A Cold Treachery by Charles Todd Page B

husband, will you tell him that Mrs. Cummins is showing a little improvement? It will set his mind at peace. And you'll stay for breakfast, before you go?”
    “Yes, Miss, I'll be happy to do both.” His eyes followed her as she rolled the chair around the table and began to prepare breakfast. There was a doglike devotion on his face.
    Looking from Ward to Miss Fraser, Rutledge noted that she was an attractive woman, her hair so pale it was almost silvery, and her eyes very blue, the color of a deep sea under sunlight. There was Scandinavian blood, he thought, here in the North. But hers wasn't a Westmorland accent—
    A thick porridge had been steaming on the back of the stove, and as she lifted down bowls and handed them to the constable, she said to Rutledge, pointing to a painted china pitcher on the table, “If you would—the milk is just through there. A neighbor has already seen to our cow and her own.”
    He nodded and walked through the door she'd indicated. In the narrow stone room that kept milk and butter cool in the summer and warmer than the outside in winter, a large white pitcher stood on the middle shelf.
    Miss Fraser was dipping the porridge into the bowls, and Ward was setting spoons and cups on the table for her. Rutledge said, “I made tea when I came down. It should be ready.” He filled the smaller vessel that was still holding down a corner of Ward's map, and then returned the foamy milk to the pantry.
    “Yes, that's fine, thank you,” she said, handing him a bowl to set on the table as he came back.
    “If you're making up a tray for Mrs. Cummins,” Ward said diffidently, “I'd be glad to take it in for you, Miss.”
    “Would you, Constable? I'll prepare it when we've finished here.”
    Rutledge added sugar and butter to his porridge, and then the milk, while Miss Fraser made toast for them. There was damson preserves for it. Ward set to with an appetite.
    It was excellent porridge, creamy and hot.
    They talked about the unexpected storms, the scope of the search, the various directions it had taken, but skirted any mention of the farm where the bodies had been found or the fate of the child lost in the cold and dark.
    When Ward took the tray to Mrs. Cummins, Rutledge helped Miss Fraser clear away the dishes.
    “If Mrs. Cummins isn't well—” he began, thinking it would be better to find other accommodations.
    “She—drinks,” Elizabeth Fraser told him. “Not to put too fine a point on it. She began to drink while Harry was in France, and couldn't stop when he came safely home. The murders have upset her quite badly—well, all of us, come to that. But any excuse, I suppose, would have done.” She grimaced. “I don't mean to sound coldhearted. But Harry needs her help to run the hotel. And instead she frightens people away. If they don't make any money in the summer, what are the Cumminses to do the rest of the year?” She began to dip the dishes into hot soapy water. “It would be a kindness if you stayed, Inspector.”
    “Then I shall.”
    Ward returned. “She's got a little appetite this morning, she says.”
    “That's good news!” Elizabeth answered bracingly. “As soon as I finish here, I'll look in on her and let you confer in peace.”
    “You mustn't leave on our account, Miss! And you know a good bit about this valley,” Ward told her. “It would be just as well if Mr. Rutledge here had someone who could keep him abreast of which parties send messages.”
    He bent over the map again, continuing to point out landmarks, sometimes sketching in the rough lanes that led to various farms, correcting the lines on the map. Rutledge made an effort to commit the constable's points of reference to memory.
    The truth was, he would much have preferred going out on his own, starting at the Elcott farm. Surely there would be something there to tell him which way Josh Robinson had fled! But Greeley was right: It was treacherous on unfamiliar mountainous terrain where weather could