The Red Door

by Charles Todd

  “I see nothing wrong with it,” Rutledge answered him. “A pity you weren’t out here working on the day she was attacked.”

  “Don’t you think I dream about it at night?”

  “If your wife hears of it, it will be on your head.”

  Cobb said, “If I had been here, she might still be alive. But that’s hindsight. I hear you found that walker. Was he the man?”

  “As it turned out, he was a witness and a very helpful one. He saw the motorcar by the hedge and the man who was driving it.”

  Cobb dusted his hands, nodding. “I knew it. Someone from his family, most likely, with an eye to the property.”

  “Someone from his family, yes, but I don’t think this property entered into it. I think he’d come to see her, and decide what to do about her. What I don’t know is whether or not she invited him in. It must have been a shock to her to see him there. She wouldn’t have known what to say.”

  Cobb stared up at the bedroom windows, as if he could see the answer written there on the glass. “She stopped looking for him—waiting, listening for the door—over a year ago. She told me he must be dead, but you could tell she hadn’t really started to believe even then. I think she expected some miracle, and then when it never happened, she lost hope. The logic in her head told her one thing, her heart something else.”

  “Was he good to her?”

  Cobb brought his gaze back to Rutledge. “It depends on how you define good, of course. She never wanted for anything—food on the table, wood for the fire in the winter, clothes to keep her warm. He never struck her or called her names. This was the place she wanted to live in and bring up her son. Just as she’d grown up here with her aunt. And he made no objection. Of course, if he’d asked her to go wherever his regiment was sent, she would have, just to be with him. No matter what the hardships were. But the truth is, he wasn’t here as often as he should have been. There’s the Army, I understand that, of course I do. But I’d have moved heaven and earth to come home if she’d been mine. I’d left the Army and found other work to do, digging ditches if I had to, anything to be near her.”

  “You knew her well,” Rutledge said quietly.

  “I loved her. And so I listened to her, and read between the lines sometimes. But she saw me as her friend. And I was scrupulous about keeping it that way. I’d have lost her, otherwise.”

  “I think you would have,” Rutledge said.

  He rubbed his forehead with his gloved hand and left behind a long streak of rich earth. “I was here when Timmy died. Not in the house. I meant, in Hobson. I thought she’d lose her mind. She stopped coming into town, stopped eating, stopped looking out for herself. But some of us saw to it that she had whatever she needed. Mrs. Greeley. Satterthwaite. Others People would bring her food, for fear she wasn’t cooking. I chopped wood that winter and piled it outside the kitchen door there, within reach even on the worst days, and kept it covered with a tarp. When she didn’t milk the cow, because it reminded her too much of feeding the boy those last days, I took it down to Mrs. Greeley to keep until she was ready to have it back. I’ve never seen so much grief as she felt.”

  “I saw the photograph of her son in her room.”

  “That was the only photograph she had. And I took that for her. She said that Teller never cared for pictures set about. But she was glad of it. You’d have thought Teller would have understood something like that.”

  “There was never a photograph of her husband? Not even a wedding picture?”

  “There was a small one of the wedding couple. She kept it safe somewhere, out of sight and out of mind.”

  With his letters very likely, Rutledge thought. And gone with them.

  Cobb took off his gloves and swatted at an insect busy about his ears. “I want to know. Have you found her killer? Don’t lie to me, I want to know. I can’t sleep nights, sometimes, thinking about everyone who knew her, anyone who could have done such a thing, and I need to know. I come into Hobson sometimes and look at the faces of people I meet on the street or in a shop or sitting next to me on a Sunday. And I think, could that be him? Or that one? My uncle tells me I’ll drive myself mad doing that, but it’s the only way I’ll have any peace, finding him before the police do.”

  “I can’t tell you how the inquiry is progressing. I will say that it’s possible that we know who it was.”

  “And the bird? He’s been no help? My mother-in-law told me you’d taken Jake. I was glad. I thought she might do it a mischief with its squawking so loud she couldn’t sleep. And Betsy wanted no part of it.”

