The Red Door

by Charles Todd

  “Good Samaritan,” the constable retorted as he worked. “We’ll need help straightaway, sir. This looks bad.”

  Billy said nothing, standing there pale in the torch beams, looking down at Hood. Then he burst out with, “What did you want to go and do that for? Now look at what’s happened.”

  Hood cleared his throat, and they could all see flecks of blood like black freckles on his lips. “I didn’t expect to see you again quite so soon,” he said to Rutledge.

  “What were you doing here?” Rutledge asked again.

  “My son, man. This is my son,” Hood replied haltingly.

  They looked nothing alike. As Rutledge glanced from Hood’s face to Billy’s, he could find no resemblance at all. And then in a quirk of the light as Billy turned to him, fright replacing his belligerence, he caught a similarity in expression around the eyes.

  He’d seen Billy only once before, and then only fleetingly. Yet he had managed to register that expression as Billy had tried to plead his innocence to another constable, and it had stayed with him. And Charlie Hood had triggered that memory.

  Hood was leaning back in the constable’s arms now, his face pale, his mouth a tight line of pain.

  “It’s my fault,” he whispered, smiling with an effort. “I should have been in time. Long before this.”

  They were trying to lead Billy away, but he was fighting to stay with the man on the ground. A flash of lightning illuminated all their faces briefly in a shock of white light, and then they were blinded in the aftermath of blackness. Thunder rolled, and the breeze had become a wind tearing at their clothing and pulling at their hair.

  Someone had come with a motorcar, and there was an effort to get Hood in the back before the rain fell. Already the first heavy drops accompanied the thunder just overhead, and Big Ben striking the quarter hour sounded muffled.

  Mickelson said out of the darkness, “We couldn’t see. There was a third person, and so we weren’t sure.”

  Rutledge ignored him. He went to the motorcar as the rain fell and leaned in to speak to Hood. The man was breathing with some difficulty, and pain had set in. His clenched fist beat against the seat in rhythm with the throbbing.

  “Why were you hunting him?” Rutledge asked urgently, bending over Hood.

  “His mother and I separated years ago. I didn’t know he was in trouble. I’d been working in the north. When I heard, I started looking. I nearly caught up with him the day Bynum was killed. Too late to save him. He needed a father’s hand. I wasn’t there. The men she lived with were bad for him. I didn’t know. Criminal records.”

  “Why did he want to kill me?”

  “I think—you got in his way. He never liked being thwarted. He tried to kill me once, when he was twelve. I made him return a stolen bicycle.”

  “Sir?” a constable said, and Rutledge pulled away. The motorcar gathered speed as it turned back the way it had come.

  Billy too was gone, in custody.

  A constable had stayed with Rutledge, rain cascading off his helmet and onto his cape. “Sir?” he said again.

  “Yes, very well.” And Rutledge turned with him toward the Yard. He realized he was wet to the skin and cold.

  Mickelson had disappeared.

  The constable said, “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I’m fine,” he said shortly, and the constable was wise enough not to say more.

  In truth he was not fine. Tired, hurting, and angry enough to take on Mickelson and Billy at the same time, he set the pace, stride for stride with the constable.

  When they reached the Yard, the constable—he realized in the light above the door that it was Miller—said, “He held us back, sir. He said he couldn’t see who was with you. The other man confused him. He said.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rutledge told him.

  “I think it does, sir.”

  But Rutledge refused to be led into answering. He went to his office and sat there for some time in the dark, watching the storm move downriver, thinking about Billy and the man who had called him Will.

  After an hour had passed, and then most of another, Rutledge stood up and walked to the door.

  Chief Superintendent Bowles had not come to find him. Not to apologize for Inspector Mickelson’s disregard for orders or to congratulate Rutledge on his role in capturing the killer the newspapers had begun to call the Bridge Murderer.

  He drove to his flat, bathed, and changed to dry clothes, then slept for two hours. When he woke, his face on one side was bruised, his knee ached, but on the whole no damage had been done.

