The Red Door

by Charles Todd

  THE RED DOOR

  Charles Todd

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Also by Charles Todd

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  For Tony

  We never got to run with the bulls in Pamplona, or see our names in lights or in the opening credits, or find a solution to all the problems of the Universe, but by God, we enjoyed talking about everything Life had to offer . . .

  God bless the butterflies.

  William Granger Teachey

  MAY 15, 1930–JULY 25, 2008

  a cognizant v5 release september 05 2010

  Chapter 1

  November 1918, Hobson, Lancashire

  She stood in front of the cheval glass, the long mirror that Peter had given her on their second anniversary, and considered herself. Her hair had faded from shimmering English fair to almost the color of straw, and her face was lined from working in the vegetable beds throughout the war, though she’d worn a hat and gloves. Her skin, once like silk—he’d always told her that—was showing faint lines, and her eyes, though still very blue, stared back at her from some other woman’s old face.

  Four years—have I really aged that much in four years? she asked her image.

  With a sigh she accepted the fact that she wouldn’t see forty-four again. But he’d have aged too. Probably more than she had—war was no seaside picnic on a summer’s afternoon.

  That thought failed to cheer her. She wanted to see joy and surprise in his face when he came home at last. The war was finally over—the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Yesterday. It wouldn’t be long now before he came striding over the hill and up the lane.

  Surely they would send the men in France home quickly. It had been four long lonely unbearable years. Even the Army couldn’t expect families to wait beyond a month—six weeks. It wasn’t as if the Allies must occupy Germany. This was, after all, an armistice, not a surrender. The Germans would be as eager to go home as the British.

  Peter was some years younger than she, for heaven’s sake—though she’d never confessed to that, lying cheerfully about her age from the start. A man in his midthirties had no business going to fight in France. But of course he was a career soldier, fighting was what he did, in all the distant corners of the Empire. France was nearly next door; it would require only a Channel crossing and he’d be in Dover.

  She had never gone with him to his various postings—Africa, China, India—to godforsaken towns whose names she could hardly remember, and so he’d bought her a map and hung it in the sitting room, where she could see it every day, with a pin in each place he’d stayed. It had brought him nearer. One year he had nearly died of malaria and couldn’t come home on leave. That was the awful winter when Timmy died, and she had been there alone to do what had to be done. She had expected to lose Peter as well, sure that God was angry with her. But Peter had survived, and the loneliness had been worse than before, because there was no one in the cottage to talk to except for Jake.

  He’d sent her small gifts from time to time: a sandalwood fan from Hong Kong, silk shawls from Benares, and cashmere ones from Kashmir. A lovely woolen one from New Zealand, soft and warm as a Welsh blanket. Lacey pillow slips from Goa, a painted bowl from Madeira, its flowers rampant in the loveliest colors. Thoughtful gifts, including that small but perfect ruby, set in a gold ring he’d brought back from Burma.

  She had asked, on his next leave after Timmy’s death, to go with him to his next posting, but he had held her close and told her that white women didn’t survive in the African heat, and he’d resign his commission before he’d lose her. She had loved him for that, though she would have taken her chances, if he’d asked.

  She had kept back a new dress to wear for his homecoming, and each day now she must wash her hair in good soap, rinsing it in hard-to-come-by lemon juice she had also saved for the occasion. She could see too that she needed a little rouge, only a very little so he wouldn’t notice the new lines, thinking instead how well she looked.

  She’d reread all his letters until they were as worn as her hands, and knew by heart every one of them. They lay in a rosewood box by her favorite chair, where she could touch them and feel his presence.

  It occurred to her that she ought to do something—something so special that he’d always remember the day he came through the door and found her waiting. Something that would take his mind off her, and the changes he was sure to see first thing.

  Another thought struck her. His letters had been fewer and the weeks between them longer in the past two years. And there had only been one this year. Was he concealing something? She had dreaded word that he was dead, even though he’d spent most of the war safely behind the lines at HQ. But men were wounded every day. Still, if anything terrible had happened to him, he would surely have told her—or asked the sister in charge of his ward to write to her if he couldn’t. He would never keep a secret from her. Never. They had always been close and truthful with each other about the smallest thing. Well, of course not about the difference in their ages! He’d always lived a charmed life—he’d told her about the tiger hunt that went badly wrong, and the African warthog that had nearly got him, and the storm that had all but wrecked their troop ship in the middle of the Atlantic, the volcanic eruption in Java when he was trying to bring the natives to safety.

  But even charms ran out after a while, didn’t they?

  His last letter had been written in early summer, telling her how enthusiastic the British were to have the Americans come into the fighting after long weeks of training. He’d told her that he’d soon be busy “mopping up.”

  The Hun can’t last much longer now the Yanks are here. So, dear heart, don’t worry. I’ve made it this far, and I’ll make it home. You’ll see!

