Instead he went to Bolingbroke Street and asked to speak to Susannah Teller.
To his surprise, she agreed to see him. The shades were drawn in the sitting room, but even in the dim light Rutledge could see that her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep. Yet he thought she seemed to have found some inner strength to carry her through.
Hamish said, unexpectedly, “Anger.”
Rutledge thought that was very true. For she kept him standing, like a servant.
“I wanted you to know that we’ve released your husband’s body.”
“Thank you. I had a call from Inspector Jessup. I have arranged for the service to be held tomorrow afternoon.”
That was very quick, but he said only, “He didn’t kill anyone, Mrs. Teller. He’s been completely absolved.”
“How nice to know that the rector needn’t mention in his eulogy that Peter was nearly arrested for murder,” she said sardonically.
“If I’d had the whole truth from the start,” he told her, “it might have been different.”
“All I know is, you made his last days a hell on earth. I hope this knowledge will give you nights as sleepless as his were.”
“I expect there are worse burdens on my conscience than this one.”
“Who did kill that woman in Lancashire?” she asked him, unable to stop herself.
He told her, and she said, “Jealousy is a powerful thing.”
“But you weren’t jealous of Florence Teller. After all, there was no need. She wasn’t Peter’s wife.”
“It never troubled me,” she said, still keeping up the lie, “from the time I found out. We had a happy marriage, Peter and I. Whether you believe that or not.”
“Have you asked your solicitor what your rights are, if you persist in this charade? Whether you are in fact the legitimately surviving spouse? Mrs. Teller is dead. Of course, the Captain must have made proper provisions for you in his will.”
That visibly shook her. But she said, “Our solicitors will sort it out.”
“Or perhaps they weren’t informed of the necessity for provisions. Unless your husband changed his will in the last ten days.”
“You’re unbelievably cruel, Inspector. My husband is dead, and so is the woman in Hobson. He can’t be prosecuted for bigamy, and you will only bring public shame on me if you pursue this.”
“Shaming you isn’t my intent, Mrs. Teller. But when people break the law—and there is a law against bigamy, I remind you—there are often repercussions that hurt the innocent. Your husband, for instance, whose name was used by Walter Teller. And Jenny Teller, who—if the truth had come to light—was about to discover that she was no one’s wife and her child illegitimate. It was convenient for both of them to die when they did. Accidentally? Very likely. But if not, I want you to realize that you may also stand in some danger. You’re very angry just now about your husband’s death. Understandably. He bore the brunt of his brother’s misdeeds. And he kept his head and fought me every step of the way. I recognize why, now. All of you are very fond of Harry. And you’re protecting him, not his father. But when you find yourself being denied your rights as the Captain’s widow, you might well see matters very differently. And if you are forced to tell the truth to protect yourself, you will break this wall of silence.”
He could see she hadn’t thought that far ahead, she hadn’t considered the legal repercussions or the danger she might stand in. She replied slowly, as if still thinking through what he’d said, “But you’ve just told me that Peter’s death and Jenny’s were accidents.”
“At this stage, we have to consider them accidental. We haven’t been able to find any proof to the contrary. But they were—providential. You must see that.”
She shook her head. “My murder would bring to light everything that the family has fought so hard to protect.”
He let it go and told her instead, “As for the voices your husband heard in the cottage when he was speaking to Florence Teller, it might well have been the parrot, Jake, that her husband brought her. It speaks sometimes. Mimics may be a better word.”
“I—parrot?”
“Yes. He’s here in London. You can see him for yourself.”
“No. You’re saying I have no grounds to believe Walter or Edwin were already there in the house? Peter was so sure.”
“I think Edwin can prove he was in Cambridge. And Walter was aware you’d discovered his secret. He never left London.”
“Or is this a trick to see to it I withdraw my charge of murder?” she asked suspiciously. “I don’t trust you, either.”
Rutledge smiled. “I don’t ask you to trust me. Just consider what I’ve said.”
He turned to go.
As he reached the door, she stopped him. “What you’re telling me is that you aren’t finished with Walter. And you want me to leave him to you.”
He turned. “I’ll do my best to protect Harry. For his mother’s sake. And I owe it to the Captain to protect you as well. At the same time I have a duty to the law. Until I am satisfied, neither your husband’s death or Jenny Teller’s will be closed.”
He left her then, and she didn’t call him back.
Rutledge was returning to the Yard when he saw Meredith Channing just coming out of Westminster Abbey. She still wore a sling on her arm but moved without pain as far as he could tell. He slowed the motorcar, and when she came within speaking distance, he called to her.
She looked up, recognized him, and paused, as if uncertain whether to greet him or not. And then she crossed to the motorcar.
“I see you’ve recovered,” he said.
