The Red Door (32 page)

Rutledge watched Susannah Teller, with Edwin at her side, as she greeted each guest and thanked them for coming.

When the last of the mourners had left, Edwin went straight to the drinks table in the study, pouring himself a whisky. He held it out to his wife, but Amy shook her head, asking for a sherry.

He brought her a glass, then turned to Rutledge.

“Nothing. Thanks.”

Edwin sat on the small settee and said, “God.” He looked tired and drained.

“It was a nice service,” Amy said. “Everything considered. A few gawkers, there out of curiosity. Three fellow officers and their wives came. Someone who’d known Peter in school. Three women who were widows of men who served under him in the war. One of them had the handsomest boy with her. Thirteen, at a guess. She said he was the image of his father, and you could hear the grief of
his
loss still there in her voice. I can’t remember who else. Oh—someone who had served in the field with Walter. He must have been close to eighty but was spry as a man ten years younger. I think that pleased Walter. At least he seemed happy to see the man. A good number of people from the village, as you’d expect. Most of them remembered Peter as a boy. I think Susannah was quite touched.”

“Where is she?” Edwin asked.

“She left fifteen minutes ago. Leticia told me. She stood up very well, didn’t she?” Amy went on. “Women generally do. It’s expected of them not to make a fuss. I remember Walter telling us that somewhere he was sent, the women beat their breasts and tore at their hair while making the most haunting noise. An ululation, he called it. He said it made him shiver.”

“Did Inspector Jessup come?”

“No. His wife was there. She said he’d been called away.”

Leticia came in. “Mr. Rutledge. There is tea in the dining room, and sandwiches. Please help yourself.”

He thanked her and went to find Mary sitting at the table, crumbling bits of bread from her sandwich into little pills on her plate.

He poured himself a cup of tea, then took sandwiches from the platters set out on the buffet. “May I join you?” he asked before sitting down.

“Yes, please do,” she answered, whether she was pleased to see him there or not.

“Mrs. Teller felt that the service went well.”

“Yes, I’m glad. And there’s still Jenny’s funeral to get through. Today I wished myself anywhere but there. Still, one has to support the family. As they’ve supported me.” She got up and set her plate on the small table already piled with used dishes. “I’ll come in later and help Mollie with these,” she said. Then after hesitating, as if of two minds what to do, she came back and sat down. “Have you seen Walter? He was here for a bit, and then I looked for him and he was gone. I thought he might have retreated to the study.”

“I was there. I haven’t seen him.”

“Then he’s in his room,” she said, nodding. “Did he kill Jenny?” Surprised, Rutledge countered, “There’s no real proof. Why should he wish to see her dead?”

“Well, that’s what we’ve all been waiting for, isn’t it, these past few days?” she said bitterly. “Proof one way or the other. About Walter’s illness. About Peter. About that death in Lancashire. Then about Peter again, and now about Jenny. The other shoe dropping.” She turned away. “Do you have any idea what the tension has been like, since Walter first took ill? I went through his study, trying to find out who to contact in the Alcock Society, I thought someone might come and speak to Walter at the Belvedere. I was foolish enough to believe he was worried about going back into the field and they might set his mind at rest. Imagine my shock when I learned about his other life. And all the time—it was Edwin who suggested that Florence Teller might have been here in London and Walter happened to see her. But of course she wasn’t, as it turned out. So we will never know, will we, why he was ill?”

Rutledge said, “It doesn’t matter now what made him ill.”

“Yes, it does, because he still has to come to terms with it and choose. I think it has to do with Harry, with Walter’s insistence that the boy be sent away to school. It was as if he didn’t want him anymore. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. And then he recanted on Harrow, telling Jenny it would be all right to wait a few years. But now, this morning, he told me he thought it would be best for Harry to go after all, because he’s motherless. I’d already promised to take him and look after him for a bit, but Walter is adamant. Harrow it is to be. I knew Walter long before Jenny met him. As a brother-in-law, he was kind and thoughtful and always willing to help me with the house where Jenny and I grew up. I couldn’t have asked for better. And I could share Harry with them—they were always asking if I’d take him for a night or for a few days. I really care for the boy, I’d do anything to protect him. But I’ve begun to realize that Walter uses people. Not wittingly, purposely, but most certainly conveniently. I’ve even begun to wonder if he married Jenny to have a son again, to replace that dead one. He’s capable of it, you know.”

