Read more
Informationen zum Autor CHARLES TODD is the author of The Murder Stone, A Fearsome Doubt, Watchers of Time, Legacy of the Dead, A Test of Wills, Wings of Fire, and Search the Dark . He lives on the East Coast, where he is at work on the next novel in the Inspector Ian Rutledge series. Klappentext "Stunning . . . the tragic sweep of Todd's historical mysteries grows more expansive with each novel."-The New York Times Book Review Called out into the teeth of a violent blizzard, Inspector Ian Rutledge faces one of the most savage murders he's ever encountered. He might have expected such unspeakable carnage on the World War I battlefields where he'd lost much of his soul-and his sanity-but not in an otherwise peaceful farm kitchen in remote Urskdale. Someone has murdered the Elcott family without the least sign of struggle. But when the victims are tallied, the local police are in for another shock: One child is missing. Now the Inspector must race to save a young boy before he's silenced by the merciless elements-or the even colder hands of the killer who hides in the blinding snow. Praise for A Cold Treachery "Todd's Ian Rutledge mysteries are among the most intelligent and affecting being written these days."-Washington Post Book World "Brilliant."-Chicago Tribune "Traditional mystery lovers who prefer their whodunits enriched with psychological insight will heartily embrace A Cold Treachery. . . . A superb effort."-Publishers Weekly (starred review) "Brilliantly conceived and elegantly executed."-Strand magazine Leseprobe CHAPTER ONE The North of England December 1919 He ran through the snow, face into the swirling wind, feet pounding deep trenches into the accumulating drifts. Rocks, their shapes no longer familiar under the soft white blanket, sent him sprawling, and he dragged himself up again, white now where the snow clung, and almost invisible in the darkness. He had no idea what direction he had taken, enveloped by unreasoning panic and hardly able to breathe for the pain inside him. All he could hear was the voice in his head, shouting at him-- "You will hang for this, see if you don't. It's my revenge, and you'll think about that when the rope goes round your neck and the black hood comes down and there's no one to save you--" The sound of the shot was so loud it had shocked him, and he couldn't remember whether he had slammed the door behind him or left it standing wide. He could still smell the blood--so much of it!--choking in the back of his throat like feathers thrown on a fire. He could feel the terror, a snake that coiled and writhed in his stomach, making him ill, and the drumming wild in his head. They would catch him. And then they'd hang him. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. Unless he died in the snow, and was buried by it until the spring. He'd seen the frozen body of a dead lamb once, stiff and hard, half rotted and sad. The ravens had been at it. He hated ravens. Half the countryside knew he'd been a troublemaker since the autumn. Restless--unhappy--growing out of himself and his clothes. They'd look at what lay in that bloody room, and they'd hate him. He was crying now, tears scalding on cold skin, and the voice was so loud it seemed to be following him, and he ran harder, his breath gusting in front of his face, arms pumping, pushing his way through the snow until his muscles burned. "You'll hang for this--see if you don't----!" He would rather die in the snow of cold and exhaustion than with a rope around his neck. He'd rather run until his heart burst than drop through the hangman's door and feel his throat close off. Even with the ravens eating him, the snow was cleaner. . . . "You'll hang for this-...
