A Cold Treachery Read Online Free PDF Page A

finally bringing the heavy motorcar back to the crown of the road.
    Hamish, behind him, scolded sharply, “It willna' help the lad, if you wreck the motorcar and kill yoursel'. It's no' the time to be sae foolish! There's no' a house in sight.”
    There hadn't been for some time.
    His shoulders ached now, and his face burned from the force of the wind sweeping through the motorcar. His wits were slower, his reactions not as fast. The engine's output of heat, hardly more than a breath of warmth, was losing the battle—his accelerator foot was already growing numb. And beneath it all, the panic of claustrophobia was still there, like a weight.
    As the cold penetrated even the heavy clothing he was wearing, he braked, stopping in the middle of the road to drink more of his dwindling store of tea.
    “'Ware!” A sharp hiss of warning from Hamish just as he was reaching for the Thermos.
    A little beyond the reach of his headlamps, Rutledge could just make out the telltale marks where a carriage wheel had spun across the road in front of him and veered straight for the drop that lay to his right. Snow had nearly filled in the tracks—he couldn't judge how long they'd been there or where they were heading. Or whether the person holding the reins had recovered in time and driven on, as he himself had just done.
    It would have been impossible to see the marks, if he hadn't stopped—
    “We havena' met anyone since we left Keswick,” Hamish reminded him.
    “He may be ahead of us . . . if he got himself righted again.”
    Rutledge let in the clutch, slowly moving forward a dozen feet, and now could see what appeared to be a jumble of rocks some distance down the slope. Or, no, not rocks! A horse lying quietly in its traces, a good twenty yards below the road's edge. It had thrashed a wide area into a muddy mix of black and white, half obscuring itself as well.
    Where there were traces, there must also be a carriage—
    Again he pulled carefully to a stop, leaving the engine running and setting the brake.
    Feet and legs stiff with cold, he got out slowly, holding on to the motorcar's frame as he tested his footing. The icy crust was slick, but the weight of his body broke through to firmer ground. No longer blinded by the brightness of the headlamps, he could pick out a shadowy tangle of reins and harness and broken shafts. Taking his torch from the pocket of his greatcoat, he shone the light down the sharp incline, sweeping the snow.
    A small carriage, its shape already distorted by a shroud of white, was just visible. It lay like an irregular boulder, only its sharper lines betraying the fact that it had been man-made.
    Using great care, Rutledge scrambled down to the horse, and laid a gloved hand on its hide. Dead. Still warm . . . but already cooling.
    He slipped and nearly lost his footing as he reached the overturned carriage and shone the torch beyond its upturned side.
    It was then he saw the woman's form, curled into a knot on the ground, her back pressed against the seat.
    She responded so lethargically to the glare of his torch that he thought at first she must be dying, then as she stirred, he realized she was alive but very likely badly injured.
    When she tried to turn her head to look up at him, he could hear a soft mew, of pain and pleading.
    He moved around the footboard of the carriage, careful not to disturb her body, and came to kneel beside her.
    “Can you tell me where you hurt?”
    She lifted a white face to him, her eyes so dark they seemed sunken in the sockets. “I—” She was shivering violently and could hardly speak, her teeth clicking together involuntarily. “Ribs,” she said, after a moment, “I th-think—ribs. But my f-feet are numb—”
    She'd used the blanket to wrap herself, and the seat of the carriage offered some protection from the wind, but she was very, very cold, rigid with it.
    Rutledge reached down to touch the hand pressed to her side, and it felt icy through his glove. The