Her bluntness was almost brutal. And he found himself thinking that Mary had understood what was behind the two marriages better than anyone else, because she was so alone herself.

“I don’t know, Miss Brittingham, what to say. But you may be right. As to what he intends to do, there’s no impediment. Walter Teller can do as he pleases. I’ve every intention of closing the inquiries here, and asking the inquests to bring in a verdict of accidental death in both cases.”

Before she could answer, Amy came to the door. “Inspector, Inspector Jessup is here. He wants to speak to you urgently.” She turned to Mary. “Have you seen Walter? And what’s become of Gran?”

“He must be in his room,” Mary said. “I don’t have the energy to go and see. Mr. Rutledge tells me he wasn’t in the study. Your grandmother is lying down. Leticia settled her half an hour ago.”

“Thanks. I’ll go and look for him.”

Amy closed the door again. Mary rose and said, “Needs must. I ought to join the others, whether I feel like it or not. I’m a guest, now that Jenny’s gone. And so I must fit in with the wishes of others.”

She went out of the room, and Rutledge followed her, in search of Jessup.

He was pacing the hall. When Rutledge came down the passage, he turned and said, “There’s been an accident. Can you come at once?”

Rutledge followed him out to the waiting motorcar. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“It’s Mrs. Teller. Captain Teller’s widow. She left here, I’m told with the last of the mourners, intending to drive to London. She’s had an accident.”

“Is she dead?” he asked, remembering the warning he’d given her.

“No. Badly bruised. And she wants to see you. She won’t let us fetch a doctor to her until she does.”

They drove on in silence, through the gray evening, and shortly after the intersection where the Repton Road and the one to Waddington met the trunk road to London they found Captain Teller’s black Rolls touring car with the bonnet having run up into an ancient hedgerow topped by a wooden fence that lead into a pasture. He was out of the Inspector’s vehicle before it had come to a halt and was striding to where Susannah Teller was sitting in the rain, the veil she had pulled to the back of her black hat drooping. Her coat sparkled with raindrops in the light of her motorcar’s headlamps.

He came and sat down beside her, then put his arm around her shoulders. She cried out in pain, then began to weep in earnest.

Jessup was saying, “Bruising where the wheel struck her, scraped knees—” He broke off as Rutledge silently shook his head to stop him, and he moved away to speak to his men.

“What happened? I didn’t know you’d left. Was the motorcar tampered with?”

“I couldn’t stand being there—every time I went past the stairs or saw someone stepping on the place where he was lying, it was more than I could bear. I wanted the garden doors open instead, but Mary told me that with the rain, the lawns were too wet. I went to Walter, but he wouldn’t open his door and help me. I left as soon as I could.”

“Did you tell anyone you were leaving?”

“Only Gran. You don’t know how much I miss Peter. It’s been worse than anything I could have imagined, coming here. The funeral. And I feel so alone.”

“How did this happen?”

“I was crying. I couldn’t see where I was going. I did to myself what you were afraid someone else might do.”

“Are you sure there was no problem with the motorcar—the steering or the brakes?”

She shook her head.

He sat with her a little longer, and then she agreed to let Inspector Jessup take her to Dr. Fielding.

He said to Jessup, “Go over this motorcar. If there is any reason for that crash other than her emotional state, I want to know.”

Jessup looked at him. “Are you saying someone would like to kill that woman?”

“I told her that if there was an attempt at a third accident, we would know that the other deaths were murder.”

“And she thought . . .”

“She was frightened. But it was the only way I could make her watch for trouble. She was angry with the family, she blamed them for her husband’s fall.”

“I don’t understand how she could.”

Rutledge was walking around the motorcar, but in the rainy darkness he could see nothing. “It doesn’t matter. The fact is, she did. All right, let me know what you find.”