  “The bird hasn’t said much. So far.” He hesitated, then said, “If you found something unusual—out of place—tell Satterthwaite, will you?”

  He left Cobb there and went into the house, walking through the empty rooms, listening to the sounds of his own footsteps in the silence. Hamish, in the back of his mind, was busy, but he could find nothing to trigger a sudden thought or offer a glimmer of light.

  Nothing had changed. He hadn’t expected it to.

  And that was the problem. Nothing had changed, he could see only what he had before. With the eyes of the past, not the present.

  He considered what to do about Cobb coming to tend the flowers, and decided he was doing no harm. And it gave him something to think about besides taking the head off whoever had killed Florence Teller.

  Without speaking to Cobb again, he left the house and drove back to Hobson.

  Rutledge and Satterthwaite ate their dinner together at a pub in Thielwald. The food was heavy, suitable for men who did physical labor, filling and satisfying. As Satterthwaite promised, the pudding was excellent, and as they were finishing it, he said to Rutledge, “You’re quiet.”

  “I was thinking about a birthday celebration. Tonight in Essex.”

  “Did you want to be there?”

  “I wasn’t invited. I just have a feeling that I shouldn’t have stayed over. I should have gone directly back to London.”

  “One day won’t matter.”

  Chapter 24

  Rutledge was putting his valise and a packet of sandwiches prepared by Mrs. Greeley into his motorcar, when Lawrence Cobb came down the High Street and nodded as he walked up to Mrs. Greeley’s door.

  It was then that Rutledge saw the left side of his face. There was an angry welt along his cheekbone. It was oozing a thin line of fluid and blood.

  Shutting the driver’s door, Rutledge said swiftly, “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. I’m leaving Betsy. I told her as much last night. That this marriage is a pretense and we’re both better off out of it. I came to see if Mrs. Greeley will give me a room for a few days, just until I can make arrangements.”

  “Why not stay with your uncle?”

  “He’s old. I don’t want him caught up in my troubles.”

  Rutledge said, “Work it out. Florence Teller is dead.”

  “Look, I’m tired. Working in Florence’s—Mrs. Teller’s garden yesterday I could see my way for the first time. I’m still mourning her. I will be for a very long while. It’s not fair to Betsy, it’s not fair to me, pretending I have deep feelings for her. We’ve no children. That’s a blessing. And so I’ve told her. I also told her that she could have the farm. I won’t send her back to her mother. They don’t get on.” He smiled grimly. “I should have waited until she’d set down the hot bread tray. The corner of it clipped me. She’s gone home to her mother. But she’ll be back. She likes the house. It will matter more than I do before very long.”

  He’d thought it all out, just as he said.

  But Rutledge persisted. “You’re doing to Betsy what Teller did to his wife.”

  “No. I married a Betsy who didn’t exist. The true woman is nothing like the one I courted. She’s not sweet and loving and caring. She’s like her mother, mean-spirited, discontented, selfish. The day after I married her, I knew it was a mistake. This has nothing to do with Florence. I was expecting to be happy. I really believed we coul
d be happy.” He shook his head. “You can’t make love happen when there are lies to start with.”

  Hamish said, “It willna’ do any guid. He’s made up his mind.”

  Rutledge silently acknowledged that. “I’m just leaving. Mrs. Greeley will be glad to offer you my room, I’m sure.”

  Cobb looked sharply at Rutledge. “You aren’t coming back. What about her killer?”

  “I’m going to take the killer into custody. I won’t be needing the room again.”

  Cobb thanked him and was about to turn away. Then he said, “What becomes of Jake? When you’ve made your arrest? I’m offering to take him. I can now. He sometimes speaks with her voice. It would be a comfort.”

  “Even when that voice says good night to her husband?”

  “That doesn’t matter to me. It’s her voice. Close enough. I’ll hear it again.”

  “I’ll see what can be done,” Rutledge promised, thinking that Frances would be delighted to hear that Jake had a permanent home.

