Charles Todd

by Ian Rutledge 12 - The Red Door (v5)

  “It was my predecessor who officiated. I wouldn’t know who was or wasn’t among the guests, or who stood up for him.”

  “What attracted Peter Teller to Florence Marshall? Was it money, do you think?”

  “You never met Florence. There was something about her that drew people to her. As for money, she’d inherited from her aunt, and I understood that Peter’s late father had left him well-to-do. It was never an issue, as far as I know.”

  “Can we find the date of their marriage in the church records?”

  “I needn’t consult them. They were married in the early spring of 1903. My sister was married in May of that same year. In 1913, when I happened to mention to Mrs. Teller that I was taking a few days to go and celebrate Katie and Ralph’s tenth anniversary, she told me it was her tenth as well. I brought her a small gift from Katie, on my return. She was that pleased. I don’t believe her husband was here to mark the occasion. A pity.”

  Rutledge, walking back to the High Street, paused at the Great War Memorial just at the turning into Church Lane. He always spared a moment to acknowledge the dead. The Hobson men who had gone off to fight had served together. It was a common practice, for these men who had never been as far as Carlisle or Chester, much less London, felt more comfortable in one another’s company. And consequently, they often died together.

  He could see that it was the case here. For every surname there was a list of Christian names. Under Satterthwaite he saw three, and under Greeley five. There was a Taylor, a Blaine, and two Jordans. He could see them in his mind’s eye, marching together out of Hobson to find the nearest recruitment office, then returning together in new uniforms where the crease was still sharp and their caps sat at a jaunty angle. Off to kill the Hun . . . And die themselves, whether they shot a Hun or not.

  He was turning away when the elderly man walking past stopped to speak to him. Although graying and distinguished, with a trim white mustache, his shoulders were beginning to stoop with age. His voice was educated and strong, without the heavy local accent.

  “That’s from the fields,” he said, using the tip of his cane to point to the irregular stone some three feet high that was the centerpiece of the memorial. “We thought that fitting. They came from this land, and many of them never returned to it. And so they still have a part of it.”

  “Yes, it’s moving,” Rutledge answered.

  The man lowered his cane to marble tablets encircling the stone. “My sons are there, both of them. My nephews too.” The cane moved on to point to the name of Cobb, and the long list beneath it. “My elder son, Browning, and his brother, Tennyson. A schoolmaster’s folly, those names. I come by every morning to greet them and every evening to say good night.”

  “It’s a quiet place to be remembered.”

  “You served in the war?”

  “France. The Somme.”

  “You saw some of the worst fighting. Though I daresay none of it was better than any other.”

  Rutledge could only nod.

  “You’re here, I think, because of Mrs. Teller. A sad thing. There’s no one in Hobson who would have hurt her. I can’t think why a stranger might.”

  “No one has been able to offer the police any useful information. Yet I’ve discovered in places barely as large as Hobson that grudges can run deep. And in the end, they often surface in violence.”

  Cobb shook his head. “I repeat. Not here.”

  “Apparently her husband was with his regiment more often than he was here in Hobson,” Rutledge said, changing the subject. “It must have been a lonely life for her. Waiting for him to return. And not knowing, throughout the war, if he would.”

  “She was orphaned as a child and brought up by an elderly aunt. Well meaning, of course, but not precisely accustomed to children and their needs. I expect that’s why Florence became a teacher, to surround herself with children. But they weren’t hers, were they? They went home every day to their own families. It was on the first holiday she’d taken from teaching that she met Peter Teller and fell in love. I don’t believe she had high expectations of it turning into something more. Not from the start, knowing he was in the Army.”

  “Did you meet Teller, talk to him?”

  “I’d see him on occasion on the High Street. He didn’t frequent the pub and he wasn’t gregarious. But I found myself thinking sometimes that he was a tormented man. I don’t know precisely why—he was a cheerful sort in a brief conversation about the weather, where he’d be serving next, or what plans he might have for his son’s education. Alas, Timmy died young. It was a devastating blow to both parents. As you’d expect. No one should have to endure such tragedy.”

