The Red Door (11 page)

And then, suddenly, there was his godfather coming toward him, a bloody handkerchief tied around one hand, a cut across his forehead, and a decided limp in his stride. The boy clung to him, still clutching the box of toy soldiers.

Rutledge was so relieved he stopped, unable to speak. The two men stared at each other, Trevor saying, “What in hell’s name are you doing
here
?”

“News reached the Yard, and I came directly—”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with us for a few days more.”

Rutledge began to laugh helplessly. Then he said, “Where have you been? I must have walked up and down this train a dozen times!”

“On the far side of the engine, examining all the wheels. Where the lad couldn’t see what he shouldn’t. We were very lucky in our car. But they want us to give our names to a constable, and so I came round to find him.”

Rutledge remembered Meredith Channing. “Do you see my motorcar there on the road? When you’ve given your name to the constable, go to it and wait. I won’t be long. I’ve promised someone I’d come back.”

Trevor nodded. “Go on. We’ll be all right.” Taking in his godson’s appearance, scraped and bloody and disheveled, he added, “If you need to stay longer . . .” and let his voice trail off.

Rutledge answered the unspoken question. “Like you, she was lucky. There is the constable, I think.” And then he was gone, hurrying back the way he’d come. He could feel Trevor watching him as he turned toward the trees.

He was ready to propose that he bring Meredith Channing back to London with them. But when he reached the blanket where he’d left her, she was gone. His coat was still there, and his belt. He looked around, a frown on his face, to see where she’d been moved.

A woman sitting nearby said, “Are you looking for the pretty young woman? She said someone might come. I believe they carried her to a house in the village. They’ve been moving the injured wherever possible. I’ll be next.” He realized she was clutching her arm, and saw that it was broken, the bruising already dark.

He hesitated, torn. “If you see her—tell her I found the man I was looking for. And I must take him back to London. If she needs me, she can send for me. I’ll come for her.”

But he had a feeling she wouldn’t send for him. He had a feeling that what she had seen when he’d turned to her a few weeks earlier had shown her what was wrong with him. She’d been a nurse, she’d been at the Front. She would recognize shell shock, and know him for what he was. And he couldn’t explain, he couldn’t tell her about Hamish. He could never tell anyone.

In another part of his mind, he saw that she’d taken the hat and the valise with her.

No excuse then for him to follow her to the village and knock on doors. And he shouldn’t leave the boy in this chaos while he searched.

Thanking the woman, he went back to his motorcar, listening to the silence that had been Hamish’s response since he’d found Meredith Channing.

A constable stopped him, asking him for the names of any persons on the train he might have known.

He gave the man three names. And then thought about it and asked, “You don’t happen to know where Mrs. Channing has been taken? Which house in the village?”

“No, sir, I don’t. I’ve been given the task of collecting names. Others are seeing to the comfort of the injured.”

Another thought occurred to him. He pointed to the carriage still teetering on its neighbor. “There’s a dead man still in that one.” He described him. “My name is Rutledge, Scotland Yard. If you learn who he is, I’ll like to be told.”

The constable’s gaze lifted from the papers he was holding to focus on Rutledge. “Does the Yard have an interest in him, then?”

“No. It’s just—I thought I recognized him. That’s all.”

The man nodded and moved on. Rutledge stood there, still hearing in his mind the lie he’d just told.

Hamish broke his long silence. “It doesna’ signify,” he said again. “He’s deid.”

“The dead can live on,” Rutledge answered grimly. “Death is not always the end. I should know.”

A
fter settling Trevor and his grandson in their rooms to rest, reassuring Frances, and promising to send a telegram to Scotland informing the Trevor household that man and boy were safe and would come north again as soon as the line was cleared, Rutledge went home to change his own clothes. He thought that his godfather and the boy would sleep for a while, and cast about for something to amuse his namesake and take his mind off events. He’d been unusually quiet on the journey to London, leaning against his grandfather’s shoulder in the motorcar and reluctant to let him out of his sight.

Rutledge decided a river journey to Hampton Court might suit, and stopped in Mayfair again to tell his sister.

“What a lovely thought, Ian! Will you go with us?”

“There’s business at the Yard to see to. When I heard of the train crash, I simply walked out and drove straight to the site.”

“It must have been dreadful. You look as if you could use a rest as well.”

He laughed. “Sheer worry. It took some time to find David and the boy. I had imagined every catastrophe known to man by the time I saw them, safe and whole.”

She smiled with him, understanding that he was speaking lightly of something too frightful to contemplate. “I didn’t like to ask in front of David. Were many hurt?”

“Injured and killed,” he told her. And then before he could stop himself, he said, “Meredith Channing was on the train as well.”

“Dear God. Is she all right? Did you bring her back to London too?”

“She’d already been taken away by the time I found David. I expect the doctors were working on her shoulder. It was dislocated. I left a message for her to let me know if there was anything more I could do.”

“That was kind.” And then feminine curiosity took over. “Do you know where she was going?” She answered her own question. “Was it to Inverness?”

