakes and bit into it. Rich with egg and sugar and butter, it reminded him of boyhood treats, not the austere cooking of wartime and postwar, when many commodities were hard to come by.
    “Amicably, surprisingly enough. I expect a divorce was quietly arranged, because Gerald and Grace were as quietly remarried before the birth of the twins. Robinson gave his blessing, or so I was told. The war had changed him, he said, and he didn't know how to begin again. It was rather sad.”
    This wasn't the first marriage that had come apart with the long separation of the war. Some couples made do with what they had, especially when there were children, and others lived in silent wretchedness, enduring what they couldn't afford to change, socially or financially.
    Hamish said, “It's as well ye didna' marry your Jean. But I'd ha' given much to ha' wed Fiona.”
    It was a frequent source of contention between the two men—how shallow Jean's love had been, while Fiona had remained faithful to Hamish, even after his death. Rutledge still envied Hamish that depth of love.
    Hurrying past that hurdle, too tired to argue with the voice in his head, Rutledge said, “Where does this Robinson live now?”
    “Near London. Poor man, someone will have to break the news to him. I'm glad it isn't my lot.”
    “And Urskdale? Did the village take these events in stride?”
    Miss Fraser replied thoughtfully. “It was a nine days' wonder, of course. The whole affair. Gossip flew like smoke. And afterward everyone settled down again into the old way of thinking. Grace is—
was
—a lovely person, and we liked her well enough as herself.”
    Her words ran together and then faded. Rutledge set his cup down with great care, aware that he was losing his battle with sleep.
    “I think,” he said slowly, “that if I don't see my bed very soon, you'll have to step over me to prepare breakfast.”
    He had meant it lightly, but was all at once reminded that Miss Fraser sat in a wheeled chair and was not likely to step over anyone.
    Silently swearing at himself, he said abruptly, “I'm sorry—”
    She smiled again. “Don't be. I'd rather everyone forgot that I don't walk. Pity is far worse than simple acceptance.”
    He believed her. He wanted no pity for his shell shock. Nor reminders that he had failed himself and his men. Dr. Fleming had been right—it was better to fight through it on his own, whatever the toll.
    Standing, he reached clumsily for his coat and gloves, and watched his hat roll across the floor like an oddly shaped football. Retrieving it, he said, “If you'll tell me where I shall be sleeping—I wouldn't want to walk in on Mrs. Cummins.”
    “Go down the passage again, and through the second door on your right. It leads to rooms that are kept ready for guests. Yours is at the end. A hot water bottle is over there by the hearth, wrapped in a towel,” she added, pointing. “I'd recommend it. The house can be quite cold in the early morning. I'll see that you have warm water for shaving—”
    “I can fetch it myself, if you leave the kettle on the stove. You must be as tired as I am, watching for my arrival.”
    “Fair enough. Well, then, good night, Inspector. I hope tomorrow brings news that Josh is safe. If anyone comes, I'll wake you at once.”
    “Good night. And thank you.”
    His luggage was in the car and he retrieved that before making his way to his room. It was, thankfully, commodious, and his windows looked out on the distant lake. But Miss Fraser was right, it felt like ice, and the sheets were cold enough for Greenlanders, he thought when he finally got into bed. The hot water bottle, a welcome bit of warmth, made it possible to slip into quiet sleep, lulled by the wind off the fells brushing the corners of the house.
    Dreams came after first light, the candle guttered and the room still dark with the long winter nights. Rutledge awoke