He asked one of the constables to drive him back to Witch Hazel Farm, and with a nod from Jessup, one stepped forward and said, “This way, sir.”

Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge wasn’t listening. He went to find Amy as soon as he reached the house.

“Your sister-in-law ran off the road in the rain. Dr. Fielding is seeing her in his surgery.”

“Oh, dear. I ought to go to her. She should never have been allowed to drive to London alone. Are you sure she’s all right?” She clicked her tongue. “I don’t know what’s to become of us. It’s a little frightening.”

“She’s all right, but I think she might prefer not to be alone.”

“Of course not. But—there’s another problem. We’ve looked everywhere, and Walter isn’t here. No one has seen him since the funeral service. I telephoned the rector—he told me he hadn’t seen Walter since we left the church. You don’t think he’s vanished again? It would be too horrible to contemplate.”

“Did you look in the nursery?” Rutledge asked.

“Yes, before I called the rectory.” She glanced uneasily toward the door. “You don’t suppose he went for a walk?”

“Not tonight. Is his motorcar here?”

“I’m sure it is,” she began doubtfully, then said, “Would you look? It’s in the small barn just beyond the kitchen garden.”

Rutledge went around to the shed where the motorcar was kept.

It was still there. Rutledge laid a hand on the bonnet. It was almost completely cool after driving to the service.

When he found Amy Teller and told her, she said, “I don’t remember exactly when I saw him last. But then I didn’t realize Susannah had left, either. There was such a number of motorcars and carriages and people, at the end.” Amy turned toward the stairs. “Let me fetch my coat,” she said. After a moment she was back, adding, “Perhaps we ought to go to the church. I’ll feel better when we know he’s all right.” She bit her lip. “We let him stay to himself too much. But we were all angry still, and upset about Peter and then Jenny. We let him bear the brunt of our feelings.”

“The church?” Rutledge asked. “All right, we’ll have a look.”

He drove with her to the church, but it was dark and empty, with no sign of Walter. They encountered Mr. Stedley just coming to return the church umbrellas, and asked him again if he’d seen Walter.

“I’m afraid not.” He looked across the churchyard to the raw mound of earth that marked Peter Teller’s grave. “Do you have a torch, Inspector?”

He found the one in his motorcar, but although he flashed it across the stones and beneath the yew trees, there was no sign of Teller.

Stedley, standing in the porch shivering, said, “It’s grown quite chilly. I hope he’s not wandered far.”

Rutledge drove Amy Teller back to Witch Hazel Farm and with her searched the house again, then the outbuildings. But Teller had gone.

“He might have decided to spend a little time with Jenny,” Amy said doubtfully.

She called Dr. Fielding’s house, but Mrs. Fielding told her that they had not seen Teller since the service for his brother.

Edwin, coming down from his bedchamber where he’d been resting, said, “I should think he’s all right. He might have just walked around, trying to clear his head.” But it was like whistling in the dark. His voice betrayed his concern.

Mary said, from her corner by the fire they’d built in the hearth against the chill of the rain, “You don’t suppose he went to my house? Or Leticia’s? Or he may have gone back to London with Susannah. We’re all staying the night here. He may have wanted a little peace and quiet.”

Leticia, who joined them, said, “On foot? The motorcar is here. No, he must have begged a lift from someone.”

Edwin said, “We may be worrying prematurely. Let’s give him another hour. It’s foolish to panic like this.”

“He wouldn’t just—vanish again, would he?” Mary asked Rutledge.

But he could offer her only cold comfort. “I don’t know.”

“Call the Belvedere Clinic, Amy,” Mary suggested.

“He couldn’t have reached London this soon,” Amy protested.

Mollie came in to ask if anyone would care for tea, and they asked her again if she knew where Teller might be.

But Mollie hadn’t seen him since the first mourners had departed.

Hamish said, “Ye’re worrying about the lass. It’s possible you were fearing for the wrong person.”

I
t took them some time to discover how Teller had vanished so quickly.

Amy brought Rutledge the list of attendees. It took half the night to track them down. He and Jessup dealt with the local names, while Gibson at the Yard ran the others to ground.