He hadn’t considered that possibility. She might have been traveling alone after all. He found he wasn’t as sorry as he ought to be that her journey was interrupted. “She never said. There was no time to talk about anything but finding help for the injured.”

“No, of course not. I’ll call on her later in the week.”

He left then and drove to the Yard.

But there was no news of Walter Teller, and no one had located Charlie Hood.

Frustrated, Rutledge shut himself in his office and turned his chair to face the window.

Walter Teller, he thought, had had to survive unimaginable difficulties in the field. He had had to be clever enough as well to deal with unexpected problems facing his flock, not to speak of coping with doubters and those who clung stubbornly to their own gods, even to the point of threatening him and his converts. The climate would have been against him, the long journeys in and out of his mission post would have been trying. He’d been responsible for the lives of his converts and would have had to keep their faith fresh in spite of tribulations and setbacks—a failed harvest, an infestation of insects, plagues and natural disasters, and war, even on a tribal scale.

Then what could possibly have frightened the man between his London bank and his house in Essex?

Hamish, his voice loud in the small office, said, “His son.”

And that son had been Walter Teller’s first concern when he finally reached his house. Yet he had walked away from Harry as well as his wife hardly more than a week later.

Had
his dead father insisted that the heir go away to school at such an early age? Rutledge had been told that, but there was no proof. He wished he’d thought to ask Leticia Teller about it. Wanting to go against his dead father’s wishes was hardly reason enough to have a breakdown of the magnitude that had assailed Teller.

There was the letter from the mission society.

But Teller hadn’t got ill immediately after receiving it.

Rutledge turned and reached for his hat.

It was time to find the Alcock Society and ask a few questions.

He discovered through sources at the Yard that the Society had a small house outside of Aylesford, Kent, and he drove there without waiting for an appointment.

Aylesford, with its handsome narrow bridge and narrower twisting streets, was a pretty little town on the Medway. The house Rutledge was seeking was within sight of the church. It was a Tudor building almost as narrow as it was tall.

He knocked at the door and was received by an elderly man in rusty black, his long face wrinkled with age and exposure to the sun.

Rutledge identified himself and explained his errand.

Mr. Forester, it seemed, was the secretary of the Society and handled all correspondence for it. The Alcock, he informed Rutledge, had been founded in the early part of the nineteenth century, and since that time had been very well supported by patrons who believed in the Society’s work and its attempt to bring enlightenment to the forgotten parts of the world. Victoria herself had visited the tiny headquarters before she had succeeded to the throne, and above the hearth there was a small painting of the event done by Forester’s predecessor. He pointed it out proudly and invited Rutledge to admire it.

He asked Rutledge to join him for tea, and they sat in the parlor on chairs Rutledge was certain the great Elizabeth would have recognized, with straight backs and seats hard as iron, discussing the Society’s aims and goals and record.

“And Walter Teller?”

“He was always reliable, a steady man who was able to find common ground with the local people and work with them in projects designed to better their lives. A school, for instance, or a new well, or a market that attracted commerce to the area. Very practical things, you might say, but through them, people could be persuaded to find worth in Christianity and turn their thoughts to conversion.”

“I understand,” Rutledge said, “that you’ve only recently written to Mr. Teller.”

“Yes. In fact, I have a copy there in my desk. I keep meticulous copies of all correspondence. My records are excellent.” He set aside his cup and went to the desk, where he found the folder he wanted and brought it back to his chair.

“Let me see.” He thumbed through several sheets before finding the one he was after. “Here it is. Mr. Teller has been some years out of the field—his book, of course, and then the war—and we are experiencing a little difficulty in finding good men to send to established missions, much less new ones.” He looked up at Rutledge. “Sadly, the world has changed now. Before the war, there was a fervor for service.

We’ve grown sadly bitter and tired these past two years. Our missionaries are older, on the point of retiring. We’d like to see Mr. Teller return to the field. Indeed, it is more than like—there is need.”

“And has he responded to your call for serving?”

“Not so far. But you told me earlier that he’d been ill. Perhaps that has been the reason?”

“Possibly,” Rutledge replied, evading a direct answer. “It’s Mr. Teller’s illness that has brought me here. The doctors are at a loss to explain it. He seems deeply troubled by something. The family can think of nothing that would have provoked a sudden and unusual attack of paralysis.”

Mr. Forester looked steadily at Rutledge. “And this has required the attention of Scotland Yard?”

Rutledge smiled. “In fact, Mr. Teller has had a miraculous recovery, and he disappeared from the clinic. I’ve been in charge of the search for him.”

Forester shook his head. “This is very odd. I’d have never thought of Walter Teller experiencing a collapse of any kind. I do know he is very attached to his son. An only child, as I recall.”

“That’s correct.”

“And nothing has happened to the boy?”

“He’s on the point of going to public school.”

“How the years fly. I remember when he was born, how proud Mr. Teller was of him, all the plans he spoke of. I have had the strongest suspicion that he didn’t return to the field because of the boy. I can appreciate that, having had a son of my own late in life. The wonder of watching him grow was precious beyond words.” Something in his voice as he spoke the last words alerted Rutledge.

“He was in the war?”

