Charles Todd

by Ian Rutledge 12 - The Red Door (v5)

  Leticia said grudgingly, “I must admit you’re right, there. Walter is not like his brothers. He lost something out there in Africa and China. Part of himself.”

  “He lost it when he failed in his first living. It was the wrong church for him to be sent to, and the congregation was not prepared for an intellectual priest. They wanted someone more like themselves. A local man who understood them.”

  Leticia said, “You didn’t even know him then. How can you judge that?”

  Mary turned to Rutledge. “I met Walter when he spoke at a meeting I was attending. About his work in China. In fact, it was I who introduced him to Jenny.”

  The tension between the two women was interesting. Rutledge thought perhaps the root cause of it was familial. Mary was bound to protect her sister, and Leticia’s loyalty was to her brother.

  He said, interjecting a new question before hard feelings arose on either side, “Have you heard Mr. Teller mention anyone by the name of Charlie Hood?”

  They stared at him, the question completely unexpected. It was clear that the name meant nothing at all to either of the women.

  And possibly he had made too much of it as well. But there had been something in the man’s face that he couldn’t identify, something he felt he ought to recognize.

  Harry came racing back, gleefully informing his aunts that there had indeed been lemonade.

  Rutledge, watching him, could see in him the boy that Ian Trevor would be at the same age. It was an unexpected insight, and it touched him.

  He took his leave, refusing Miss Teller’s lukewarm invitation to stay for tea. He thought it had been in a way a suggestion that Mary Brittingham should also refuse it in her turn. That she had also out-stayed her welcome.

  Miss Teller walked with him through the hedge and around to where he’d left his motorcar, saying as they went, “Will he come back, do you think?”

  “Your brother? When he’s ready to be found. If whatever reason he left the clinic is resolved for him, in a fashion he can live with. The problem is, how lucid is he? Is he thinking clearly or still in the throes of his illness, even though the paralysis has apparently disappeared.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, and then stood there as he cranked the motorcar. He was on the point of driving away when she came to his side of the vehicle and put her hand on the door.

  “Even as a child, Walter would take to something new with almost ferocious enthusiasm. And then he would tire of it and lose interest. Domestic life may have—palled.”

  “Are you telling me he’s bored with his marriage?”

  “No. That he may have decided to do good works among London’s poor to salve his conscience. Rather than converting the heathen. If he doesn’t come back, this may be of some comfort to Jenny.”

  “When you went to Portsmouth, you didn’t actually believe that your brother would take ship without a word to anyone? Such a journey requires an enormous amount of preparation, I should think,” he asked her.

  Leticia Teller shrugged eloquently. “In the first shock of his disappearance, anything seemed possible. It was a chance I didn’t feel I could take. And my brothers agreed, even while they disagreed.”

  Hamish said, “She’s lying.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind as well,” he told her, and let in the clutch. She stepped back and let him go. Over her shoulder, he could see Mary Brittingham standing at the opening in the hedge, watching them.

  But then Mary smiled and waved when she saw him looking in her direction.

  “Twa women, ye ken, with a child holding them together,” Hamish said as the boy ran up to Mary and clung to her hand. And then he darted forward, to take Leticia’s hand as well and wave good-bye to the man from London who had come unexpectedly.

  It was late when Rutledge reached London. He stopped by the Yard to see if there were any developments in the search for the boy he called Billy, or if Hood had been located. But like many of their ilk, they had disappeared into the dark corners of a city that knew how to keep secrets.

  Chapter 13

  The journey to Kent had been successful, and both Frances and David Trevor were in high spirits, carrying Melinda Crawford’s greeting and best love to Rutledge and telling him about the great pheasant hunt that had left them all exhausted and hurting from laughter.

  A stray pheasant had wandered into Melinda’s garden, and the boy had been very taken with it. He had persuaded his grandfather to let him carry it back to Scotland if he could capture it.

  That had led to an afternoon of merriment as every scheme they had tried saw the pheasant still at large and mocking them from a safe distance.

  In the end it was Ian who had tired first, and after one last glorious chase through the kitchen gardens had ended with the promise of cake for tea, the pheasant had been forgotten.

  Listening to them, Rutledge was reminded of another child bribed by the promise of lemonade, unaware that his father was missing and possibly no longer the familiar figure the boy remembered.

  He joined in the laughter, despite the day’s frustrations, unwilling to spoil their high spirits, and found the tension in his mind slowly relaxing.

  It wasn’t until they were saying good night that Rutledge remembered that his godfather would be leaving on the morrow. The time had gone too quickly, and he’d got his wish—to be too busy to spend much of the day with Trevor and the child.

  He regretted that now as he drove back to his flat, but there had been no way to change it. Even if he’d recognized the need in time.

