by Charles Todd
He said, “Do you have any reason to think that Walter Teller was being poisoned?”
“No. We considered poisoning. We found no evidence of it. Is there any reason to believe—”
Rutledge cut in quickly, “No. It’s something a policeman must bear in mind.”
Hamish said as they left the clinic, “It isna’ likely that he went away to die. He could ha’ hanged himself in his room while his wife was resting at his brother’s house.”
“He didn’t want his wife to find his body.”
Rutledge spent much of that day and well into the early evening going to police stations all across London, showing the photograph he’d been given to each shift of constables coming in or going out.
They studied the photograph, but no one had seen anyone resembling Teller. And as a rule, constables on the street could be counted on to remember the faces of people not normally seen on their patch, keeping an eye out for troublemakers and strangers alike. Even a well-spoken, well-dressed man like Walter Teller would be noted for future reference.
One constable, shaking his head, said to Rutledge, “It’s more likely that he found a cab soon after leaving the clinic, well before the search began. He could be anywhere now. He could have taken an omnibus, a train, or cadged a lift from someone.”
But Rutledge had already sent a man from the Yard to speak to any cabbie who had taken up custom near the clinic at four o’clock on the afternoon in question. No one remembered seeing Walter Teller or even someone who looked like him.
“Ye’re searching for a needle in a haystack,” Hamish told Rutledge.
“Or for one man when there might well have been two, if someone had come for him, or was there to help him dress and leave.”
The clinic had had no record of visits to Walter Teller, other than the immediate family. Still, it was possible to use another patient’s name to pass the porter and gain access. But that led him nowhere, either.
Rutledge had even driven to Essex, to the house of Dr. Fielding, arriving there just as Fielding was preparing for his first patient of the afternoon.
The man reluctantly put aside the pipe he’d been smoking and addressed himself to Rutledge’s questions about Walter Teller.
“I can give you a brief sketch of his background. Missionary for many years, and then he married Jenny Brittingham. Rather than returning to the field, he chose to write a book about his experiences.”
“And this was . . . ?”
“Just a year or so before the war—1911? 1912?”
Rutledge thought how the war had defined time—before the war—after the war. As if that great cataclysmic event that had interrupted and ended so many lives was still with them like a personal watershed.
“And of course there is Harry, the son. Quite a nice child, and not at all spoiled, as you’d expect with doting aunts and uncles surrounding him. Jenny—Mrs. Teller has seen to that. She’s a very good mother.”
“Did Teller serve in the war?”
“As a matter of fact he did. Chaplain. But he was struck down with malaria in that rainy spring before the Somme and was sent home to recover. It was decided not to send him back to France, and so he worked among the wounded here.”
“Was there anything in his war years that might have affected what happened to him last week?”
Fielding raised his eyebrows. “Not to my knowledge. In fact, I remember Teller commenting that he’d seen death in so many guises that he’d lost his fear of it long before going to France. There was something about a famine in West Africa—people dying by the droves. And of course in China death was as common as flies, he said. No, you’re barking up the wrong tree there.”
“Then what caused his illness?”
“That I can’t tell you. Which is why I sent Teller to the Belvedere Clinic. And the last progress report I received was rather grim. He was showing no improvement, and in fact was beginning to feel paralysis in his arms and hands as well as in his legs.”
“Do you think this paralysis was genuine?”
Fielding said, “Are you asking me if his illness was feigned? No, of course not! I’d take my oath on that.”
“Then how would you account for the fact that three days ago, Walter Teller got out of his sickbed while his wife was resting, dressed himself, and walked out of the clinic?”
“He did what? You’re saying there was a full recovery? And what did his doctors make of that?” Leaning forward, Fielding stared hard at Rutledge.
“They had no better understanding of events than you do. But Teller is missing, and there’s been no word from him since he walked away.”
“My God. He’s still missing? How is Jenny? She must be distraught.”
“She’s taken it very hard, as you’d expect. Now, I repeat my earlier question—can you shed any light on his illness? Or his miraculous recovery?”
“If that’s what it was. I can’t imagine—look, Inspector, the man was ill. I saw that for myself. It was all I could do, with Mrs. Teller’s assistance and that of their maid, Mollie, to get him into their house, so I could examine him properly. He was a dead weight. And that’s not easy to fake. I’d look on the road between his banker’s and Essex for my answers. As for his recovery, someone else must have been there when he dressed and left the clinic. I can’t see how it was managed any other way.”
“Why should anyone help him leave the clinic, and not inform Mrs. Teller that he was safe and well elsewhere?”
Fielding said, “You aren’t—do you think there was foul play? No, that’s not possible.” He shook his head. “Walter had no enemies. Except perhaps himself. Because if this illness is in his mind, the reasons must go deep into something none of us is aware of.”
From Fielding’s surgery, Rutledge drove on to Witch Hazel Farm, and knocked at the door.
The housekeeper, Mollie, answered the summons, and as Rutledge introduced himself, she said quickly, “Don’t tell me something has happened to Mr. Teller!”
