The Red Door

by Charles Todd

  As the rector went up the stairs, Walter said, “It’s beginning. The flood of mourners. And each time I speak to them, her death becomes a little more real.”

  “You must have seen death many times in your work abroad.”

  Walter laughed without humor. “My first posting, I buried twelve people on my first day. A cholera epidemic. It was only the beginning. I should be accustomed to death. And then the war. I lost count of the number of men who died in my arms inside and outside the medical tents. Sometimes kneeling in the mud, sometimes watching shells scream over my head. Sometimes by a cot with bloody sheets, or in an ambulance, before the stretcher could even be lifted out. I was quite good at giving a dying man the comfort necessary to make the end easier. And all the while, I knew I was lying to them and to myself. I will say one thing for the King James version of the Bible, the words are sonorous and speak for themselves. All I had to do was remember my lines.”

  Rutledge thought about the curate reading from the Psalms for Florence Teller’s service. He had seemed to speak from the heart.

  “If those men were comforted, then it didn’t matter what you felt.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “There must have been rewarding moments in your mission work?”

  “That too was a sham,” he answered tersely.

  “But you spoke eloquently about fieldwork in your book. So I’m told.”

  “That was worse than a sham, it was a fraud. But it bought me time. And that’s all that mattered.”

  “Time for what?” Rutledge asked, but Teller ignored him.

  “You have no conception of what Africa is like. There was a tribe on the far side of the river. Which was hardly more than a stream that fed into the Niger. Still, it kept them from our throats. We only had to guard the crossing. But then their crops failed in the rain. My God, I’d never seen so much rain! And then it was gone, the soil baked nearly to brick in days. I’d been frugal—thrifty. So they came for our crops, pitiful as they were. And I abandoned my flock. I stood in the pulpit and exhorted them to put their faith in a merciful and compassionate God, knowing all the while they’d be slaughtered. And I’d be dead with them if I stayed—the foreign priest who had lured them away from the old worship. I can still see their eyes, you know—looking up at me, believing me, putting their trust, their lives in my promise, and the next morning I was packed and walking out before first light. I dream of their eyes sometimes. Not the poor slaughtered bodies.”

  Rutledge said nothing.

  As if driven, Walter went on.

  “And then there was Zanzibar. We’d had a disagreement with the bishop, and we thought we knew better how to deal with the Arabs. Better than he, surely? And instead we found ourselves charged with insubordination. Zanzibar is an island—have you ever been to a spice island? My God, pepper and mace and allspice, cloves and vanilla and nutmeg—you ride down a hot sunny stretch of road where they’re drying the cloves on bright cloths spread almost to your feet. Small brown spikes, thousands of them, like a carpet that moves with the wind. And vanilla pods—or tiny green seeds of pepper. Mace. That thin coating of a nutmeg is worth its weight in gold. Amazing place, and the sea so blue it hurts your eyes to look out across it. But the smell of slaves is there in the town as well. Misery and grief and pain and helpless anger. That’s Zanzibar as well.”

  Hamish said, “You mustna’ let him finish.”

  But Rutledge refused to halt the flow of this man’s confession. He could see how the soul of the man had been scoured to the bone.

  “In China we used the opium traders. They carried messages where no one else would, and sometimes were the only protection a traveling man of God had from bandits we found on the road. So we lived with the devil—quietly, mind you—while we preached that opium was evil and led to madness and death. Double standards, Rutledge. We preached and didn’t live a word that came out of our mouths. Sanctimonious, self-righteous prigs, that’s what we were, and I was ashamed of all of us in the end.”

  “Do you think you were the only missionary who felt that way?”

  “I hoped I was.” He laughed harshly. “I wasn’t like the rest of them. I had no calling, you see. I became what my father told me to become. And Peter hated the Army as much as I hated my own work. I’d have liked being a soldier, I think. But who knows? I might have hated that too.”

  Which, Hamish was remarking to Rutledge, explained why he had told Florence Marshall that he was a soldier. Living a lie because it made him feel better about his lack of choice in the matter, made him appear to be dashing and romantic in the eyes of a young woman who had never seen the world beyond where she lived. And yet, cowardly enough that he used his brother’s name, for fear his father would somehow learn of his rebellion.

  They could hear Mr. Stedley, the vicar, coming down the stairs.

  Teller shook himself, as if awakening from a reverie, as if he’d been talking more to himself than Rutledge.

  “She’s very peaceful,” Mr. Stedley said, coming into the room.

  “Yes.”

  “Is there any comfort I could offer you, Walter?”

  “Thank you, Rector, for coming. You might wish to speak to the rest of the family. We’ve been overwhelmed by events. I’ll be in touch about the service. I think Jenny would have liked you to conduct it.”

  “Yes, of course.” He looked from Teller to Rutledge and back again. “If you need me, you’ve only to send for me.”

  And he was gone. Walter Teller sighed. “Next it will be the police cornering me, asking questions. And then Mary will be at me again, or Leticia. And then my brother. I’d like to lock the door and pretend I’m not here.”

  Rutledge rose. “I’ve brought Timmy’s photograph from the cottage.”

  Walter Teller was very still. Then he said, “Perhaps his mother would have preferred to have it buried with her.”

