A Cold Treachery by Charles Todd Page A

with a start, the image of a frozen child lying deep in the snow still with him when he opened his eyes.

C HAPTER S EVEN

    T here was still no news in the morning.
    Inspector Greeley sent a man to the hotel; he arrived just as Rutledge had come down to the kitchen. Shaking snow off his shoes and his coat, he strode through the yard door. His nose was cherry red, and he nodded as he walked to the stove and held out his hands to the warmth.
    “God, it's miserable out there,” he said without preamble. “And I've lived here all my life. I won't shake hands, sir—the fingers will surely fall off. Constable Ward. Mr. Greeley sends his apologies for not coming in person and asked me to report that there's been no change. And with all respect, sir, he'd as soon not have you searching on your own and getting lost.”
    “I can appreciate that,” Rutledge answered. “But I've walked here from time to time—”
    “It isn't the same in winter, sir, when you can't see the landmarks.” The constable was a thickset man with graying hair and a square face. “Instead, Mr. Greeley has arranged for all the search parties to report to you here. He doesn't want them trampling the yard at the Elcott farm, and this hotel is as near middle ground as you can find. And a good deal more comfortable than the station.”
    “Any sign of the boy? Any idea of the direction he may have taken?”
    “Sadly, no, sir.” Ward glanced around the room, as if worried about being overheard. “He can't have survived. Someone will find what's left of him, come the spring.”
    “And the killer? Any news there?”
    Ward shifted, as if the admission made him uncomfortable. “We're no closer to him than we were yesterday.”
    “Have you a map? I need a better sense of where I am.”
    “Yes, sir, a fairly good one as it happens. All the farms are shown, and the elevation, with the names of landmarks. Else, the map sometimes lies—tracks are not always where they're marked. You mustn't count on them.”
    He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a folded square of paper, spreading it out on the kitchen table and weighting it with the salt and pepper, the sugar bowl, and the empty cream pitcher.
    “We're here,” he said, one thick finger pointing to the line of houses along the road. “And this is the Elcott farm.” He moved his hand to indicate an isolated square some miles away. “As the crow flies, it isn't all that far. But see, the terrain has to be taken into account. There's no straight line anywhere. Even when the road curves around the lake, it's still the shorter route.”
    Rutledge, standing, leaned over the map shoulder to shoulder with Ward. He traced the unmade road he'd followed coming in, noting how it skirted the head of the lake and then came straight into the village, passing through to end somewhere near the bottom of Urskwater, blocked by the rising shoulder to the south that was notched at the top.
Doublehead
was neatly printed above it.
    A vast expanse in which to search for one small boy. Or a murderer. But in such a storm, how far could either have got?
    As in Wasdale, the road didn't circle the lake here. Urskwater was long and narrow, running east and west but on a tilt that put the head of the lake to the northeast, pointing towards Skiddaw, the highest peak in England. There appeared to be marshes along the shore opposite Urskdale, and craggy cliffs rose at the head, soaring like an eagle's lair. They were marked
The Claws
.
    “How do you get to the other side of Urskwater at the southern end?”
    “There're tracks, if you know where to look for them—”
    Ward broke off as the door opened and Miss Fraser rolled herself into the room. “Good morning, Constable. Inspector.”
    She looked as if she hadn't slept well, but her spirits were high.
    Ward, turning beet red, almost bowed to her. “Good morning, Miss. I hope I didn't wake you, come clumping in at this hour.”
    “No, I was already awake. If you see her