The former missionary had been the hardest to locate, for he was traveling about England raising funds for various charities that helped support mission work and had no particular itinerary.

He told the constable who had tracked him down in the middle of Hampshire, “Yes, Walter asked if I was coming to London. I told him I was, and he asked for a lift. There was a meeting he had to attend in the morning. He didn’t want to put the family out, although Edwin had volunteered to take him. And I was happy to oblige, it was company on the road.”

The constable asked where the missionary had dropped Teller. “By Scotland Yard,” the constable told them.

“It was all a lie,” Edwin said, angry. “You were here. Why should he go to the Yard?”

“He’s going back to the field,” Leticia told them. “Leaving us to deal as best we can with the problems he left behind.”

Hamish said, “Lancashire.”

Through Sergeant Gibson, Rutledge had already sent a telegram to Hobson, asking Constable Satterthwaite to keep a watch on the house. But would Teller go there as penance for what he’d done to Florence Teller? Or to escape from his family? He could live as a recluse there as easily as he could in Africa.

Mary Brittingham said, “He might have gone to my house. There’s no one there. I’d given the staff a few days off. But Jenny still had her key. He could have taken it. I’ll have a look, at least.”

It was nearly dawn by that time. Rutledge said, “You should rest first.”

Mary, her eyes sunken with worry, laughed without humor. “I doubt I’d sleep at all. Someone ought to look and see if Peter’s revolver is here. I can’t sit still. Let me drive home and look. He may have turned back, to confuse us. I’ll stop at Leticia’s too. I’ll bring him back if I find him. If I don’t, I’ll take your advice and rest.” She held up a Thermos. “Mollie has given me tea to keep me awake on the road. I’ll be all right.”

There was a light breakfast in the dining room, but no one felt like eating. Rutledge said, “I have a feeling he’s not in London. He could have taken a train anywhere.”

Amy, who had gone looking for the revolver, said, “It isn’t there. He might well have shot himself this time. He was so depressed about Jenny. Although you’d think he would have a care for Harry.”

“He may have thought Susannah had reached her house. He could be there.” He went to put in yet another telephone call.

“Tiresome man,” Leticia said. “He’s thinking only of himself. I for one am going up to my bed.” She turned on her heel to leave.

The storm had gone with the night. A pale sunlight touched the windows.

Amy said, “Shouldn’t someone go to Portsmouth?”

Leticia said, “As I learned the last time, no one can simply arrive at a mission and announce his return. There are arrangements to make—travel for one, supplies, money, and so on. Details, like how long he’ll be expected to remain there, what comforts he can expect—or not. Whether Bibles have been translated into that particular dialect. What his expenses are, and who will sponsor him. Enthusiasm isn’t enough.”

“Which is why,” Hamish suggested, “he went with yon auld man.”

It was a strong possibility. Except that he’d left the missionary in London.

Rutledge said, “If there’s any news at the Yard, I’ll make certain you hear it right away. Meanwhile, I need to return to London. I can coordinate a search from there.”

“No, you aren’t,” Amy said. “You’re going along to Hobson. Aren’t you?”

It was true. He’d thought Hamish might be right, and in the silences of the house with the red door, Teller might use his brother’s revolver. Who would hear the shot? Even Mrs. Blaine was gone. But he hadn’t wanted to alarm them.

But on his way he detoured to speak to Inspector Jessup. The Teller motorcar had been moved from the scene of the accident, and it was now sitting in the small paved area to one side of the police station.

Inspector Jessup had gone home to bed. Rutledge was turned over to one of his constables, who gave him the report on the accident.

“Nothing anyone did caused Mrs. Teller to run off the road,” he said. “But someone had tried to tamper with the brakes and failed.”

He went out to have a look for himself and saw that Jessup had been right. “Any report on Mrs. Teller?”

“Dr. Fielding gave her something to calm her and kept her overnight. But he thinks she will be fine. Bruised and shaken, he said, but nothing time won’t heal.”

It was late when Rutledge finally arrived in Hobson, and he was tired. He debated knocking on Mrs. Greeley’s door and asking if his room was available. But he was afraid that Cobb might still be staying there, and the last thing he wanted tonight was to talk to anyone.

