The Red Door

by Charles Todd

  There was just room to kneel beside her. Rutledge said, “Miss? Can you hear me?”

  He wasn’t sure what it was that warned him. But just as she moved her head, crying out a little with the effort, he recognized her.

  It was Meredith Channing.

  She was dazed, her eyes not focusing right away, but then she saw him, and there was an intake of breath as her gaze sharpened.

  “Ian? Were you on the train as well? Are you all right?”

  “I came as soon as I heard—I was in London.”

  “But how did you know I was on board?” “I didn’t. I came to look for my godfather.”

  She tried to smile. “Is he all right?”

  “I haven’t found him yet,” he said, making an effort to keep the worry out of his voice. “How badly are you hurt?” He was afraid to touch her. But she had trained as a nurse and he waited for her assessment.

  “I don’t know. My shoulder—I think it must be broken. Or dislocated.”

  He could see blood on her stockings, and one shoe was missing. And there was a smear of blood across her cheek.

  The carriage swayed again.

  “I must get you out of here. It’s not safe.”

  “No, please, it hurts too much to move.”

  Glancing beyond her, he could just see a man’s legs. He got to his feet and leaned forward for a better look.

  The man was dead, there was no doubt of it, and suddenly he wondered if the two of them had been traveling together.

  He knelt again by her side. “You’re one of the lucky ones,” he said, trying to divert her. “There’s a man in one of the other carriages pinned where no one can get to him. And he’s bleeding. Can you move your feet?”

  She wiggled her toes. “They seem to be all right,” she said. “A little bruised from the tossing about. It’s my shoulder—my chest—that hurts.”

  “Your fingers now,” he told her. “Move them if you can.” But only her free hand could obey.

  “Are you dizzy? Did you hit your head on anything?”

  “I was knocked down and lost my hat. But I don’t think I hit my head. It was my shoulder that took the brunt of the fall.”

  He looked just beyond her at the hat that matched her coat. He reached for it, and at the same time the seat against which Mrs. Channing lay shifted with a grinding noise. The dead man beyond her moved as well, sliding away as she cried out.

  Rutledge sank back to his heels, reached again, and using just his fingers, he coaxed the hat toward him until it fell into his hand.

  “Not too much the worse for wear,” he said, putting it down beside her.

  “Ian. I know what the pain most likely represents. And moving is agony. I’d have sat up long ago if it weren’t for that. I can’t think how I’m going to get out of here.”

  He smiled. “Someone said a doctor was on his way.”

  The red-faced man was back, leaning into the carriage. He called, “Anyone there? Did you find her?”

  “Yes,” Rutledge said. “A woman, broken or dislocated shoulder. We need to get her out.”

  “I’ll find someone to help clear a way out of there.” He was gone again, and Meredith Channing said lightly, “A reprieve.”

  “Meredith. It will take some time to clear a path for you. It might be best not to wait. This carriage could be resting on what’s out there. It could be all that keeps it from sliding down onto its side. It’s already halfway there. Do you understand?”

  “I’ve been selfish. There are others who need help more than I do.” She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Do what you must. And don’t mind if I beg you. Don’t stop.”

  Someone stepped into the carriage at its far end, and it swayed again, dangerously. It was the red-faced man. “I’m afraid to move much closer in this direction.”

  “Stand by,” Rutledge told him, then to Meredith Channing said, “First you must sit up. I’ll help you brace that shoulder as best I can.” He took off his belt and with her assistance drew it across her body, bringing her bad arm close to her chest. She whimpered with the pain, biting her lip and clenching her hands.

  He didn’t want to think how much it must have hurt, but he managed to move her into a sitting position. Her face was pale with pain, her dark hair spilling out of its pins and falling over her shoulders. Giving her a few moments to collect herself and steady her breathing, he said, “Now you must stand.”

  “Do you see my shoe? If I’m to walk out of here—the splinters—”

  He looked around, and there was the shoe under the seat. He gave it to her, then took it back and put it on her bare foot himself, tying the laces.