  He lost his temper. “What did Timmy do? Fail his father by dying when it wasn’t convenient to come home and pray for him?”

  Teller’s face went so white Rutledge thought for an instant his heart had stopped. And then catching his breath almost on a gasp, he said only, “Peter would be grateful to you.”

  Rutledge went outside to walk off his anger. The rain had moved on, black clouds toward the east, the sky overhead still roiling as the weather fought for stability. He went to the other side of the house, unwilling to pass the roses, and instead crossed the lawn toward the little stream, swollen with rain and threatening to overflow into the grassy water meadows on either side. He could feel the soles of his boots sinking into the soft earth, and moved a little above the soaked banks.

  Jenny Teller was well out of it, he told himself. And then he found himself thinking that she would have managed, as she had done in London, whatever she had discovered about her husband’s past. She could have been married again to regularize her union, and she would have said nothing that would endanger her son’s future. Whether she could bear to live with Walter Teller again was another matter. He might have had to accept the Alcock Society’s next posting to the field until he and his wife could come to terms with the ghost of Florence Teller and her son, Timmy.

  Hamish said, “Perhaps that’s why she had to die?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Rutledge told him harshly.

  “Ye’re looking at black and white. It’s a man’s way of thinking, no’ a woman’s.”

  In the distance, he could hear someone calling his name. Looking up, he realized that Leticia Teller was trying to attract his attention.

  He turned back toward the house, and she waited by the French doors for him. When he was within hearing, she said, “There have been two telephone calls for you. One appears to be urgent. Scotland Yard.”

  He thanked her and took the message she was holding out to him.

  Inside, he looked at the first. From Inspector Jessup in Waddington, it read, “Mrs. Susannah Teller wishes to know when her husband’s body can be released f
or burial.”

  He called the police station and left a message for Jessup: At your earliest convenience.

  Murder, accident, or suicide—it didn’t matter. The police had no reason to hold Peter Teller’s remains any longer.

  Next he put in a call to the Yard. When Sergeant Gibson came to the telephone, Rutledge could hear the tension in his voice.

  “Sir? There have been developments. In the inquiry concerning Billy.”

  Bowles was growing restive.

  “Go on.”

  “Inspector Cummins took your place last night.”

  “I thought you told me that the constables had tried again, with no luck.”

  “That’s true, yes, sir. But Inspector Cummins decided he’d try his chances. Without notifying the Yard. He gave as good as he got, the Inspector did, but he’s in hospital, and they’re stitching him up.”

  “And Billy?”

  “Got away, sir. There was no one posted on either end of the bridge to stop him.”

  Rutledge swore under his breath. “All right. What does the Chief Superintendent want?”

  “You on the bridge tonight. He said to tell you that unless what you’re doing is a matter of life and death, you’re to be here. No later than nine this evening.”

  “I’ll be there. I’m coming from Essex.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rutledge put up the receiver, then stood there for a moment thinking.

  He asked himself how he would have viewed the death of Peter Teller and the death of Jenny Teller if he hadn’t known the background of events in Hobson. If he’d come here as Inspector Jessup had done with nothing to color his perspective but a man with a bad leg who’d had too much to drink and simply fallen down the stairs. Or a woman distressed by a death almost literally on her doorstep and very tired but unable to sleep, miscounting the drops from a bottle of medicine that she expected to give her some relief.

  Hamish said, “But ye ken, it isna’ sae simple!”

  Rutledge went to find Leticia.

  “I’ll have to leave for London later in the afternoon.”

  “There’s a cold luncheon in the dining room. I need to speak to you.”

  He followed her there, and as she filled a plate and handed it to him, she asked, “What did you say to Walter?”

  “What is it you think I said?” he asked.

  She shook her head irritably. “He’s gone up to his room and locked himself in. The dressing room door, as well. They’ve come to collect Jenny’s body. Shall I tell them to wait?” She began putting food on her own plate with scarcely a glance at what she was choosing.

  “Let them go ahead. What about Harry?”

  “Mary has decided it would be too upsetting for him to see his mother’s body. She’s staying with him at the rectory.”

  “If his father finds that acceptable, the police will have no objection.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you did.”

  He smiled. “What do you really want me to say, Miss Teller? Very well. The inquiry is closed in Hobson, with the arrest of Florence Teller’s killer. It was someone who knew her. And while the evidence was unequivocally pointing to your brother—Captain Teller—he was not the cause of her death.”

  He could hear the hiss of breath as she released it. “Then Peter was never guilty. Even though he died expecting to be arrested at any moment. Dear God. That breaks my heart.”

  “He couldn’t see how events unfolded after he’d driven away. Until we tried to account for certain missing items, nor could we. But we might have reached our conclusions earlier if there hadn’t been so many lies to cover up who Florence Teller really was.”

  “But I thought you knew,” she said forcefully. “She was Peter’s wife. The foolish mistake of a young man whose father refused to allow him to marry his cousin.”

  “I’m sure Florence Teller would be happy to hear she was only a foolish mistake.”

