by Charles Todd
Mary said with interest, “You’ve worked out all the details. But what if they aren’t true? What if it’s all circumstantial evidence? It could be, you know. I’ve known Peter for a good many years. I can’t believe he would have married someone else when he was so devoted to Susannah. That’s the human evidence, Mr. Rutledge. However beautiful or exotic or wealthy or socially prominent this woman was, he was waiting to marry Susannah.”
“She was none of those things.”
“And that may be the key. An opportunist. Perhaps he met her on a walking tour. And there was a child. He might have had no choice but to marry her. But this child,” Leticia added. “He’s older than Harry? Or was he never born, because he didn’t exist? What’s become of him?”
“He was the elder. He’s dead.”
“Well, then,” she countered, “if the child is dead, there was no longer a tie. He would have divorced the woman as soon as he uncovered her lie.”
“We have it on good authority that he was still involved with Florence Teller until the war. I don’t think he could make up his mind.”
Mary said, “I’m glad I stayed. This is nonsense, but it will upset Jenny no end. She’s very fond of Peter and Susannah.” She turned to Leticia. “We’re all invited to the farm, to celebrate Jenny’s birthday on Friday. It’s going to be a very uncomfortable state of affairs.”
“I must contact our solicitor. The time to stop this ridiculous business is now, before the police act on what they consider their ‘evidence.’ Thank you for your information, Inspector. I hope you will come to your senses and realize that you are about to take a step that will seriously jeopardize your career. I suggest you look into the background of this woman. The solution to her murder is there. Not with my family.”
He accepted his dismissal. There was other information he needed to collect now. A. P. Repton for one. That would explain why Florence Teller had never tried to contact Peter through the Army or at his London house at the war’s end.
Rutledge stopped in Cambridge and asked the porter at King’s for information about one Benjamin Larkin.
The porter looked him up and down. “And who might be inquiring about one of our young gentlemen, sir?”
“Rutledge, Scotland Yard.” Rutledge produced his identification, and the porter scanned it closely.
Then, satisfied, he said, “He’s one of our brighter lads. Never been in trouble. Comes of a good family. I’ve seen his father visit a time or two. A doctor, I’m told.” He hesitated. “And what’s he done, if I may ask, to draw the attention of the Yard?”
“He’s helping us with an inquiry.”
“I would expect no less of him. Very fine young lad, is Larkin.” Rutledge digested this as he drove west and then south toward Dorset.
He found Sedley in the middle of the county, a village with houses directly on the road, some of them whitewashed, others of local stone. There was a small but handsome church, a pub, and a green where geese swam in the warm waters of a shallow pond. In the pub, he paused for a late lunch and information.
“Mistletoe Cottage,” the man who brought his meal repeated. “It’s just on your left as you go out of Sedley.”
“Does A. P. Repton still live there?”
“A. P.—oh you’ll be meaning Alice Preston. Not Repton. She died in the summer of 1918 and is buried along there in the churchyard. A strange old bird. She came into money some years ago and told Rector she had only to receive and mail letters to earn it. Rector thought she was going dotty, but she traveled to Shaftesbury every week on the baker’s cart, to the post office there. Faithfully, rain or shine. If you want the truth, I expect she was just having us on.”
“What else did she do? To earn this windfall?”
“That was it.”
Then how did this woman in Dorset come to know Peter Teller?
“Did she have a son or nephew in the Army, by any chance?”
“Not that any of us knew about,” the man told him.
“What did she do with her free time? When not traveling to the post office?”
“She knitted for a missionary society. She’d collect odd bits of yarn around the village, and then she’d make these scarves and gloves and hats for children in faraway places. Quite colorful, some of them. She said foreign children liked bright colors.”
“Which mission society, do you know?”
“One in Oxford, I think it was.”
“Not Kent?”
“No, I’m sure it was Oxford. They have missions amongst the Eskimos.”
A dead end. Circumstantial evidence with no way to learn if she was the same woman the postmistress had described. Likely, yes, but that was as far as it went. All the same, when he’d finished his lunch, Rutledge went to Shaftesbury and inquired at the post office there. But all the postmistress could tell him was that Miss Preston sent and received letters sporadically, although she didn’t recall the name Peter Teller. “I remember her only because she was eccentric,” she told him apologetically.
And then, just as Rutledge reached the post office door, the postmistress said, “Oh—there’s something else. Alice told me once she was nursery maid in the household of Evelyn Darley. My mother remembered Evelyn and her twin sister when they came out. She said they were the prettiest girls she’s ever seen. I asked Alice if it was true, and she said it was.”
Rutledge stared at her in disbelief, then smiled and thanked her.
This was the connection he’d hoped for and very nearly missed.
Evelyn Darley’s twin sister was Gran, the Teller grandmother.
Peter Teller had paid Alice Preston, onetime nursery maid to his great-aunt Evelyn, long since retired to Sedley, in Dorset, to act as go-between, so that Florence Teller never wrote directly to him through his regiment. And his letters back to her never gave away whether he was on leave or with the Army. He’d told her, according to the post-mistress in Thielwald, that it was the safest, surest way to reach him.