  And with that, Lawrence Cobb opened the door to Mrs. Greeley’s house as Rutledge turned the bonnet of his motorcar toward the south.

  Chapter 25

  On his way into London, Rutledge made a detour to Chelsea, but the Channing house was quiet, the drapes still pulled across the windows, as they had been for days. The long golden rays of the setting sun touched them with brightness, but it was only a shallow reflection, not the lamplight he had hoped to see. He couldn’t bring himself to walk up to the door.

  She was in good hands, wherever she was. He could only wish her a speedy recovery. And time would see to that. He could still remember the shock of recognition as she lay there injured in the broken and twisted wreckage of her carriage. He’d been too busy then to deal with the image that was burned into his memory. Seeing her whole again would change that.

  “Aye,” Hamish said. “But she isna’ coming back to London straightaway. She was already leaving it, ye ken.”

  Analyzing his own feelings, he realized that the uppermost emotion that day had been fear. Fear that she was terribly injured. Not pity or compassion or anger at the waste of a life.

  He had been in love once. And it hadn’t worked out. Just as Lawrence Cobb had said. He’d seen the look on Jean’s face when she finally visited him in hospital and realized what he’d become. He had done the only thing he could do in that single appalling moment: he’d released her from her promise to marry him, so that he wouldn’t have to face her rejection. The relief on her face as he spoke the words had stayed with him long after her first horrified view of him sitting there, a broken man, had begun to fade.

  Once was enough. He said as much to Hamish, his voice sounding overly loud in the cacophony of traffic as he turned toward the Yard.

  Gibson greeted him with the news that Billy had killed again.

  “There’s been another murder. Of the same ilk. And this time Billy has cut his throat. The victim was on the bridge, walking, minding his own business. And he was robbed.”

  “How can you be sure it’s our friend Billy?”

  “The past week, we’ve had constables in street clothes walking over the bridge and along the river late at night, and we’ve been watching them with field glasses. But nothing happened.” He paused. “None of them looked like you from a distance. They were a different shape. Different height. And nothing happened to them. And then this poor sod was attacked.”

  “Billy was elsewhere. Or recognized them for policemen.”

  Gibson said, “We don’t think so. His victims are usually near the bridge. And out late at night. They could have passed for you, walking off a mood. You do that, you know.”

  Rutledge hadn’t realized that he was so predictable. “All right. Go on.”

  “You nearly caught him. He’s afraid of you. And he wants you dead, for luck.”

  It wasn’t unheard of.

  “He won’t come back tonight. Not with the police everywhere, looking for evidence.”

  “No, sir. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow night you’ll be on that bridge, and we’ll be watching you.”

  “Whose idea was this?” Rutledge asked, curious.

  “Inspector Mickelson, sir,” Gibson replied, his voice neutral. “But we have to catch him, sir. There’s no other way.”

  “Yes, I understand. All right. But only tomorrow night, Gibson. I must drive to Essex on Monday morning, unless Captain Teller returns to London sooner.”

  “I hope you’ll be taking someone into custody soon. Old Bowels is getting impatient.”

  “Bowles isn’t going to like it when we do. Peter Teller, Walter Teller’s elder brother, seems to be our man.”

  “My dear lord.” Gibson whistled softly. “I hope your evidence is rock solid. Or none of us will have any peace.”

  Rutledge left, intending to visit his sister. If Jake hadn’t said anything of importance—and he was not anticipating hearing that he had—then he would carry the bird back to Lancashire and give it to Lawrence Cobb.

  He caught Frances just returning from dinner with friends and hailed her as she was going inside. She turned and smiled at him.

  “Ian. Come in. I’ve had a lovely evening. What brings you here? Don’t tell me it’s Jake. I’ll be jealous.”

  He laughed. “I expected to find the lights on, Jake on the loose, and myself in bad odor for bringing him to you.”

  “He’s been a dear. I’ve tried to write down everything he says, but it’s mostly wishing her husband Peter a good night, or something ordinary. He says ‘My dearest wife’ in her voice, but I know it’s a letter he must have heard a hundred times. And ‘Shall we have tea, my dear?’ He always answers that with ‘What will Jake have?’ Hardly useful in a courtroom, I’m afraid.”