  Leticia had the grace to flush. “I wasn’t referring—”

  “Yes, you were. She’s been a thorn in the side of this family since you first learned of her. Did you believe your brother Walter left the Belvedere Clinic to travel to Hobson? Is that why you sent Peter there to find out what he could?”

  “Peter didn’t discuss his private affairs with us.”

  “Come now. I was told that he’d gone to Cambridge with Edwin. And that was a lie; he was in Hobson. Susannah told me about Lieutenant Burrows, and that was a lie. She knew the truth and was trying to help conceal it. But Jenny knew nothing.” He considered her for a moment. “What did you do, go through his papers looking for some clue to why Walter was ill and not responding? At a guess you found something that set off alarm bells. And you haven’t put it back, have you? Because I saw the file this morning, and it held only a will.”

  He could read the answer in her eyes. That was precisely what someone had done.

  “Was it your brother Edwin and his wife? The head of the family, with his strong sense of duty? Yes, I’m sure it was. The truth must have come as a shock. And so Peter—the real Peter Teller—was dispatched to Lancashire to see who this woman was, what she might want, and whether Walter was leaving Jenny for her.”

  She picked up her plate and put it on the tray for Mollie to collect. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch, Inspector. I’m afraid I have much to do.”

  Leticia walked out without looking back.

  Rutledge said to the empty room, “With Florence Teller dead, and Peter, and Jenny, the past is wiped out. Except for Harry . . .”

  Hamish answered him, “There’s the Captain’s wife.”

  Susannah, who refused to set foot in this house again.

  “But she’s loyal to the family.”

  “Was loyal.”

  It was a very good point. Could she be trusted to keep the secret? He went to the telephone and put in a call to the Yard. Sergeant Gibson listened to Rutledge’s request, then said, “It’s going to be difficult getting it past the Chief Superintendent, but I’ll see that a watch is set. You don’t care to explain why it’s needed?”

  Rutledge said, “Early days,” and let it go at that.

  Edwin Teller met him in the passage and said, “I should think the Yard would have no further business with the family. I’m told you’ve found your murderer. I’m glad. A pity Peter couldn’t hear that as well.”

  “Indeed,” Rutledge agreed. “I’m leaving this afternoon for London, there’s something there I must do. I’ll be back by tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t know why you should return at all.”

  “There are loose ends.”

  He was about to walk on when Edwin said, “Do you mean Susannah? Peter’s wife—widow?”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”

  “Look, I’m just concerned, I wanted to know if you’re expecting to speak to Susannah. She’s grieving, and in great distress. This was such an—no one can prepare for these things, can they? Peter should have lived to a great age, like my grandmother. Give her time to come to grips with her loss.”

  “Are you afraid she might decide, finally, to tell the truth? To clear her husband’s name?”

  “She hasn’t been told that he’s no longer under suspicion. I tried to telephone her just now, and Iris says she’s not taking calls. For God’s sake, let her alone.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement, shall I?”

  Leticia came out of the study. “Has anyone asked Walter if he’d like a tray? Edwin, try to persuade Gran to eat something. She says she doesn’t care for Mollie’s cooking, that Jenny knew what she liked.”

  “I’ll try.” Edwin excused himself and walked off.

  Leticia said, “I’ll see to Walter then. He ought to have something.” Rutledge, looking after her as she went up the stairs, decided to start out for London. He could hear her now knocking on Teller’s door and calling to him. Turning away, he found his hat and left the house. The constable nodded to him.

&nb
sp; “I have to return to London. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Tell Inspector Jessup I’ll give him a clear answer then.”

  The constable came forward to crank the motorcar for him. And then he was on the road. Clearing his mind of everything else, he concentrated on Billy and what might be waiting for him on Westminster Bridge.

  Chapter 31

  Rutledge made good time to London and went to his sister’s house before reporting to the Yard.

  She was surprised to see him, saying as he walked through the door, “Are you coming for Jake?”

  “Not yet. How is he?”

  “I don’t want him to grow more attached to me than he is,” she said. “He likes to sit on my shoulder and walk around the house. I dare not take him outside, for fear he’ll fly away. But he wants to go to every window and look out, then he searches for roses.”

  “His owner grew them. Bring a few inside. That might cheer him up.”

  “A very good idea.”

  “Any news of Meredith Channing?”

  “I haven’t seen her since she returned to London. But I’m told she’s back and feeling much better. Oh, speaking of injuries and recoveries, did you hear that Chief Inspector Cummins was viciously attacked last night? I ran into his sister coming from the hotel in Marin Street. She was sent for. He was badly hurt, loss of blood, stitches. I hope they find whoever did such a vile thing.”

  “I’m sure the Yard has every possible man searching.”

  “What brought you here, if it wasn’t Jake?” she asked.

  He smiled. “No further word from Scotland?”

  “All’s well. Ian had his pick of the pups. He’s excited because Fiona is allowing him to sleep with it. I don’t think there’s any lasting harm from the horror of the train crash.”

  “The resilience of youth.”

  Leaving, he trolled the streets toward St. Paul’s, looking for Charlie Hood. But there was no sign of the man. Another loop, he thought, and then, six blocks from the cathedral, he spotted Hood.

  This time Rutledge caught up with him and called, “Hood?”