  But what if—?

  She put the thought out of her mind even before it could frame itself. If anything had happened, surely someone would have come to tell her.

  Instead she tried to think what she could do—what would cry welcome and love and hope, and show her gratitude for his safe return at last.

  She gazed around the small bedroom, at the curtains she kept starched and crisp, at the floral pattern of the carpet and the matching rose coverlet on the bed. No, not here. Leave their room as he remembered it. She went down the stairs, walking through each room with new eyes, trying to see it as Peter might. There was neither the time nor the money to buy new things, and besides, how many times had Peter told her he liked to find himself in familiar surroundings, because they offered him safety and the sure sense that he was home.

  Desperate, she went out to the gate, to see if she could fasten something there, a banner or ribbons. Not flags, flags had taken him off to war. And not flowers—there were none to be had at this time of year.

  She turned to look at the house, neat an
d white and holding all her happiness, except for Timmy. She wouldn’t change it for the world.

  And then all at once she knew what she must do. It stared back at her with such force she wondered she hadn’t thought about it before.

  The next morning, she walked down to the village and bought a tin of paint and carried it home jubilantly.

  That afternoon, as the sun came out from behind the clouds and the light breeze felt like early autumn again, she painted the faded gray front door a vibrant and glorious red.

  Chapter 2

  Essex, Late May, 1920

  There were Japanese lanterns strung high across the lawn, the paper ribbons tied between them lifting and fluttering with the evening breeze. The lanterns hadn’t been necessary in the lingering dusk of a spring’s night, but as the hour neared eleven, they came into their own, sparkling in the stream that ran by the foot of the lawns, adding a fairy-tale look to the façade of the old house and gleaming in the windowpanes, red, gold, and blue.

  Most of the guests had gone home finally, leaving behind the usual detritus of a party. The plates had been stacked at the ends of the three tables for Dora to collect tomorrow, and a pile of table linen, like a miniature iceberg, stood out in the green sea of the grass.

  I ought to move that, Walter Teller thought, before the damp comes and ruins the lot. But he stood where he was, looking toward the house, his back to the darkness beyond the stream.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” his brother said.

  Walter had forgot that he was there. Peter had taken two of the chairs and brought them together so that he could rest his bad leg, sitting quietly as he often did when he was in grievous pain. Turning, Walter said, “Sorry?”

  “You were miles away,” Peter commented, lightly tapping his chair’s leg with his cane.

  “Birthdays remind me that I’m a year older,” Walter lied.

  “Any of that whisky left? My leg is being attacked by angry devils.”

  “Yes, I think so.” He went to the drinks table, found a clean glass, and poured a measure of whisky into it.

  “Thanks.” Peter downed half of it in one swallow.

  “You ought to be careful of that,” Walter said, keeping his voice level, without judgment.

  “So they tell me. Which is why I wait until I’m going up to bed. It helps me sleep.” He shifted his leg, searching for comfort. “I should have gone back to London tonight, with Edwin. But I couldn’t face bouncing about in the motorcar for hours on end. Cowardly of me, wasn’t it?” he added wryly.

  “Why? This is where the four of us grew up. You. Edwin. Leticia. Myself. It will always be home.” But it was in fact Edwin’s house. The eldest son’s inheritance. He himself lived here because Edwin preferred London. It had been a thorn in his side for ten years, this kindness, but Jenny loved Witch Hazel Farm, and so he had said nothing. It was a small sacrifice to make for her sake.

  “Jenny and I are going up to London tomorrow,” he went on. “You and Susannah can come with us or stay on here for a few days.” Walter considered his brother. The damaged leg was beyond repair. And there was no doubt his pain was real. Still, of late there were times when he had the feeling that Peter’s nightly whisky dulled more than the ache of torn muscle and smashed nerves. “All’s well between you and Susannah?” he asked lightly.

  “Yes, of course it is,” Peter answered testily. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “No idea, old man. Except that she was a little quiet this weekend.”

  Peter shifted under Walter’s gaze. “We’ve been talking about adopting a child. She has. It’s complicated.”

  Walter looked away. “I didn’t intend to pry.”

  “No.” Changing the subject, he said, “Is Harry looking forward to school? He doesn’t say much about it.”

  “I expect he is. He knows his mother is against it. For her sake he doesn’t dwell on it.”

  “Jenny’s a marvelous mother. Edwin was saying as much the other day.” Peter hesitated. “Harry’s only just seven, you know. I don’t see why you can’t wait a year.”

  Walter turned on him, suddenly angry. In the light of the blue lantern above his head, his expression was almost baleful. “It’s what Father wanted. Harry’s the only heir, it’s what’s been arranged since the day he was born. You know that as well as I do.”