  He stopped at the Yard to ask the night duty sergeant for news of Hood and was told that the hospital reported he was holding his own.

  “And there’s a message as well from Inspector Cummins, sir.”

  He handed it to Rutledge.

  The single word Thanks was written in a bold script he recognized.

  Nodding to the sergeant, he left and drove to Essex.

  It was very early. The storm over London hadn’t cleared the air here. The clouds were heavy, the rain dismal, and he had had no breakfast

  Hamish said, “It willna’ improve your mood.”

  He waited in a lay-by until eight o’clock, and then drove the short distance to Witch Hazel Farm. He found Edwin standing in the doorway, looking out at the weather.

  “It doesn’t appear that this rain will stop,” Edwin called as Rutledge got out of the motorcar. “Good God, man, what happened to your face?”

  “An altercation with a belligerent prisoner,” Rutledge said.

  “Peter’s funeral is today. Did you know?”

  “I spoke to Mrs. Teller yesterday in London. She told me.”

  They walked indoors, and Edwin said, “What about Jenny? Can we go ahead there as well? I think it’s not in Walter’s best interests to go on brooding. We’ve hardly clapped eyes on him. He stays in his room. Leticia has been taking up his meals.”

  “I see no reason not to release the body,” Rutledge said. “I’ve decided to agree with Inspector Jessup for now that these were accidents. I have found no evidence that they weren’t.”

  “I don’t see how anyone would gain by their deaths. Financially or otherwise.”

  Rutledge said, “It has nothing to do with money. What concerned me was the fact that your brother is no longer alive to deny he was married to Florence Marshall. And Jenny Teller is no longer alive to be hurt should the legitimacy of her marriage be questioned.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “No. I’m sure none of you did when first you embarked on this venture.”

  Edwin said, “As I was about to say, I don’t think justice would be served by pursuing this.”

  Rutledge entered the study to find the family collected there, save for Walter. They looked tired, dispirited, and isolated in their own thoughts.

  Mary said, “The funeral is at two o’clock this afternoon. Did Edwin tell you?”

  He thanked her, and asked after Harry.

  “He’s bearing up well enough. The rector’s son gave him a puppy. I don’t know what Walter will say to that—he never cared for pets—but it has taken Harry’s mind off death.”

  Rutledge was reminded of another small boy rewarded by a puppy from the litter in the barn.

  Leticia said, “Did you speak to Susannah, Inspector? Is she coming?”

  “I expect to see her,” he said.

  She started out of the room. “I’ll see that her bed is made up.”

  Rutledge had the feeling that his very presence dampened the conversation. He followed Leticia out into the passage. “I don’t believe she’ll stay here,” he told her.

  “Well. Her choice, of course.”

  He went to the nanny’s room that had been Jenny’s sanctuary and sat there until it was time to come down for the service. It was a quiet room, serene and seemingly distant from the tense atmosphere of the study, and from its windows, Rutledge could count the motorcars and carriages arriving
for the funeral.

  He made a point of attending. The church was larger by far than the one in Hobson. He watched the mourners gather and listened to a well-meant eulogy by Mr. Stedley, extolling the Captain’s bravery, his sense of duty to God and country, and his love for his family.

  And then Peter Teller was buried in rain that pattered softly on the cluster of umbrellas struggling vainly to keep the mourners as dry as possible. But the earth that was to be sprinkled into the grave struck the coffin in muddy clumps, and he saw Susannah Teller wince at the sound.

  She had held up remarkably well, greeting the guests with quiet dignity, her face nearly invisible behind the long silk veil of mourning, her feelings hidden as well. But he heard her voice tremble once or twice.

  Afterward, the guests returned to Witch Hazel Farm for the funeral repast.

  Mollie and her cohorts had done their best, and the family stood about in the drawing room and the dining room, making the right remarks and responding to questions that must have galled them.

  Rutledge watched Susannah Teller, with Edwin at her side, as she greeted each guest and thanked them for coming.