And when Alice Preston died in the summer of 1918, Peter let this only link to Florence die with her.
Lieutenant Teller never came home from the war.
Rutledge went to find a telephone.
He could just see the mellow stone of the church from where he was standing in the hotel lounge, asking to be connected to the Yard. When Gibson was brought to the telephone, Rutledge asked if there was any more news about one Lieutenant Burrows, whom Susannah Teller had told him about.
“It’s true enough, he was killed in the war. The only son. Widowed mother lives in Worcester, off the Milton Road. The family’s well connected, Army and politics. I’ve also had the Army looking for another Peter Teller. They move like treacle, but they searched the regimental records where our Captain Teller served, and he’s the only one of that name they could find, going back a generation.”
“Any reason to believe that a widow turning up would distress the Burrows family?”
“That’s the interesting bit, sir. The lieutenant married on his last leave and leaves a widow. No children. She has married again and now lives in Scotland.”
Hamish said, “It wouldna’ signify. Yon lass didna’ ken how to find her husband’s family.”
But Rutledge was prepared for anything. He thanked Gibson and put up the receiver.
No stone unturned . . .
Hamish said again, “It doesna’ signify.”
“It was important enough for Susannah Teller to bring it to my attention.”
“Aye, with lies. To throw you off the track of her ain husband.”
He drove on toward Worcester, tired now and ready to end the game of chase he’d been playing. But it was the last of the outstanding questions, and when it came to trial, Rutledge preferred not to leave anything to chance.
The house where the Burrows family lived was on the southern outskirts of Worcester, with a river view. It was a large and comfortable estate set back from the road. The house was of the same stone as the famous cathedral, with a porti
co and white pillars leading up two steps to the door. A fountain featuring a statue of Neptune, a conch held to his lips, and water horses at each corner spouting streams of water formed the centerpiece of the circular drive. From the age of the fountain, Rutledge thought it might have been shipped home from a Grand Tour a generation ago.
Wisteria climbed the wall of one wing of the house, and an old climbing rose set off the stonework on the opposite side.
When Rutledge lifted the knocker, he could hear the sound echoing through the house, and expected to find it was empty for the summer. But a maid in crisp black came to answer his summons, and he asked to speak to Mrs. Burrows.
She wanted to know his business, and he identified himself.
After a time she came back and escorted him to a sitting room overlooking a shrubbery, where a woman of perhaps sixty-five waited to greet him. Her graying hair was put up in the older style, and her clothing was rather old-fashioned as well. But her blue eyes were alert and wary.
“What brings the Yard to my door?” she asked, after asking him to sit down.
“A wild-goose chase, at a guess,” he said, smiling. “Your son Thomas was, I’m told, lost in the war.”
“Yes. Such a promising future lost with him as well. It was a pity. Does this have to do with Thomas? I can’t think why!”
“I understand that his widow has remarried and lives in Scotland.”
“Yes, Elizabeth was the sweetest girl. A perfect match. My husband and I were terribly pleased.”
“Can you tell me where your son might have been in 1902? I’m sorry, I can’t give you the month. Summer, I should think.”
“Of 1902?” She smiled. “That’s very easy to do. He contracted rheumatic fever and nearly died. It was something of a miracle that he lived. We had him with us for almost fifteen more years. The doctor warned us there might be lasting effects, but thank God, he sprang back to health with the vigor of youth and was chafing at the bit to rejoin his regiment.”
“Did he walk as a way of recovering his strength? For instance, in Lancashire, which isn’t as demanding as the Lake Country or Derbyshire. Or perhaps he took the sea air in Morecambe?”
“I don’t believe anyone in this family has ever been to Morecambe? I’m beginning to think you must have the wrong Burrows, Inspector.”
“We’re trying to find anyone who might have been in that vicinity in 1902 and into 1903.”
“It couldn’t have been our Thomas. He was very ill for weeks, and then there were weeks of recovery after that. Walking tours would have been impossible.” She frowned. “I’ve always had the feeling that Thomas knew he was living on borrowed time. He grasped life with such eagerness after that. I was surprised his regiment allowed him to sail with them for India. But of course the long sea journey was good for him.”
Rutledge hadn’t intended to name names, but he could see no other choice.
“Do you perhaps know Peter Teller, who was in your son’s regiment?”
“Yes, we met him at a regimental affair. Quite a handsome young man in his dress uniform, and his wife was charming. Susannah? Was that her name? Imagine remembering it after all these years. But I couldn’t help but think watching her that I hoped Thomas would find someone just as loving. I heard from friends that Captain Teller was severely wounded and is still recovering. Is there better news now?”
“He’s walking again,” Rutledge told her, “though still with great difficulty.”
“I’m glad. Thomas admired him so. I must say that if my son had to emulate anyone, Peter Teller was as fine a choice as I could wish for.”
Susannah Teller had been right about the imitation, then. But either she’d forgotten or didn’t know about Thomas Burrows’s illness.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he’d ha’ put it behind him. It was no’ something to bring up.”