  Hamish said, “He speaks for himsel’.”

  “Was Teller eager to see his son follow him into the Army?”

  “Not at all. In fact, he told me once that the only bright spot in the coming war was that Timmy would never have to go off and fight. A war to end all wars, they claimed. But it will be forgotten in a generation, and there will be another.”

  And then Cobb hesitated. “Perhaps I should tell you. My nephew, Lawrence Cobb, worked on Mrs. Teller’s farm when she needed help. He was glad to do it. I think he’d have married her if word had come that Teller had been killed. But of course he was missing, and that’s very different.”

  “Was she in love with your nephew?”

  “No. Loneliness might have, in the end, brought them together. But it was not to be. Lawrence married Mrs. Blaine’s daughter instead. Only last year.”

  “I’d like to speak to Lawrence,” Rutledge said. “If you’ll give me your nephew’s direction?”

  Cobb did, after a moment’s hesitation.

  Hamish said, “He’s no’ pleased now. He wishes he hadna’ telt ye about his nephew.”

  Rutledge thanked him, and Cobb nodded, then walked on without looking back, leaning heavily on his cane.

  Rutledge drove out of Hobson to the northwest, and after two false starts he found the farm where Lawrence Cobb lived.

  A man was in the barn, working on a steam tractor. Rutledge could hear the clang of a hammer on metal. He walked back there, and as he came through the door, the man yelled, “Damn!” and began to suck his thumb where the hammer had struck a glancing blow.

  “Lawrence Cobb?” Rutledge asked, and identified himself when the man nodded. “I’ve come from Hobson. Your uncle suggested I might speak to you about Florence Teller.”

  Suddenly wary, Cobb set down his hammer, glanced briefly at his bruised thumb, and then said, “You’re here about her death. Well, I had nothing to do with it, but if I ever lay hands on the bastard who did it, I’ll finish with him before the police can touch him.”

  “Do you still care that much for Florence Teller?”

  Cobb shot a look toward the house. “What if I do? She was married, I couldn’t speak to her. It came to nothing. She guessed what I was feeling, and we decided it was best that I move on. I did. My wife and I are happy.”

  But Rutledge thought it was not true. Content, perhaps, but at least on Cobb’s part, not happy.

  “Do you know who might have wanted to kill her?”

  “No one in Hobson. I’d have torn out their throats if anyone touched her. I think if it hadn’t been for Timmy, she might have turned to me when Teller went missing. But she loved her son, and she loved his father. Never mind how he treated her.”

  “What do you mean, treated her?”

  “If I’d had a wife like that, I wouldn’t have stayed away so many years at a time. I’d have written more often. He sent gifts, but it wasn’t the same as being there. After Timmy died, she needed him more than ever. But I think coming here hurt too much, and his visits got fewer and farther between. Or so it seemed to me.”

  “There were letters?”

  “She kept them in a little rosewood chest on the table beside her favorite chair. When I was working there and came in for a cup of tea or mug of water, I sometimes saw her putting one away, as if she
’d just read it again. Her lifeline, she called that chest.”

  But there had been no such chest by the chair nor anywhere else in the house, as Hamish was remarking.

  “You worked for her as a handyman, when you might have done far better for yourself,” Rutledge told him.

  “My mother left me her money. And I’d have wanted to be there, helping out, rather than in some position in Carlisle or Chester where I couldn’t see her every day. I’m not ashamed that I loved her. But I’ll thank you not to pass that on to my wife. Betsy is jealous. I found that out too late.” He picked up the hammer and struck the frozen nut around a screw. This time the blow broke the rusty bond that had locked the two together, and he could spin the nut. “How can you be so wrong about a woman’s smile? But I was lonely, and I wanted a son. I’ve not had even him yet.”

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, he was more likely to kill his ain wife than the lass in the cottage.”

  Rutledge had got the same feeling. He thanked Lawrence Cobb and left. But not before Cobb said, “I’ll tell you this, and then deny I ever said it. But it’s crossed my mind a time or two since I heard Florence was dead. It’s possible her husband didn’t want her anymore, that he’d met someone else he wanted to marry, and he couldn’t find a decent way out of his dilemma. And so he killed her. Ask Jake. He might know.”