  The next morning as Rutledge collected his godfather’s cases and stowed them in the boot, he wished he could find the words to ask Trevor to stay longer. But Hamish, in the back of his mind, had been a source of stressful emotions while David Trevor talked of Scotland and the war and his son Ross. Of the boy’s young governess, who was being courted by a solicitor in Edinburgh. Of things best forgotten, of people left unnamed. Consequently, fatigue had racked him, and Rutledge had spent sleepless nights walking the streets in the cool summer darkness until he was too tired to stay awake.

  And still Hamish reminded him over and over again of what he, a dead man lying in a French grave, had lost.

  There was nothing left now except their good-byes.

  Coming to the door of the house, Rutledge said to his godfather, “I think that’s everything.”

  Frances, kissing first David and then the boy good-bye, wished them a safe journey, and sent her love to Morag, along with the gaily wrapped shawl that Rutledge had purchased for this woman who had served the Trevor household as long as he could remember. He had wanted to buy one in Tartan plaid, but Frances had told him that the sea-green Irish woolen one was a better choice. He hoped she was right.

  The boy scooped up his box of toy soldiers, hugged Frances again, and ran out to the motorcar, excited to travel by train once more. He had already asked over and over whether he could come back again to London.

  They reached the station in no time at all, and Rutledge had been silent most of the drive, fighting with himself and with Hamish over how to prolong the visit.

  Then they were in the station, the train was coming in amidst clouds of white steam that set the boy dancing with glee, and it was time to board.

  Rutledge said, hurriedly, before it was too late, “I’m glad you came.”

  Trevor smiled. “I’m glad I came as well. And I’ll do it again, if you fail to come north to us.”

  Rutledge said tightly, “I can’t—not yet.” Not ever. “The men you commanded and sent to their deaths have forgiven you long ago, Ian. When will you forgive yourself?”

  Trevor’s words were too close to the mark.

  Rutledge could only answer, “Time. . .” That was as far as he could trust his voice.

  “Time has a way of slipping through our fingers.”

  Then they were embracing, the carriage door was closing, and Rutledge could hear a whistle somewhere down the line as the engine gathered steam.

 
The train began to move. Trevor had dropped his window and called back to his godson, “Christmas, Ian. Come for Christmas!”

  Rutledge stood there, knowing it was too late, far too late, and waved the train out of sight.

  From the station, he drove to the Belvedere Clinic to inform Jenny Teller that there was no word still on her husband’s whereabouts.

  But when he got there, he was told that Mrs. Teller had stepped out with her sister-in-law for a cup of tea.

  Matron said, “Mrs. Teller is quickly losing heart. It took some persuasion to convince her that it was all right to leave for a little while.”

  “Will you tell her for me that there has been no news?”

  “You could probably catch them—they’ve only just left.”

  He was restless, not in the mood to sit in a tea shop and tell a wife that her husband was still missing and that the Yard couldn’t find him despite all its trained personnel and experience.

  “No. Let her have her brief respite. I’ll only remind her of what she’s trying to put out of her mind.”

  Matron said, “That’s very generous of you. I’ll see that she gets your message.”

  He went instead to Marlborough Street, to ask Edwin Teller if he possessed a later photograph of his brother, only to be told that Mr. Edwin Teller was resting and left orders not to be disturbed. Nor was Amy Teller available.

  At the Yard, in the passage on the way to his own office, he encountered Chief Superintendent Bowles, who said in passing, “Still no trace of Teller. And that witness you wanted from Bynum’s knifing hasn’t been found either. Are you certain he’s not the man we’re after?”

  “He’s a witness. Nothing more. I just wanted to ask him other questions. I saw Billy, remember. More clearly even than Hood, who called him dark.”

  “Your priority is the Teller case. I’ll put Mickelson on to finding Bynum’s killer.” He cleared his throat. “Are you quite certain Teller is still alive? We can’t give more manpower to the search for him, with this murder case hanging over us. But I wouldn’t wish the family to feel we aren’t doing all we can. At least thank God there has been no plague.”

  “There’s something wrong with this inquiry,” Rutledge told him. “I sometimes feel I’m chasing a ghost.”

  “Nevertheless, if you know what’s best, you’ll find him—or what’s become of him—as soon as may be. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you taken the time to read Teller’s book? It might be useful.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Rutledge moved on, pausing to speak briefly to Sergeant Gibson just as Constable Turner came up the stairs two at a time.

  Gibson, frowning, said, “That one’s in a tearing rush.”

  Turner reached Chief Superintendent Bowles and saluted smartly. “Sir. There’s a train off the tracks up the line. Word just came in.”

  Rutledge called to him, “Which train?”

  “The northbound to Edinburgh,” Turner answered over his shoulder.

  Rutledge said quickly, “Where, man, where did it derail?”

  “Just to the north of a village called Waddington. Not that far—”

  But Rutledge was already racing for the stairs, his mind filled with his godfather’s last words: Time has a way of slipping through our fingers.

  If he’d asked Trevor to stay, if he’d come out with the words in time, they wouldn’t have been on that train—

  He ran to where he’d left his motorcar. Out of breath and damning himself for not speaking up when he’d had the chance, Rutledge drove out of London at the best speed he could make, cursing the motorcars and lorries and pedestrians that held him up.