“Yes, how did you guess? He was lost on the Somme. I have long wanted to go to France to see his grave. But that’s not to be. I’m too old for such a journey now.” Clearing his throat, he said, “But to return to Walter Teller. I shan’t expect an answer any time soon. I’m grateful to know the circumstances. The Society has need of him. I hope his recovery will be complete.”

Rutledge thanked him and left.

On the drive back into London, Rutledge gave some thought to Walter Teller’s relationship to his son, and then stopped at Frances’s house.

David Trevor was in the garden, enjoying the late evening breezes before the sun went down, and looked up with a smile when he saw his godson walk through the French doors and across the terrace.

“Ian. You’ve had a long day. Frances told me you’d gone back to the Yard.”

Rutledge smiled, and took the chair across from Trevor’s. “How are you feeling?”

“I won’t lie to you, it was not the pleasantest experience. I have bruises and no recollection of how I got them. But we survived, and that’s what matters.” He held up his bandaged hand. “Frances saw to it. Not deep, but bruised as well. A small price to pay, considering what happened to so many. Is your friend all right?”

Rutledge was surprised that Trevor had remembered his brief absence going back to find Meredith Channing. “Yes, I have every reason to think so.” He paused, then said, “I need to bring up a painful subject. How you felt about having a son. When he was born—his first few years as a child?”

“Is this to do with a case?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“I don’t mind talking about those years. It was a miracle, finding myself a father. I can’t tell you. He was so small, and yet so real. He moved, he made sounds, he opened his eyes and stared into my face. His hands clutched at my fingers. It was unexpected, the depth of my feelings for him even then. I’d have done anything for him. Died for him if need be. Nothing I’d ever done to that point in my life seemed half so important.” He smiled wryly, the late sun just touching his face and lighting his eyes. “It seems absurd, doesn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that before. I was embarrassed, you see, I didn’t know for the longest time that what I felt was natural.”

His words touched Rutledge, and he said quietly, “Thank you.”

“I hope one day you’ll know for yourself what having a child means.”

Frances came out just then, bringing a pitcher of cold water, and Rutledge stayed a little while longer before rising to take his leave.

He spent a restless night. Hamish, ever ready to bring up memories that Rutledge could sometimes bury during the daylight hours, pressed him hard, and it was nearly four in the morning when he finally fell into a deep sleep, only to wake up an hour later, calling out to the men under his command, warning them to take cover.

He rose and dressed, grateful to be alone in the flat, and was in his office at the Yard long before anyone else had come in.

None of the reports from the night staff dealt with Walter Teller, although there was information on Bynum’s murderer.

The knife used in the attack on Rutledge was too ordinary to be traced. But postmortem evidence indicated it was very likely the same kind of knife that killed Bynum. The coat button was of doubtful provenance. The address on the scrap of paper proved to be a lodging house. The woman who ran it reported that a male who appeared to be around nineteen years old, fair and with freckles, had come to ask if there was a room available in the house.

The woman told the police that although he had claimed he could pay for the room, she had her doubts that he would fit in with her other lodgers, two older men and an elderly woman.

“Restless, he was,” the constable quoted from his notebook, “couldn’t sit still a minute.”

The man had argued with her, and then left, the report concluded, and she had no idea where he had come from or where he went after leaving her.

It was Mickelson’s case now. Rutledge was a witness, nothing more. But he had taken a personal interest in Billy, and with each new victim, his own sense of responsibility grew.

He set aside the night’s reports and considered his next step in the case that was his. He couldn’t put a finger on what bothered him most about the disappearance of Walter Teller.

There were strong reasons why Teller might be experiencing bouts of depression and despair. His son’s future, his own obligation to his calling.

But these couldn’t altogether explain his disappearance.

Or why he had been paralyzed by indecision? If that was what it was.

Even the Teller family wasn’t in agreement about the reasons behind what had happened. Although Rutledge had a feeling that they knew more than they were telling.

It was useless to speculate. No one was likely to solve the mystery of what lay so heavily on Walter Teller’s soul until the man himself could answer the question.

And Rutledge had a feeling that that was not likely to be very soon.

How long would the Yard continue to search? When would the decision be made to call it off? It had gone on longer than the average missing persons case because Walter Teller was Walter Teller. Manpower was becoming a crucial issue in the hunt for Bynum’s killer.

He was on the point of leaving his office to speak to Chief Superintendent Bowles when Sergeant Gibson stopped him. “There’s a constable downstairs with a message. You’d best speak to him yourself.”

Rutledge went down to the lobby to find one of Sergeant Biggin’s men standing there, breathless from his bicycle ride across London.

“It’s urgent, sir. Sergeant Biggin asks if you can come to the clinic at once?”

Stowing the bicycle in the boot of his motorcar, Rutledge said to the constable, “What’s happened?”

“As to that, sir, you’d best wait and ask him.”

They were halfway to the Belvedere Clinic when Rutledge thought he glimpsed Charlie Hood walking the other way. He swore as he lost sight of the man, but traffic was heavy, and he had to keep his attention on the motorcars, lorries, and drays that filled the street.