  Peter said gently, “Father has been dead these six years. Why are we still under his thumb?” When Walter didn’t answer, he went on, “He got it all wrong, you know. The eldest son to the land—that’s Edwin, and he’s no farmer. The next son to the Army—that’s me. And I hated it. The next son to the church. That’s you. And you lasted barely a year in your first living. I think, truth be told, that you found you weren’t cut out to convert the heathen savage, either.”

  It was too close to the mark. Only that morning Walter had received a letter from the Alcock Missionary Society, wanting to know when he would be ready to return to the field. That, and Harry, had haunted him all day.

  Jenny called from the house, saving Walter from having to answer his brother.

  “Yes, coming,” he replied, and then to his brother he said, “I’ll just put these candles out. Why don’t you go on up to bed? You aren’t going to find any peace until you do.”

  Peter reached for his cane and struggled to his feet. Walter caught one of the chairs he’d been using as it almost tipped over. Peter swore at his own clumsiness. Leaning heavily on his cane, he made his way across the lawn toward the house. And halfway there, he turned and said to his brother, “Things will look better tomorrow.”

  Walter nodded, then set about reaching into the colorful paper cages and pinching out the flame of each candle. As he came to the last of them, he stopped.

  It was too bad, he thought, that life couldn’t be snuffed out as easily as a candle flame.

  Could a man will himself to die? He’d seen it happen more than once in West Africa but never really believed in it.

  Now he wished he could.

  His sister, Leticia, would call that arrant nonsense. After all, he didn’t suffer in the same way that his brothers did. Not physical pain.

  He could have borne that.

  It was not knowing what to do that haunted him.

  Chapter 3

  London, Late May, 1920

  Before leaving the next morning to give evidence in a court case in Sheffield, Ian Rutledge had taken his sister, Frances, to dine at a new and popular restaurant. There they encountered friends just arriving as well and on the point of being shown to a table. They were invited to join the other party, and as new arrangements were made, Rutledge made certain that his own chair remained at what had become the head of a larger table. His claustrophobia after being buried alive when a shell blew up his salient in 1916 had never faded. Even four years later, he couldn’t abide a crowded room or train, and something as ordinary as a chair in a corner, with others—even good friends—between him and the door could leave him shaken. Frances, unaware of her brother’s irrational fear, was already enjoying herself, and he watched her flirt with Maryanne Browning’s cousin, an attractive man named Geoffrey Blake. She had met him before, and as they caught up on events and old friends, Rutledge heard someone mention Meredith Channing. He himself had called on Mrs. Channing not ten days earlier, to thank her for a recent kindness, only to find that she was away.

  Now Blake was saying, “She’s in Wales, I think.”

  And Barbara Westin turned to him, surprised. “Wales? I’d understood she was on her way to Norfolk.”

  Someone at the other end of the table put in, “Was it Norfolk?”

  Frances said, “I don’t think I’ve seen her in a fortnight. Longer . . .”

  “Doesn’t she visit her brother-in-law around this time of year?” Ellen Tyler asked.

  “Brother-in-law?” Rutledge repeated.

  “Yes, he lives in the north, I believe,” Ellen replied. “He went back to Inverness at the end of the war. Apparently he was suf
ficiently recovered to travel.”

  “A back injury,” Alfred Westin put in. “His ship was blown up and he held on to a lifeboat for two days before they were picked up. A brave man and a stubborn one. He was in hospital for seven months. But he’s walking again, I heard, albeit with canes now. He was here in the spring, for the memorial concert.”

  Rutledge remembered: in early spring he’d spotted Meredith Channing trying to hail a cab just as a rainstorm broke, and he’d stopped to offer her a lift. She had said something about a concert. St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t married him,” Ellen Tyler went on. “Her brother-in-law, I mean. He’s been in love with her for ages.”

  “Speaking of love, have you seen the announcement of Constance Turner’s engagement in the Times? I am so pleased for her. She deserves a little happiness.” Barbara smiled. “But wouldn’t you know—another flier.”

  Rutledge had known Constance Turner’s husband. Medford Turner had died of severe burns in early 1916, after crashing at the Front. He’d been pulled from his aircraft by a French artillery company that had risked intense flames to get to him. Rutledge and his men had watched that dogfight, before both planes had disappeared down the line. He hadn’t known it was Turner at the time, only that the English pilot had shown amazing skill.

  Their orders were given to the waiter, and the conversation moved on.

  Hamish, ever present at the back of his mind, said to Rutledge now, “Inverness is a verra’ long way.” The voice was deep, Scots, and inaudible to the other diners—a vestige of shell shock, guilt, and nightmares that had begun during the fierce battle of the Somme in July 1916. In the clinic, Dr. Fleming had called that voice the price of survival, but for Rutledge it had been a torment nearly beyond enduring.