  When the last of the mourners had left, Edwin went straight to the drinks table in the study, pouring himself a whisky. He held it out to his wife, but Amy shook her head, asking for a sherry.

  He brought her a glass, then turned to Rutledge.

  “Nothing. Thanks.”

  Edwin sat on the small settee and said, “God.” He looked tired and drained.

  “It was a nice service,” Amy said. “Everything considered. A few gawkers, there out of curiosity. Three fellow officers and their wives came. Someone who’d known Peter in school. Three women who were widows of men who served under him in the war. One of them had the handsomest boy with her. Thirteen, at a guess. She said he was the image of his father, and you could hear the grief of his loss still there in her voice. I can’t remember who else. Oh—someone who had served in the field with Walter. He must have been close to eighty but was spry as a man ten years younger. I think that pleased Walter. At least he seemed happy to see the man. A good number of people from the village, as you’d expect. Most of them remembered Peter as a boy. I think Susannah was quite touched.”

  “Where is she?” Edwin asked.

  “She left fifteen minutes ago. Leticia told me. She stood up very well, didn’t she?” Amy went on. “Women generally do. It’s expected of them not to make a fuss. I remember Walter telling us that somewhere he was sent, the women beat their breasts and tore at their hair while making the most haunting noise. An ululation, he called it. He said it made him shiver.”

  “Did Inspector Jessup come?”

  “No. His wife was there. She said he’d been called away.”

  Leticia came in. “Mr. Rutledge. There is tea in the dining room, and sandwiches. Please help yourself.”

  He thanked her and went to find Mary sitting at the table, crumbling bits of bread from her sandwich into little pills on her plate.

  He poured himself a cup of tea, then took sandwiches from the platters set out on the buffet. “May I join you?” he asked before sitting down.

  “Yes, please do,” she answered, whether she was pleased to see him there or not.

  “Mrs. Teller felt that the service went well.”

  “Yes, I’m glad. And there’s still Jenny’s funeral to get through. Today I wished myself anywhere but there. Still, one has to support the family. As they’ve supported me.” She got up and set her plate on the small table already piled with used dishes. “I’ll come in later and help Mollie with these,” she said. Then after hesitating, as if of two minds what to do, she came back and sat down. “Have you seen Walter? He was here for a bit, and then I looked for him and he was gone. I thought he might have retreated to the study.”

  “I was there. I haven’t seen him.”

  “Then he’s in his room,” she said, nodding. “Did he kill Jenny?” Surprised, Rutledge countered, “There’s no real proof. Why should he wish to see her dead?”

  “Well, that’s what we’ve all been waiting for, isn’t it, these past few days?” she said bitterly. “Proof one way or the other. About Walter’s illness. About Peter. About that death in Lancashire. Then about Peter again, and now about Jenny. The other shoe dropping.” She turned away. “Do you have any idea what the tension has been like, since Walter first took ill? I went through his study, trying to find out who to contact in the Alcock Society, I thought someone might come and speak to Walter at the Belvedere. I was foolish enough to believe he was worried about going back into the field and they might set his mind at rest. Imagine my shock when I learned about his other life. And all the time—it was Edwin who suggested that Florence Teller might have been here in London and Walter happened to see her. But of course she wasn’t, as it turned out. So we will never know, will we, why he was ill?”

  Rutledge said, “It doesn’t matter now what made him ill.”

  “Yes, it does, because he still has to come to terms with it and choose. I think it has to do with Harry, with Walter’s insistence that the boy be sent away to school. It was as if he didn’t want him anymore. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. And then he recanted on Harrow, telling Jenny it would be all right to wait a few years. But now, this morning, he told me he thought it would be best for Harry to go after all, because he’s motherless. I’d already promised to take him and look after him for a bit, but Walter is adamant. Harrow it is to be. I knew Walter long before Jenny met him. As a brother-in-law, he was kind and thoughtful and always willing to help me with the house where Jenny and I grew up. I couldn’t have asked for better. And I could share Harry with them—they were always asking if I’d take him for a night or for a few days. I really care for the boy, I’d do anything to protect him. But I’ve begun to realize that Walter uses people. Not wittingly, purposely, but most certainly conveniently. I’ve even begun to wonder if he married Jenny to have a son again, to replace that dead one. He’s capable of it, you know.”