And that was true. Stiff upper lip and all that for a young subaltern just learning to fit in.
Rutledge took his leave, thanking her for her help.
“But I’ve given you very little,” she said. “I hope your inquiry prospers.”
In the motorcar once more, Rutledge said as he let out the clutch, “I don’t think Susannah Teller expected her story to collapse so quickly.”
“Aye. That’s verra’ likely. But she’s afraid her husband is a murderer.”
“And she may be right.” He took a deep breath. “It’s time to go to Hobson. Constable Satterthwaite and his superiors have the right to know where we’re looking, and what the evidence is.”
“He will be verra’ angry,” Hamish warned. “It was a cruel thing to do to such a lass.”
He stayed the night in Cheshire and drove the rest of the way to Hobson just after first light.
The village was awake and the shops busy when he got there. Constable Satterthwaite was pleased to see him, standing in the police station doorway with a packet of tea biscuits in his hand and smiling.
“Did you learn anything more about Larkin?”
“I went to his college in Cambridge. The porter there vouched for him. Meanwhile, I’ve been searching for the real Peter Teller. Not the man you thought you knew. That man never existed.”
“I met him—we saw him time and again here in Hobson,” the constable argued. “He wasn’t a figment of her imagination. Or ours. Besides, there’s the boy.”
“He was someone else. There’s much to tell you,” Rutledge said, taking the chair across the desk, as they reached the office.
“The man in London, then,” Satterthwaite said with resignation.
Rutledge proceeded to outline what he had learned so far, and how he believed it all fit together. Satterthwaite listened in silence, but his face reddened as the evidence against Peter Teller mounted.
“Why did he have to kill her, then?” he asked finally. “She thought he was dead. It was finished.”
“I don’t know. Yet,” Rutledge admitted.
“Damn the man!” he said heavily, and then to Rutledge, “I’m sorry, sir, but you weren’t here, I was. I’d like very much to watch him hang for what he’s done. Not just the murder, you understand, although that was bad enough. But for her empty life, for not being there when Timmy died and she was half out of her mind with grief, wanting to bury him at the farm, and not in the churchyard. We had all we could do to convince her to let us take him away. She wanted him there, where she could see him every day.”
Rutledge was reminded of Mr. Cobb, who spoke to the memorial to his sons, every morning and every evening. He could understand her need.
Satterthwaite got up and paced the floor, his feet heavy on the boards as he traced the same line back and forth, back and forth.
Then he stopped and looked at Rutledge. “It all fits together. I must say it does. But in spite of what I feel about the bastard—begging your pardon, sir—it’s hard to believe, isn’t it? That someone could be that cruel? I never got to know Teller well, of course, but I wouldn’t have put him down as that cold-blooded. Selfish, yes, he was that.” He shook his head. “It’ull take a little getting used to. You’ll bring him back to Hobson to face charges?”
“Yes. On Monday.”
“I’d like to be with you when you take him to Thielwald.”
“I’ll see that it’s arranged.”
“Thank you, sir. And thank you for telling me. It means more than I can say. I’ll keep it to myself until you bring the man here.” He cleared his throat. “Will you be staying the night?”
“I might as well. And get an early start tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Greeley will be that pleased to see you. She was asking only yesterday if there was word of Jake.”
“He’s with my sister,” Rutledge told him. “In good hands.”
Satterthwaite nodded.
Rutledge went back to Sunrise Cottage in the late afternoon. He couldn’t have said why he was drawn there. Satterthwaite offered to go with him, but Rutledge thanked him and shook his head.
The day was fair,
with a stiff breeze that cooled the air and made it feel more like early spring than June. Fat lambs followed slow-grazing ewes in the pastures along the road.
As he drove, he asked himself again, as he had on the journey to Lancashire, what had become of the cane’s head? It was the last piece of crucial evidence, and he wanted very badly to find it.
If it had been taken away and dropped from a bridge, as Satterthwaite had suggested, it would never come to light. Which meant that the rest of the evidence against Peter Teller had to be damning.
“He’ll have a verra’ good defense,” Hamish agreed.
The house was just ahead, first the roof and then the hedge coming into sight on its knoll. He left the motorcar on the road and walked through the gate, intending to dig around in the flower beds with his fingers, to see if the cane’s knob was there. It was hopeless, he knew that very well, but he had to try.
But someone had watered the plants, and pulled out any weeds that would mar their appearance. He bent down to touch a leaf.
It was still wet.
Instead of opening the door, he went out the gate again and walked around the house to the gardens by the kitchen door.
The man squatting beside one of the beds leapt to his feet with surprise as Rutledge suddenly appeared, braced for anything that might come at him.
It was Lawrence Cobb, his trousers stained from working the earth and pulling weeds. A pile of wilting debris lay on the grassy path next to his boots.
“Oh—it’s only you, then,” Cobb said in relief. “I’ve come here to keep the gardens for her. Until someone knows what’s to happen to this place. It’s the least I can do. Her flowers shouldn’t die too.”
Rutledge could read the unspoken words in his eyes—and it brings her closer, as if she were still alive and somewhere inside.