  “All right. Let me help with your weight. Hold on to me with your good arm, and I’ll make it as painless as possible.”

  He tried, but she fainted before he could lift her to her feet. While she was unconscious, he carried her closer to the door of the next compartment and then through it.

  But the red-faced man wasn’t there. It was someone else saying sharply, “Here, what do you think you’re doing?”

  His shirt was torn and bloody, his trousers ripped to the knee, and blood dripped from a cut on his ear. “I’m a doctor,” he went on. “She may have internal injuries, broken ribs.”

  “It’s her shoulder,” Rutledge said, “either broken or dislocated.”

  “Let me see.” But as he stepped toward Rutledge, the car swayed again, the sound of metal rending and wood snapping. “Dear God! Is there anyone else in there?”

  “I saw a man. He’s dead.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  “I’m from Scotland Yard. Yes, I’m sure.”

  “All right, pass her to me. We can’t stand on ceremony now.”

  Rutledge did as he was told, lifting Meredith’s limp body through the outer door, barely on its hinges, and clear of the carriage. The sun touched Meredith’s face, and her eyelids fluttered. The doctor, bracing himself with the help of the red-faced man, took her from Rutledge and then, between them, lowered her safely to the ground.

  The doctor knelt and felt her shoulder. “You’re right. Dislocated. Let’s get her away from here. We’re collecting cases under that tree over there. Can you carry her that far?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then I’ll keep going and come back to you.”

  “Have you seen a man—with a young boy? I’ve come to find them—”

  “A good few men are all right. I haven’t seen a boy among them.” The doctor helped him lift Meredith Channing again, bracing her bad arm, and then disappeared into the carriage Rutledge had just left, to look at the man.

  Rutledge carried her to the area where the walking wounded were being collected, and someone there spread a blanket over the bruised grass for him to lay her on. He took off his coat, rolled it, and set it under her head. Then he remembered her hat. “Stay with her,” he said to the woman beside her, and jogged back to the train.

  The doctor was just coming out again. “You were right, he’s dead. Broke his neck from what I could see.”

  He wanted to ask the doctor if he had searched the man’s pockets for his identification. Instead he asked, “There’s a rose hat just behind you—and a small valise. The woman—”

  “Yes, they all worry about such things, ” he said testily but handed both out to Rutledge.

  When he reached the trees again, Meredith Channing was conscious, her eyes bright with unshed tears from the pain. As he put her things beside her, she offered him a bleak smile.

  “Ian,” she murmured. “I thought I’d imagined you.”

  “There was something I had to do,” he said, sitting down beside her, trying to judge whether she was comfortable enough to leave and continue his search.

  She shut her eyes again, frowning a little. “I must have fainted.”

  “Yes. A good thing.”

  She tried to nod and then thought better of it. After a moment she said, “Your friend. Did you find him?”

 
“My godfather. Not yet.”

  “Oh—yes—that’s right. I remember.” She opened her eyes. “Go and look. I’m all right.”

  But she still seemed a little dazed. “After a bit,” he said. “Now. Come back and tell me when you find him, will you? I shan’t be going anywhere, it seems.”

  He took her good hand and held it for a moment before letting it go.

  Walking swiftly away, he scanned the people working around the wrecked carriages. More had appeared now, from the village and from a distance as word spread. And three more bodies had been added to the makeshift morgue, but Trevor was not among them. He found himself thinking about the man just beyond where Meredith Channing had been lying. Tall, graying, distinguished . . .

  Hamish said, “It doesna’ signify. Leave it.”

  Clearing his mind of everything else, he started back up the line, leaning in to see who might still be in each carriage, sometimes helping rescuers bring out another injured passenger, sometimes unable to see beyond the upturned seats and collapsed ceilings. And always calling Trevor’s name to be sure.

  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.”

  Chapter 15

  After 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 l
ong 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.