  But how did you ask a parrot about a murder?

  Rutledge reported his conversations to Constable Satterthwaite, who said, “I expect that tallies with what I’ve been told. It’s sad that Lawrence Cobb couldn’t have married her. He would have done his best to make her happy.”

  “And you don’t think he might have come to her, been turned away, and lashed out? He’s a strong man. I found him working on his tractor and wielding his hammer with some force. An angry force.”

  But Satterthwaite shook his head. “I’ve known Lawrence since he was a boy. And I’ll tell you this, if he killed her, he wouldn’t have left her there in the doorway for anyone to find. Well. We’ve got word out for people to watch for a walker. That may be our only hope now. If he didn’t get the wind up and leave this part of the country.”

  “Why would a walker kill her?” he asked for the second time.

  “That’s puzzled me too, but I’m used to puzzles and answers that make no more sense than the puzzle did. Unless of course he was here on purpose, to take that chest of letters. And she caught him at it. That makes a certain sense, now.”

  “Why would he want to steal old letters? It’s a matter of record that they were married, she and Teller. At the church.”

  Satterthwaite laughed. “When it comes to money, people change. It’s amazing how quickly distant relatives come out of the woodwork when someone dies, wanting their share. Never gave the poor soul the time of day when he was alive, but now he’s dead, he’s their dearest cousin, however many times removed. They arrive to present their case. Then they stumble over a wife in some dark corner of Lancashire, and something has to be done about her, doesn’t it? For all we know, Peter Teller’s last will and testament was among those letters, and someone wanted it destroyed. That’ud toss the cat amongst the pigeons, wouldn’t it?”

  An interesting explanation for the missing letters as well as the murder. “Is the farm all that valuable?”

  “The farm is hers, not his. But how do we know what else he might have owned elsewhere that was valuable? Florence might not have been told about that. Or never wanted to face up to the fact that he was dead and the will ought to be taken to a solicitor. She had everything she needed right here.”

  It was possible, but a stretch of the imagination. Still, Rutledge found himself considering it again over his dinner, losing track of Mrs. Greeley’s gossip.

  He stayed one more night with Mrs. Greeley, and then left early to make the journey back to London.

  Speaking to Satterthwaite the night before his departure, he said, “I want to see if I can find Teller’s relatives. They may be able to shed more light on who inherits. Did Florence Teller have a solicitor?”

  “She never had cause to need one,” the constable told him. “As far as I know.”

  “Then perhaps Peter Teller did. Meanwhile, if you find any information on a walker, call me at the Yard. If I’m not there, ask for Sergeant Gibson.”

  On the drive south, the bird Jake, in the cage set in the passenger’s seat, was quiet, almost, Rutledge thought, as if he understood he would never go back to Sunrise Cottage. He sat on one of his perches, sometimes plucking listlessly at his feathers, occasionally muttering to himself, and showing no interest in his surroundings.

  Rutledge spoke to him from time to time, as he would have spoken to a dog traveling with him. But except for that one moment in Mrs. Blaine’s kitchen and again when the rug was put over the cage last night, he’d said nothing remotely resembling human speech.

  Hamish said, “He remembers what he hears o’er and o’er again.”

  And that was just as sad.

  Arriving in London, Rutledge stopped at the Yard and handed the cage and parrot to a startled Sergeant Gibson. “Find out what to feed him, and see that he’s kept quiet until I come back for him.”

  “What to feed him?” the sergeant repeated. “I don’t know anyone who has a parrot.”

  “Try the zoo,” Rutledge suggested. “And look to see if we have any information on a Peter Teller, other than the one related to Walter Teller.” And he was gone.

  Traveling through Dorset in search of Peter Teller’s family would take time. But there was a possible shortcut. Edwin Teller might know of a connection there, a distant cousin or an unrelated family of the same name.

  It was late in the evening when Rutledge found himself in Marlborough Street, drawing up in front of the Teller residence.