Instead, he found his way in the dark to Sunrise Cottage, and well before he reached the house, he stopped and stared up at it. There were no lights. The house looked just as it had done when he’d left it the last time.

“You wouldn’t see a change. He’s asleep,” Hamish said quietly.

If he was even inside.

There was a rug behind his seat of the motorcar. It was tempting to reach for it and sleep for half an hour. Neither his wits nor his reflexes were at their best.

When he didn’t immediately open the door, Hamish said, “It isna’ wise to stay here on the road.”

“He’s not likely to slip up on me.”

“Aye. True enough. But ye must move the motorcar.”

Walter Teller might well be twenty paces from where Rutledge sat, asleep in his wife’s bed. He didn’t want to risk more noise.

There was no way of knowing what the man’s state of mind was. Or even if he’d come this far. Walter Teller was a man who kept his emotions close, whose feelings had been lost in a welter of events, from the day he left for Africa, or possibly even from the day he was ordained. Was he a killer? He hadn’t murdered his first wife. The odds, then, discounted his murdering the second.

Hamish said, “Why did ye no’ feel for the second wife what you felt for the first? The lass here?”

Caught off guard, Rutledge said, “Because no one else did.”

“Aye.”

“I can’t help but wonder if it would have made any difference if Florence’s son had been brought up in London, not here. He might have had better medical care. That might have occurred to Walter Teller as well.”

But Hamish had no answer for that.

“We may never explain Walter Teller satisfactorily. Tidily and with ribbons.”

He had only to open his door to find out. That is, if Walter was indeed in Sunrise Cottage—and still alive.

“Ye’re no’ thinking straight,” Hamish said.

Rutledge could feel the darkness coming down, the sound of big guns in the distance, and closer to hand, the rattle of a Vickers gun.

No, that was at the Front. When Hamish was still living and breathing. Before he’d had to shoot him for disobeying orders . . .

His mind felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. But he’d come this far. Pulling his motorcar out of sight on the far side of the hedge, he listened, but nothing stirred.

Opening the motorcar door as quietly as he could, Rutledge stepped out into the night. There were stars overhead, and the looming shape of the house, rising behind the hedge, the whiteness of it almost ghostly in the ambient light.

He could still hear the guns in France, distantly echoing in his mind. Closer than they ought to be.

Shaking off the encroaching darkness, he turned toward the gate, then stopped.

He could have sworn another motorcar was coming up the rise. Moving deeper into the shadows cast by the hedge, he listened. The road was empty still.

He hadn’t imagined the motorcar. Footsteps were approaching the house on the unmade road, someone trying to walk quietly.

There was a slight creak as the gate opened and closed. Rutledge stayed where he was in the deep shadow of the hedge. A shaft of lightning lit the sky like a searchlight. Peering through the hedge, he was nearly certain someone was standing on the step by the red door.

Teller, arriving? What had kept him?

Or Cobb, coming to the house because he couldn’t stay away?

Hamish said, “He hated Teller.”

It wouldn’t do for the two of them to meet, both of them tense and under a great strain.

Either it was his imagination or someone had opened the door now and stepped inside. The front step was empty.

The silence lengthened. Rutledge shut his eyes, to hear better. But the only sound was his own breathing, and the beating of his heart.

Something fell over in the house. Rutledge moved quietly through the gate.

Hamish said, “Someone’s in yon parlor.”

“Yes.”

And then a light bloomed in the bedroom window, a candle flame, he was sure of it.

Rutledge returned to his motorcar and collected the torch. Then crouching low so that he couldn’t be seen from the windows, he made his way to the rear of the house.

He stumbled, realized that he’d tripped over one of the tiny head-stones, and froze. But no one came to the windows or the door. Aware that he’d failed to gauge his approach properly, he realigned his direction to avoid the flower beds by the kitchen door.

Ducking under the kitchen windows, he glimpsed a flash of light, as if whoever was holding the candle was moving down the stairs.

Time was of the essence.

