The Red Door

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge replied, “At a guess, half of Britain feels the same.”

  They laughed quietly in the darkness, and Frances said, as she stepped out into the garden, “Have I missed something?”

  Trevor held out a hand. “We were longing for the past. A sign we’re growing old. Come and sit here, next to me. What time do we leave tomorrow to drive down to Kent?”

  And she told him as she came to join them.

  In the back of Rutledge’s mind, Hamish said softly, the Scots accent pronounced, “And the day after, they leave. Are ye no’ glad of that?”

  Rutledge found that he wasn’t.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning Constable Evans ran Rutledge to ground at his sister’s house just as he was seeing his godfather and Frances off on their excursion to Kent to call on Melinda Crawford. They were trying to persuade Rutledge to join them after all, when Evans appeared.

  Rutledge was not loathe to miss the journey, and the reminder of pressing business at the Yard was timely. While he was very fond of Melinda, Rutledge wasn’t comfortable spending so many hours in the company of three people who knew him entirely too well. Melinda, who had survived the Lucknow massacre during the Great Mutiny in India, knew more than most about the scars war could leave behind, and for far too long now, he’d been hard-pressed to avoid her sharp questions about the shadows under his eyes and the thinness that came from tension and long sleepless nights.

  Expecting to be told that there was fresh information about Walter Teller, he went to his office, summoned Sergeant Gibson, and said, “Evans told me it was urgent. What do you have for me?”

  “The Chief Superintendent sent Evans along to fetch you. You’d best hear it from him.”

  Rutledge went along the passage to find Bowles fuming in his office. He looked up as Rutledge appeared in the open doorway and said, “What kept you?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I came as quickly as I could.”

  “There’s been another stabbing. Are you quite sure there’s nothing more you can tell us about this man you call Billy?”

  “I saw him only briefly. Who is the victim this time?”

  “That’s the trouble. This time it was the secretary to an MP, just leaving the House and walking along the Embankment to clear his head. Bynum, his name is. There’s going to be one hell of an uproar over this. If you’d held on to the young bastard while you had him, we’d not be facing the wrath of Parliament. And there’s no break on the Teller inquiry. What have you been doing with your time?”

  “I’ve spoken to everyone but the sister, Leticia Teller. I was planning to drive to Suffolk today.”

  “See that you deal with this latest knifing first. There may be something you can learn from the only witness. As for the Tellers, mind how you go. I don’t want them on my doorstep complaining that you aren’t handling the matter to their satisfaction. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, I do understand. But I have a feeling that there isn’t going to be a happy solution to this case. If we find Teller alive, he may be in a worse state than he was in the hospital.”

  “Then the sooner you find him the better.”

  By the time Rutledge arrived at the Embankment, the body had been taken away, but the police were still combing the area, looking for evidence. The sergeant in charge, by the name of Walker, greeted Rutledge and said, “We aren’t certain why the assailant was lurking on this side of the bridge, sir. He wasn’t likely to find a target at that hour of the night, and with dawn coming as early as it does this time of year, he could well have been spotted.”

  Hamish said quietly, “He was looking for you.”

  Rutledge nearly answered him aloud, catching himself only just in time.

  “Why?” he demanded silently.

  “Because ye’ve seen his face.”

  But Rutledge wasn’t sure that he agreed. To Walker he said, “Which way did he go? Did your witness see that?”

  “Back across the bridge, sir.”

  “Then it’s likely it’s the same man I encountered.”

  “So I understand, sir. There’s been a rash of robberies at knife-point. Did they tell you that at the Yard? But in most cases, the victim handed over his money without a struggle, and then was instructed to count to one hundred before turning around. Most did as they were told, and of course he was gone by the time they looked behind them. We think it must be the same person as killed this Mr. Bynum.” Walker shook his head. “Sad, isn’t? He was only just having a breath of fresh air, because his wallet and his coat were still in his office. He had nothing to give his murderer.”

  “I’d only been told about the one other attempt, which had ended in death. And that was on Westminster Bridge. Where have these robberies occurred?”

  “Mostly south of the river, sir. He doesn’t venture this far often. But there are fatter purses on this side of the bridge. All told, he’s got no more than forty pounds so far.”

  “He’s too young to have a family to feed. Unless it’s his mother he’s supporting. There may be brothers and sisters younger than he is.”

  “As to that, sir, we’d only be guessing. But he’s killed twice now.”

  One of the constables searching along the path looked up and called, “Here, sir!”

  Walker and Rutledge hurried to where he was standing.

  “A man’s coat button, sir,” he said, pointing it out.

  “Anyone walking along here could have lost it,” the sergeant told him. “But we’ll have it anyway. In case.”

  Rutledge took it from the constable’s hand. It was a very ordinary button, dark brown and with four holes in it. For a coat, as the constable had said. Remembering the drawers of buttons to choose from in the tailor’s shop, he said, “You’re right. It would be hard to prove either way. But we might be lucky.”

  On the river a boat swept by, and bursts of laughter carried over the water.

  “Where’s this witness you spoke of?”

  “A constable took him along for a bite to eat. The man looked half starved.”

  “How much did he see?”