“Why should you think something has happened to him?” Rutledge asked, misunderstanding the direction of her question.
“Because you’re a policeman. And he wasn’t himself at all that day when he came home from London so ill.”
“His doctors are still uncertain about the cause of his illness. Tell me, was he in pain, when you were helping Mrs. Teller work with him?”
“Pain?” she repeated. “No, I’d not call it that. He was more fearful. I heard him ask Mrs. Teller twice if she thought it was his heart.”
“Were there any visitors to the house before he went to London? Any letters or telegrams?”
“No visitors since the party for Mr. Teller’s birthday,” Mollie told him. “And I don’t remember any letters in particular. I’m not in the habit of looking at the post when it’s brought. I just set it on the salver there.” She turned slightly to point to a long, narrow silver tray on the polished table in the large hall behind her. And then she frowned, as if the act of pointing out the salver had reminded her. “I do know there was a letter from the missionary society the morning of the party. I heard him say, under his breath, that God had remembered him at last. It was an odd thing to say, wasn’t it?”
“Did he receive letters from the society on a regular basis?”
“I don’t make a habit of looking at the post,” she repeated.
But Rutledge said, “You may not look at it, but you can’t help but see what’s there. This could be important.”
“If I was to guess,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, “then I’d say it had been some time since he’d had a letter from them. It was my understanding, with the war and all, not to speak of his malaria, that he was on what Mrs. Teller called extended leave.”
Had the letter been a recall to duty? It could explain Teller’s distress. Rutledge said, “Has any of the family come to the house since Mr. Teller was taken to the hospital in London?”
“Mr. Edwin and Mrs. Amy came to look through his papers last w
eek. I think they were hoping to find a reason for Mr. Teller’s illness.”
That would have been before his disappearance. “Did they find what they were after?”
“I can’t say. I didn’t see them leave. I was in the kitchen making tea, and when I came up with the tray, the study was empty and the motorcar was no longer in front of the door.”
“Anyone else?”
“Mrs. Amy came back two days ago. She said she was collecting fresh clothes for Mrs. Teller. I helped her choose what she thought was suitable.”
“Did she go anywhere else in the house, besides Mrs. Teller’s bedroom? She didn’t for instance return to the study?”
“No, sir. I’d have known if she had.”
“And all she took from the house was clothing?”
“Yes, sir. I did ask her how Mr. Teller fared. She told me that Mrs. Teller would be staying on in London for the time being, while the doctors came to a conclusion about him. I could judge from her face that she was worried. Come to think of it, the clothing she took was mostly black. Now that’s distressing.”
And, Rutledge thought, two days ago Amy Teller had known that Walter Teller was missing.
Back in London, Rutledge went again to Marlborough Street and to Bolingbroke Street to call on Edwin Teller and his brother Peter. But neither of them had returned to the city.
He stopped by his own flat afterward for a change of clothing and found a telegram on his doorstep.
The early darkness of an approaching storm had settled over the streets, and a wind was picking up, lifting bits of papers from the gutter and tossing the flower heads in the garden next but one to his flat.
The war had taught so many people that telegrams brought bad news. Someone missing. A death. The end of hope. He reached down to pick it up and had the strongest premonition that he shouldn’t open it.
Hamish said, “The war is o’er. There’s no one left to kill.” Bitterness deepened the familiar voice.
Rutledge lifted the telegram from the doorstep and shoved it in his pocket as the storm broke overhead, lightning flaring through the darkness like the flashes of shells, followed by thunder so close it was like the guns of France pounding in his head.
He poured himself a drink, forcing the images that were crowding his mind back into the blackness whence they’d come, and this time succeeded in breaking the spell. Or was it only the storm’s fury moving on downriver and fading safely into the distance that erased the memories of the fighting? He couldn’t be sure. He found a clean shirt and put it on, then reached into his pocket for the telegram.
The skies were just clearing enough that he could read it without lighting the lamp. He recognized the name below the message and realized that his premonition had been right.
The telegram had been sent by David Trevor.
A surge of guilt swept through him. Too many letters from his godfather had gone unanswered. This was surely a summons to appear in Scotland and explain himself.
Trevor had written plaintively in his last letter, “The press of an inquiry? What, are you killing off the good citizens of London at such a rate that there’s not a minute to spare for us? I find that hard to believe.” And Rutledge could almost hear the amusement in his words, as well as the uncertainty and the sadness.
He scanned the brief message.
Arriving tomorrow. Stop. Meet us at station.
And the time of the train followed.
For an instant of panic, Rutledge considered that us.
Oh, God, surely not the entire household!
But no, Trevor must have meant himself and his grandson. And that was bad enough.
Rutledge swore with feeling, trapped and without any excuse or escape.
He found an umbrella and went back out to his motorcar, driving through the wet streets to his sister’s house. For a mercy, she was at home, and he came through the door almost shouting for her.
“Ian. I’m neither deaf nor in the attics. What’s the matter?” she demanded, coming down the stairs.