He reached the door, counting to twenty-five before putting his hand on the latch. Lifting it gently, he waited in the doorway.

No one spoke, and he stepped inside.

The candle was in the parlor. He couldn’t see who was holding it, only the faint glow as it was raised to allow someone to survey the room.

It moved on to the sitting room.

Rutledge was well inside the kitchen now, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness within the house.

Then there was an intake of breath, and a curse as the candle went out.

“My God, what are you doing here?” It was Teller speaking. And then the scrape of a match, and the candle bloomed into life again. Rutledge could see Teller’s shadow thrown against the far wall, black and formidable, but knew he himself was invisible.

Teller raised his voice. “I asked you what you were doing here?”

A woman’s low voice said, “The police said you weren’t here. But I knew you were. Do you think you can make amends to
her
? Or is this sackcloth and ashes too late?”

Rutledge strained his ears. Was it Susannah? Hamish disagreed.

“Sanctuary. Of a sort. That’s all.”

“Men like Rutledge don’t walk away. He’ll find you here.”

“Well. I’ll think of somewhere else to go. I’ve lived rougher than this. At least the roof is sound, and I have a bed. Though I couldn’t sleep in it. I made myself a pallet on the floor, next to Timmy’s bed. I slept there many a night when he had croup or a heavy cold. It was familiar.”

“Did you love him more than Harry?”

“I didn’t know Harry. Even though I was there with him as he grew. Timmy kept getting in my way. I’d see his smile in the way Harry’s lips quirked. The shrug of a shoulder—the way he’d kick a football. Even the way he sometimes talked with his mouth full and the way a lick of hair stood up straight after a nap. God, how I tried.”

“And Jenny? Did you love her as much as you loved Florence? Or are you unable to love anyone but yourself?”

“What difference does it make to you? Yes, I thought I was in love with Florence—I was young, I wanted the world, and she thought I was everything I wanted to be. I could see myself in her eyes. Better than my father’s, surely.”

There was a silence, and he said, “Jenny knew nothing about Timmy. It was a relief to talk to her—to pretend this part of my past didn’t exist. And then I couldn’t bear not to come here and remember. You saw through me. You always have known the kind of man I was. It was like looking into my mirror, when I was with you.”

“Yes. Well. It all came crashing down. You brought it down, you know. Wittingly or unwittingly.”

“You haven’t told me. Why did you come?” he asked.

“I brought you something.”

“That’s Peter’s revolver.”

“I thought you might like to die as Peter Teller.
This
Peter Teller.”

“I won’t hang, and I won’t shoot myself. I disappeared before, and I can do it again. You heard Gran—what she said will still be enough to hang me about the laudanum.”

“I was angry enough with you to want to see you hang,” she said. “I could have told them it was nonsense about the laudanum. She could tolerate it perfectly well, mixed with warmed milk. I don’t know why she was ill that other time. She might have had a miscarriage for all I knew.”

“Why the hell didn’t you speak up and tell Jessup what you knew?”

“Why should I make life easier for you? It would be best, really, if you just went away, but the police will find you in the end. Harry will do very well with Amy and Edwin to care for him. Put the barrel in your mouth and simply pull the trigger. Like this.”

“You’re wrong about me. I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Of course you didn’t. I did it for you.”

Even from where he was standing, Rutledge could hear the hiss of Walter Teller’s indrawn breath.

“It sorted out everything very nicely. Jenny died knowing she was safe and loved. Peter was the last connection with Lancashire. You of all people should appreciate the logic of that. After all, everything pointed to him. And it left Harry as the Teller heir, and that was all everyone cared about. If you’re honest, you’ll agree with me.”

“Were you that jealous? I wasn’t aware of it.”

“That’s because you’re selfish and self-absorbed. So do the decent thing and get it over with. I loved you once—single-mindedly, blindly—but I was misled like everyone else. And now I’ve come to my senses.”

“No. I won’t touch that gun. In the morning, I’m going back to Essex. There’s nothing left for me here.”

“Are you so afraid to die?” she asked pityingly. “Well, then. I’ll take care of that for you as well. My last gift.”