  “He said he was coming from the direction of the Abbey, walking toward the bridge, when he heard something that sounded like someone choking. He turned toward the sound in time to see one man falling down and another bending over him, as if trying to help. But then he saw that the second man was rifling the pockets of the first, and he shouted for him to stop. The second man turned and stared at him for several seconds, then turned and ran. By the time our witness reached the victim, he was dying. But there was nothing anyone could do. The witness stayed with him, then saw a motorcar on the road, coming toward the bridge, and shouted for help.”

  “And you’re certain this witness wasn’t the killer?”

  “He was in the clear. He needn’t have hailed the motorcar. And he’d made an effort to staunch the bleeding.”

  “Yes, you’re right, it sounds as if he’s exactly what he claims to be.”

  Walker was looking toward the road. “Here he comes now, sir. With the constable.”

  Rutledge turned. The constable was walking beside a vagrant, a man in shabby clothes, unshaven and thin. He moved with a limp, as if footsore, his eyes cast down, as if searching the pavement for lost coins.

  Rutledge went to meet them and greeted the constable before speaking to his companion.

  “I understand you witnessed what happened here last night?”

  “I did. It was murder, right enough. There were two men, struggling together, and one fell. The other knelt beside him, and I thought at first he was trying to help. But then I saw he was going through the other man’s pockets. He ran as I came up.” The man’s voice was rough, a workingman’s accent.

  “Did you get a good look at the one who ran away?” Rutledge asked.

  “It was too dark. But he ran like a young person. Quick, and with ease. I thought he must be wearing padded shoes. He made almost no sound.”

  Rutledge remembered how e
asily Billy had crept up on him. “Yes, that’s quite possible. Anything else? His size? His age?”

  “He looked to be about eighteen or nineteen. Well set up. He was wearing a cap. I couldn’t see his hair. Dark?” He squinted, as if in thought. “I can’t remember anything more. It happened very quickly, and then I was more concerned for the victim.” He seemed ill at ease now, eager to be off.

  “How long did he live after you got to him?”

  “A matter of seconds? I couldn’t tell in the dark.”

  “Then he wasn’t able to speak?”

  “No. Who was he? Do you know?” The man glanced toward where the body had lain.

  “They’ve just identified him,” Walker said. “One of the constables happened to recognize him. George Bynum. He’d stayed late to finish a paper he was preparing for debate in the next session. A bit of bad luck, that.”

  “And your name?” Rutledge asked the witness.

  “Hood. Charlie Hood.” The words were clipped, unwillingly given.

  “Thank you for coming forward, Mr. Hood. If you’ll go with the constable now, someone will take your statement, and you can sign it.”

  Hood hesitated. “I don’t have a regular place to live.”

  “That’s all right. Just so we can find you, if we need to have you identify the man, once we have him in custody,” Rutledge told him.

  Hood bobbed his head in acknowledgment, and turned to follow the constable.

  Someone was calling to them again, and Rutledge went with Walker to see what the constable had found.

  This was more promising—a small scrap of paper that had an address scribbled on it in pencil. It was off the Lambeth Road.

  “We can’t be sure it’s his,” Walker said, examining it. “But it could have fallen from his pocket when he pulled out the knife.”

  “Send someone there at once,” Rutledge advised Walker. “The sooner the better.”

  Walker nodded to the constable who had found the scrap. “Right you are, son, see what you can discover.”

  The constable hurried away toward the bridge.

  Half an hour later, the search by the bridge was called off. Rutledge, his mind on the long drive to Suffolk and back, said, “I’ve got to go. If anything comes of the address, leave word with Sergeant Gibson at the Yard. He’ll see that I get it.”

  Rutledge was halfway to his motorcar when he stopped short and swore.

  Setting out at a dead run, he went back to find Walker, who was just leaving the scene of the crime himself.

  “Where did your constable take Hood? The Yard, or the station?”

  “To the station. Is anything wrong?”

  “I hope to God there isn’t,” Rutledge responded and hurried in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

  With any luck at all, he told himself, he’d reach the station in time.

  But he didn’t. Hood had given his statement and gone. Rutledge asked for the address he’d used, and drove there next.

  It was a stationer’s shop near St. Paul’s. Rutledge left his motorcar in the street and went inside. The woman behind the counter greeted him with a smile that faded quickly as he asked if she knew of anyone by the name of Hood. Charlie Hood.

  But she didn’t. He described Hood, and she told him that such a person was not likely to be among the shop’s clientele.

  Rutledge thanked her and left while the voice of Hamish MacLeod drummed in his head.

  He drove back to the police station and circled the blocks as best he could, on the off chance that he could spot Hood again. But by this time the streets were busy, people hurrying about their business, and one man could be anywhere, coming out of a pub just after he’d passed, walking into a shop just before he arrived. It was a waste of time, but he gave it an hour anyway.

  He couldn’t be sure. But something about the shabby, scruffy-bearded man had struck him, and he wanted to speak to him again. What had Walker said? That the man was coming from the direction of the Abbey, and that a constable had taken him to find something to eat.

  He told himself it couldn’t be Walter Teller.

  But there was a good chance that it might have been.