  “I didn’t expect an enlightening conversation with a murderer,” he said as Frances turned on the light in the small breakfast room and then lifted the covering from Jake’s cage.

  He was asleep, head tucked beneath his wing, but he looked at them, blinking the second lid on his eye, and said, “Shall we have tea, my dear?”

  “It’s not teatime, Jake. In the morning.”

  He began to swing, and Frances said, “I can see that he must have been wonderful company for a woman alone, but my maid is terrified of him and won’t come near him. He squawks at her, as if she’s an interloper. It’s either Jake or Nell. And I must choose Nell.”

  “There’s someone who wants him. If it works out, it will be the right choice for him.”

  “You look tired.”

  “Much on my mind.”

  “I’m sure. Well, go home, Ian, and let me go to bed.”

  He wished her a good night, and left.

  Sunday morning was misty and gray as Rutledge returned to the Yard early. There was a report to write and then preparations to be made for the night’s promenade along the river. He had debated asking for a weapon, to even the odds, and then thought better of it. Sitting in his office, staring out the window and listening to Big Ben chime the hour, Mickelson’s plan seemed workable. But Billy was becoming an accomplished killer now. And in the dark, many things could happen. What had driven the boy to this point in his life? Not that it mattered. He had crossed the boundary; he was going to hang when caught.

  Rutledge was just turning around to begin his report when Sergeant Gibson burst into the small office with only a cursory knock.

  “I think you’d better know, sir. We’ve just had a telephone call from Essex, sir. There’s been a death at Witch Hazel Farm. The Teller house.”

  “What happened?” Rutledge asked, getting to his feet. “When?”

  “Someone fell down the stairs. Just before breakfast. Chief Superintendent Bowles isn’t in, nor is Inspector Mickelson. I think, if you hurry, you can be on your way before they arrive. It’s still your inquiry, after all.”

  Rutledge reached for his hat. “It will take no more than fifteen minutes to pack a valise.”

  He was down the passa
ge and in the stairwell when he remembered the rendezvous with Billy. Mickelson could deal with it.

  Sunday morning traffic was light, and he made good time, going directly to the house at Witch Hazel Farm.

  The drive was crowded with vehicles, and he could see that the police from Waddington were there, already taking over from the constable in Repton. Dr. Fielding, the Tellers’ Essex physician, was standing by the door in the watery sunlight, an unlit pipe in his hands.

  He saw Rutledge pull up and hailed him. “Inspector. Good, you’ve come.”

  “I’ve had no briefing,” he told Fielding. “There wasn’t time.”

  “It’s Captain Teller. He tripped coming down the stairs this morning.”

  “Gentle God,” Rutledge said blankly. And then, “What can you tell me?”

  “It was a family weekend. Mrs. Jenny Teller’s birthday. There was a party on Friday, and my wife and I were invited. Rather a nice party, actually. I did notice that Captain Teller was drinking a little more than usual. But he carried it well, there was no disturbance. My wife and I left just before eleven, and that’s all I can tell you until the summons came this morning. Amy Teller called to say there had been an accident and to hurry. But by the time I got here, Captain Teller was dead. Amy Teller was the first to reach him. She said he was alive then. He spoke her name. She distinctly heard him say ‘Mee’ as she bent over him.”

  “Considering his injuries, was that possible?”

  “I should think so. I’ve examined him as best I can on the floor at the foot of the stairs. I’ll know more when I’ve got him in the surgery. If you want my best opinion at this time, I’d say his bad leg gave way, pitching him down the stairs. According to his brother Edwin, Peter has been avoiding using his cane of late. He may just have paid for his stubbornness with his life.”

  Rutledge thanked him and walked into the house.

  Captain Teller lay where he’d fallen, his body sprawled at the foot of the stairs, his bad leg still on the first step behind him. Just coming down the passage was a man of slender build with a pockmarked face.