He held up the telegram. “Trevor’s coming. Did you know? He’ll have to stay with you, I’m afraid, there’s no hope that the flat can be made habitable in time.” The thought of Trevor being there, in the same flat, hearing Rutledge scream in the night, was unbearable. Explaining why he screamed at night would be beyond him. And Trevor—Trevor would speak to Frances, and ask if she knew.
“Habitable? Don’t be silly. When has your flat been anything but scrupulously tidy? I sometimes wonder if you ever really live there. But yes, he’s staying here.” She laughed at the panic in his eyes. “Darling, this is your godfather. Not your Colonel in Chief. He’s bringing the little boy. He told me that Morag was turning out the cupboards and beating the mattresses, and it was no place for sane men to linger.” But the panic hadn’t subsided in her brother’s eyes, and she said, her laughter vanishing, “Ian. Surely you don’t mind giving up a day or two to spend with David? I’ll see to his comfort, of course I will. But he’ll want to talk to you, dine with you, that sort of thing. He’s been worried, if you must know. You haven’t written in ages, and he needs to be reassured that all’s well.” She paused, still considering him. “All is well, isn’t it, Ian? It’s just been the press of work, hasn’t it?”
He was well and truly caught.
The trouble was, David Trevor was an insightful man, and he would see too much. What if Hamish sent him into darkness in the middle of a dinner—a drink at Trevor’s club—during a walk in St. James’s Park? And there had been insufficient warning, not enough time to prepare himself. He’d be on parade, as surely as if he were in the Army again, and in the end he’d betray himself out of sheer witless nerves. Something would slip, a word, a hesitation, an instant’s lapse in concentration. Trevor would know.
Frances said gently, “It’s David, my dear, and he’s lost his son. He’s still grieving.”
“I can’t replace Ross. No one can.” Rutledge stood there helplessly, with nowhere to turn.
“He isn’t asking you to replace him. I think he merely wants to hear your voice and see your face and laugh with you at some bit of foolishness, the way you and he did before the war. A little space in time where there’s neither past nor future, where he can pretend. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
He did. All too well. The question was, could he provide the strength and the ease someone else required, and not find himself mourning too?
Rutledge took a deep breath. “He should have given me a little time to arrange matters at the Yard . . .” His voice trailed off. There was the inquiry into Teller’s disappearance. It was taking up all his time—
“And you’d have put him off. I suspect he knew that. Meanwhile, I’m the one with the preparations to see to. We’ve aired the spare bedroom and the nursery, and there’s food for meals and an invitation for his old partner in the architectural firm to lunch with David at his club, and there’s even a lady who wants him to come to tea.”
That got his attention. He looked up. “A lady?”
“Melinda Crawford, of course.” She smiled. “We’re going to Kent the day after tomorrow. It’s arranged.”
He could see how much had been planned without his knowledge. But if there was a luncheon and a visit to Kent, as well as the zoo, or whatever else a small restless boy might wish to see, he might—just—make it through.
“Ian?”
“All right. But you must go to the station, I can’t take—”
“But you can take a half an hour,” she said gently. “And bring them here to me.”
And so it was that he found himself at St. Pancreas the next morning, waiting for the train from Edinburgh, Hamish ringing in his ears and his mouth dry as bone.
Chapter 10
For nearly eight months, Rutledge had refused every invitation from his godfather, David Trevor, to come back to Scotland. What had happened there in September of the previous year had left him physically near death and emotionally shattered
. He needed no reminder of that time—events were still etched in his memory, and Hamish had seen to it that every detail remained crystal clear. For he had entered Hamish’s world without any warning to prepare either of them, and the price had nearly been too high.
He could not tell his godfather why the very thought of traveling north was still anathema. Because of Fiona, the woman Hamish should have lived to marry. Because too many young Scots like Hamish had died under his command. All the same, he sometimes felt that Trevor already understood much of the story, at least the part that had taken place in Scotland. Please God, no one would ever learn the whole truth about Hamish, and what had happened in France.
He was grateful now for the inquiry that was presently taking up so much of his time—it would give him the excuse to absent himself from his visitors when the strain of pretense was too much.
Rutledge met the travelers at the station, as promised, and as the train came into view, he felt tension invest his body, like steel rods.
Hamish said derisively, “It willna’ help.”
Rutledge said nothing in reply, swallowing the bitter taste that rose in his throat.
And then the carriages were passing him, slowing as the train came to a halt, and it was too late to run. His godfather was at the window waving to him before the carriage door opened, and then Trevor was stepping out, holding the small boy named for Rutledge by the hand. He said something to the child, and reached back into the carriage for the leather valise he’d left on the seat. Rutledge had a few seconds in which to realize that his godfather looked better than when he had last seen him. Some of the strain was gone from his face, and his step was lighter. The boy’s doing, at a guess.
The two crossed to where Rutledge was waiting, rooted to the spot.
“Hallo, Ian, it’s good to see you!” Trevor said heartily, taking his outstretched hand. “Everyone sends their love. And here is the young chatterbox, as we call him. My lad, do you remember your honorary uncle? He knew your father very well once upon a time.”