  Rutledge drove on to Suffolk, to a small village not far from the Essex border. The house he was searching for was down a lane beyond the high steepled church, a winding stretch of road bordered by wildflowers that meandered another quarter of a mile before he saw the stone gates. The house itself was not as large as Witch Hazel Farm, but set among trees as it was, he could feel the country quiet and hear birds singing as he came to a halt by the door.

  He was directed to the gardens by a housekeeper, and there he found Leticia Teller entertaining a small boy who was squatting by a pool watching pollywogs swim through the murky water.

  “And there’s another one, Harry.” She pointed one out to him. “Just there, beside the lily pad. Oh—there it goes.”

  Another woman sat in the shade, smiling fondly at the child.

  Miss Teller looked up as Rutledge came through the hedge. She was tall, like her brothers, her face a softer version of Peter’s. Attractive, with hazel eyes and a presence that some might find chilly. He gave his name and showed her his identification, and she proceeded to look him up and down.

  “I didn’t know the Yard had been brought into this matter.”

  From her tone, he thought she disapproved of such a move.

  “I believe you were in Portsmouth when that decision was made,” he countered. “Perhaps it might be wise to speak privately.”

  She turned to Harry. “Well, we’ll leave the pollywogs to rest awhile, shall we? I think there might be lemonade in the kitchen, if you ask nicely. And clean your feet before you run in.”

  The boy straightened, a sturdy fair-haired child with a ready smile. “They won’t go away, will they?”

  “No, they live here, and they’ll be waiting when you come back.”

  He nodded happily and dashed off.

  “Walter’s son,” Leticia Teller told Rutledge. She turned to the other woman, who had risen from the bench on which she’d been sitting and come to join them. “Mary Brittingham. Jenny Teller’s sister.”

  She was fair, like her sister, but a little shorter, a pretty woman with an air of someone who knew her own worth.

  “Miss Brittingham,” he acknowledged.

  “Now to what has brought you here. Is there any news? You wouldn’t have come all this way if there wasn’t.”

  “Clothing that has been identified as your brother’s was found by the river. Mrs. Teller recognized them.”

  “But there’s no news of Walter?” Mary put in.

  “None.”

  “Are you saying that the police believe he’s drowned himself? While in an unsound state of mind? Nonsense. I don’t believe it for a moment.” Leticia Teller led them to a circle of chairs out on the terrace. “Do sit down, Inspector.”

  “I’m not drawing conclusions,” Rutledge said, taking the chair indicated. “But the possibility is there. Why did your brother leave the hospital, Miss Teller? He chose a time when his wife was not at his side. He dressed himself—or someone helped him dress—and he walked away.”

  “Who helped him dress?” she asked sharply. “We—my brothers and I—were in Edwin’s house when the news came of his disappearance. Who was there to help?”

  “That’s what we would like very much to know.” He turned to Mary Brittingham. “You were not in London at the time?”

  “No, I went to Monmouthshire to fetch Harry and brought him back to stay with me while Jenny was at the clinic with Walter. He’s been with me ever since.” She took a deep breath. “He believes his parents are visiting friends. I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.”

  “If Walter Teller dressed himself and left the clinic knowingly, where would he be likely to go?” Rutledge asked them.

  Mary said, “It’s possible, you know, that he left the clothing by the river himself. To buy himself a little time to think.
That’s probably why he left the clinic in the first place.”

  Leticia Teller regarded her with distaste. “Are you saying that my brother is aware of what he’s doing?”

  “I think it’s likely that he hasn’t found a solution to whatever caused him to be ill in the first place. Did you know he’d heard from his bishop? They want him back. He wrote to tell me he didn’t know how to answer them.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that,” Leticia said slowly. “He said nothing to us about it. Or to Jenny.”

  “He felt Jenny was distressed enough over Harry. I don’t think Walter wants to go back into the field. I’m of two minds myself. I know they need good men, experienced men. But I don’t think Walter is emotionally prepared to resume his work. He told Jenny before the war that he’d spent too much of his life in places where he felt he’d done very little good.”

  “He was praised for his honesty,” Leticia said. “After the book came out, you know how people admired it. He gave the proceeds to his mission society, for good works.”

  “I imagine, in lieu of his physical presence in the field. You saw his book as a triumph. I saw it as an exorcism.”

  “That’s an odd choice of words,” Rutledge put in.

  Mary said, “I’ve always believed in the importance of mission work. I think a great deal of good can be done by setting an example. And the Alcock Society has been especially fortunate in the people they’ve sent into the field. But Walter was a missionary by default. Because his father gave him to the church, and because he was unsuited to parish work. I know,” she said, turning to Leticia, “that this is hard for you to hear. But if Walter comes through his present crisis alive and whole, it would be a travesty to send him back to Africa. Or China. You must see that.”

  Leticia replied, “I believe this is Walter’s decision to make.”

  “And he’s made it. By falling ill, he’s made it. What other reason can there be for him to vanish as he’s done? I tried to explain this to Jenny when I was in London. She doesn’t want him to go abroad again, of course she doesn’t, but I think she has this rather naïve belief that he’s a saint and she mustn’t stand in his way. He isn’t a saint. He’s bitter.”