  The house, white and three storied, stood among others very like it, a street speaking of old money and long bloodlines. It was quiet, almost no one about, and Rutledge was prepared to find that it was too late for him to speak to anyone.

  He lifted the brass knocker and let it fall.

  The maid who opened the door informed him that Mr. Teller had left for the country.

  “And Mrs. Teller?”

  “She accompanied him.”

  “Will you tell him on his return that Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard has called, and I’d like to speak to him at his earliest convenience.”

  Uncertain, she said, “You may call on Mrs. Teller in the morning. If it’s important?”

  “I thought she was in the country as well.”

  “This Mrs. Teller is Mr. Edwin Teller’s grandmother.”

  “Then I’ll speak to her tonight, if I may.”

  “I’ll inquire, sir.”

  The maid returned very quickly and showed him into the parlor overlooking the street.

  The woman sitting there in a brocade-covered chair looked up as he came into the room. Her hair was completely white, her face deeply lined, but her blue eyes swept him as she greeted him with a smile. “You’re the handsome young man who just passed my window.”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Teller, for the lateness of my call. I’ve just returned to London, and this is a matter of some urgency.”

  “I’m told you’re from Scotland Yard.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” He realized she was the woman in the portrait in Captain Teller’s house.

  “You haven’t come to tell me that Walter is missing again, have you? It’s really entirely too much. I’ve been in the country visiting, and I arrived here to find everything at sixes and sevens. In fact, I’m hardly in the door before Edwin and Amy were out of it on their way to Essex.”

  “As far as I know, Mr. Teller is with his wife and son, recovering.”

  “Recovering from what, I’d like to know? Nice people don’t disappear without a word and upset the entire family. I hardly knew what to say to George when I was asked to stay a week longer with him. It was thoughtless of Walter, that’s all I have to say. Do sit down, young ma
n. You’re quite tall, and it hurts my neck to look up at you.”

  He took the chair across from hers.

  “Now tell me why you are here, if it isn’t Walter you’re looking for.”

  “I’m here to ask about another member of the family. I’m aware that you have a grandson called Peter, but I wonder if perhaps you have a nephew by the same name.”

  “Not that I know of. Why should I?”

  “We’re trying to find a Lieutenant Peter Teller who served in France, and was reported missing around the end of the war.”

  “Our Peter did come home. He was a captain, you know.”

  “The Peter Teller I’m looking for apparently came from Dorset, although he lived in Lancashire after his marriage. His wife’s name was Florence.”

  “What is this catechism in aid of?” she demanded irritably. “I don’t care to be questioned in this way.”

  “We are trying to locate members of Lieutenant Teller’s family.”

  “Peter’s wife was a Darley before her marriage. Susannah Darley. My grandniece.”

  “Yes, I understand that. How long have they been married?”

  She frowned. “I’m not quite sure. Twelve years? Yes, that sounds about right. Now, young man, I’ve answered your questions. You must answer mine.”

  “Willingly,” he told her.

  “Did you know that my grandson Walter went missing?”

  They had already spoken of that. But he humored her. “Yes. I was at the clinic shortly after he returned.”

  “Then explain to me, if you will, why he disappeared. It’s bothering me, and no one will satisfy my curiosity. It’s not something our family does, you know. Causing a scandal. It was really selfish of Walter, in my view. I wish I could understand it.”

  “Perhaps you should ask him,” Rutledge answered gently. “The police were pleased that he was safe and unharmed. Now I’m trying to find one Peter Teller, whose wife Florence lived in Lancashire.”

  “Is he missing as well? Such a pity. When did he go missing?”

  “I’m told he never returned from the war.”

  “How sad. Walter was in the war, of course. A chaplain. Peter was with the Army, and he still has shrapnel in his hip and leg. Nearly died of his wounds. Edwin couldn’t be in the fighting, of course, but he was in charge of shipping and materiel. I couldn’t sleep at night, worrying about Peter. And then the Zeppelins came, and I was sent to the country to stay with George and Annie. But I still couldn’t sleep.”