  Her bluntness was almost brutal. And he found himself thinking that Mary had understood what was behind the two marriages better than anyone else, because she was so alone herself.

  “I don’t know, Miss Brittingham, what to say. But you may be right. As to what he intends to do, there’s no impediment. Walter Teller can do as he pleases. I’ve every intention of closing the inquiries here, and asking the inquests to bring in a verdict of accidental death in both cases.”

  Before she could answer, Amy came to the door. “Inspector, Inspector Jessup is here. He wants to speak to you urgently.” She turned to Mary. “Have you seen Walter? And what’s become of Gran?”

  “He must be in his room,” Mary said. “I don’t have the energy to go and see. Mr. Rutledge tells me he wasn’t in the study. Your grandmother is lying down. Leticia settled her half an hour ago.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go and look for him.”

  Amy closed the door again. Mary rose and said, “Needs must. I ought to join the others, whether I feel like it or not. I’m a guest, now that Jenny’s gone. And so I must fit in with the wishes of others.”

  She went out of the room, and Rutledge followed her, in search of Jessup.

  He was pacing the hall. When Rutledge came down the passage, he turned and said, “There’s been an accident. Can you come at once?”

  Rutledge followed him out to the waiting motorcar. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “It’s Mrs. Teller. Captain Teller’s widow. She left here, I’m told with the last of the mourners, intending to drive to London. She’s had an accident.”

  “Is she dead?” he asked, remembering the warning he’d given her.

  “No. Badly bruised. And she wants to see you. She won’t let us fetch a doctor to her until she does.”

  They drove on in silence, through the gray evening, and shortly after the intersection where the Repton Road and the one to Waddington met the trunk road to London they found Captain Teller
’s black Rolls touring car with the bonnet having run up into an ancient hedgerow topped by a wooden fence that lead into a pasture. He was out of the Inspector’s vehicle before it had come to a halt and was striding to where Susannah Teller was sitting in the rain, the veil she had pulled to the back of her black hat drooping. Her coat sparkled with raindrops in the light of her motorcar’s headlamps.

  He came and sat down beside her, then put his arm around her shoulders. She cried out in pain, then began to weep in earnest.

  Jessup was saying, “Bruising where the wheel struck her, scraped knees—” He broke off as Rutledge silently shook his head to stop him, and he moved away to speak to his men.

  “What happened? I didn’t know you’d left. Was the motorcar tampered with?”

  “I couldn’t stand being there—every time I went past the stairs or saw someone stepping on the place where he was lying, it was more than I could bear. I wanted the garden doors open instead, but Mary told me that with the rain, the lawns were too wet. I went to Walter, but he wouldn’t open his door and help me. I left as soon as I could.”

  “Did you tell anyone you were leaving?”

  “Only Gran. You don’t know how much I miss Peter. It’s been worse than anything I could have imagined, coming here. The funeral. And I feel so alone.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “I was crying. I couldn’t see where I was going. I did to myself what you were afraid someone else might do.”

  “Are you sure there was no problem with the motorcar—the steering or the brakes?”

  She shook her head.

  He sat with her a little longer, and then she agreed to let Inspector Jessup take her to Dr. Fielding.

  He said to Jessup, “Go over this motorcar. If there is any reason for that crash other than her emotional state, I want to know.”

  Jessup looked at him. “Are you saying someone would like to kill that woman?”

  “I told her that if there was an attempt at a third accident, we would know that the other deaths were murder.”

  “And she thought . . .”

  “She was frightened. But it was the only way I could make her watch for trouble. She was angry with the family, she blamed them for her husband’s fall.”