  As soon as the outskirts of the city lay behind him, he gunned the motor and prayed he would be in time.

  Chapter 14

  The train to the north had just come around a curve before it derailed, and that had slowed its speed enough to prevent a catastrophe. It was bad enough as it was.

  Three of the carriages were still smoking when Rutledge got there, a fire having started from a spark from the firebox. It was a scene of chaos, people milling about, debris everywhere, twisted metal and the stark white of shorn wood marking where the worst of the damage had occurred. The great engine lay half on its side like some wounded beast, and steam still trickled from the cooling boiler. The cars nearest it had accordioned before they derailed. As he slowed the motorcar and looked across the flat pasture that had been scarred and torn by the impact, he could see where a short row of bodies already lay covered in whatever was to hand: coats, a blanket, and even a tarp marked piers brewery in block letters that someone must have carried down from a brewery wagon left in the middle of the road, the horses standing patiently, heads down, half asleep in their traces.

  He could hear people crying and shouting and a child screaming. Hamish said, “O’er there.”

  Hamish had always had the keenest hearing in the company. Rutledge turned to look for a small boy and saw instead a little girl crouched beside her weeping mother, neither of them able to take in what had happened to them. He hurried across the uneven ground and knelt by the girl, and she clung to him as the mother said, “Her father—they’re having to cut him out of the carriage.”

  Comforting both of them as best he could, he scanned over their heads, looking for a man and a boy—or come to that, either of them alone.

  Then a woman from the nearest village was there to help, and he left her to it, moving past broken carriages toward the pathetic remains recovered before he’d arrived. He looked at each in turn, and felt a swift surge of hope. Trevor and his grandson weren’t among the dead. It was difficult now to be sure which carriage he’d put his godfather in. And so he leaned into the wreckage of each one as he walked down the line, calling Trevor’s name.

  Trevor and the child were not there either. “I should have begged him to stay,” Rutledge said aloud, unaware that he’d spoken. “It’s my fault.”

  “It’s no’ your fault,” Hamish said. “There—yon man waving—”

  He helped lift three more passengers down from damaged windows or doorways, then with another man’s aid, pulled a fourth from the rubble. It was a woman, too frightened to cry, her eyes huge in her pale face. She looked around, dazed, uncertain, and then saw her husband standing to one side earnestly telling the man who was clumsily bandaging his arm that his wife was still in the carriage. With a small sound, like that of a frightened animal, she stumbled toward him, and he buried his face in her shoulder, gripping her with his good arm.

  Rutledge walked on, still searching. More people were arriving to help as word spread. Among them was a doctor, who began to organize a makeshift infirmary.

  Listening to Hamish, scanning faces, trying to keep his own fear at bay, Rutledge did what he could.

  A woman crouched in the opening where a carriage door had once stood—the splintered remains still clinging to torn hinges—called to him. He clambered over wreckage to lift her down and then hand her over the worst of the debris. She was mumbling disjointed prayers interspersed with Hail Marys. He could see the blood in her fair hair, another cut bleeding through a tear in the sleeve of her shirtwaist. He turned to look for the doctor, urging her to come with him when she pulled free.

  “No. Don’t leave. There’s someone still in there—I think she’s dead.”

  “Can you walk as far as that line of trees?” he asked her gently. “Where the women are helping others like you. Do you see? I’ll do what I can here.”

  She nodded, holding on to his arm until she had regained her balance, and then walked on. A woman in an apron came to collect her and guide her the rest of the way, offering words of encouragement and comfort.

  Rutledge turned back to the task at hand. Testing his footing, he pulled himself into the compartment she’d just left.

  A red-faced man, sweating from exertion, came up just then and said, “There’s a doctor coming down the line, looking for t
he worst cases. Were you a passenger?”

  “I’ve come to help—”

  “Then follow me.”

  “The woman just there—the one walking to the trees—needs medical attention. And she told me someone is still trapped in here.”

  “Have a look, then, I’ll be back as soon as I’ve passed the word.”

  The compartment he was in was a shambles, seats at an angle, door hanging ajar. He almost put his foot through a hole in the flooring, and then felt the car shift very slightly. Rutledge paused, then gingerly swung himself around the splintered door into the passage beyond. But there was no access that way. He came back again and tried to shift the splintered door. At first it wouldn’t budge, then it gave way with a groan, nearly pitching him forward onto feet and a pale rose skirt. He caught himself in time, waited a moment for the carriage to settle again, and then crept through the opening he’d made.

  From the far side, he was able to slide the door out of the way, then turn to the injured passenger.

  It was a young woman, her trim ankles almost touching the toe of his left boot.

  She lay on her side, her face hidden by a valise that had fallen next to her, and all he could see was a shoulder and dark hair. A crumpled hat lay beyond the crown of her head.

  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.