“And you found the people you were searching for? Were they all right?”
“Yes, thank God. I came back to look for you. I was told you’d already been moved, but no one seemed to know where.”
“A very kind woman took in several of us. It was a relief to get away from such an horrific scene. And then friends came for me. I stayed a few days with them. ” She paused. “Ian. I’ve decided to travel for a while. I think it would be good for me.”
There was traffic behind him. He said, “Are you going home? Just now?”
“Yes. I sometimes come here to think. It’s very lovely and very quiet.”
“I’ll take you, then.” And he lied when he saw her hesitation. “I’m going in that direction.”
“All right. Yes. Thank you.”
As they pulled away from the pavement and headed for Trafalgar Square, he asked, “How long do you expect to be away? For the summer?”
“I’m not sure. A year or two, perhaps. I haven’t looked ahead.” After a moment, she added, “I’ve—become fond of someone. And I’m not sure that it’s wise.”
He couldn’t see her face. She was looking at the passing scene as if she had never traveled this way before. He wasn’t sure she was seeing it now.
“Something has upset you.”
“I think the train crash upset everyone who was there,” she said evasively. She turned to look at him, then looked away again.
He remembered that no one had sent him word about the name of the passenger who had died.
“Was he on the train? The man you’ve become fond of?”
Surprise flitted across her face as she turned back to him. “On the train? No. I was traveling alone. What made you think—”
“There was a man in your compartment. He didn’t survive.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m glad I didn’t. He was very nice. We’d chatted for a time.” She bit her lip. “He’d been to visit his son.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked to hold them back. “Well. You see. I’m still very emotional about the crash.”
“It’s not unusual. God knows—” He stopped.
“Like my shoulder, that will heal too,” she said, trying for a lighter tone. “With time.”
He said nothing, weaving his way through traffic, giving her space to recover. The tension in his mind brought the voice of Hamish to the forefront,
so loud it seemed to fill the motorcar.
They had reached Chelsea. Her house was just three streets away. He was searching for words now, unable to think for the other voice, realizing that time was slipping away.
Two streets now.
He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He had steeled himself against any feelings, and the wall was high, insurmountable.
One street.
“Running,” he said finally, “is no solution.”
She sighed. “No. But I don’t know what else to do.”
They had reached her house. He slowed the motorcar, stopped, was getting out to open her door, and the moment was lost.
“At least,” she said, smiling brightly, “it isn’t raining this time. Thank you, Ian. This was very kind of you.”
And she strode up the walk, opening her door, disappearing inside.
He stood there, Hamish hammering at him, and then turned and got in his motorcar.
Afterward, he wasn’t sure how he got as far as Windsor without knowing it. He had to turn around and drive back to London.
Chief Superintendent Bowles had given some thought to the trap he intended to lay for the murderer they knew only as Billy.
He said, as Rutledge reported to him, “Good, you’re early.”
“How is Cummins?”
“Out of the woods, but not thanks to Billy. He came damned close to severing an artery. We’ve got to stop this maniac, and you’re to be the bait. At least that’s the current thinking—that it’s you he’s after.”
“I don’t think he’s a maniac.”
“Stands to reason that he is. Hunting people like an animal. Then taking his knife to them.”
Rutledge let it go. Instead, he asked Bowles, “Was there any information on that man Hood, who is our witness for Bynum’s killing?”
“The address he gave us was false, a stationer’s shop. Like many of his kind, he doesn’t want to be found.”
So, Rutledge thought, little more than he’d known already. “Have you spoken to Gibson or one of the older sergeants? The man may have a past. I’ve seen him before or dealt with him somewhere.”
“It doesn’t matter. We shan’t need him until the trial. Here’s the plan. You’ll drive over to the police station in Lambeth, and speak to the sergeant on duty. It’s a routine question, about one of the men Billy robbed earlier on. I want you to be seen, and then return here. At nine o’clock, I want you to dine with Mickelson, walking with him to that pub on the far side of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Then you’ll return alone on foot as darkness falls, and walk along the Embankment. Failing any sighting of our friend Billy, you’ll walk to the bridge and stand where you did before.”
“He’s not going to fall easily into a trap,” Rutledge warned. “He’s seen your men, he knows he sent Cummins to hospital. Here’s a better choice.” And he outlined what he had in mind.
Bowles was willing to compromise, and at eight o’clock Mickelson and Rutledge left the Yard on foot for their meal. It was a stilted dinner, neither man feeling much like opening a conversation, the animosity between them making even a request for a saltcellar sound like a declaration of war.
Their dislike of each other went back to an inquiry in Westmor-land, where Mickelson misjudged a volatile situation and nearly got an innocent bystander killed. Rather than acknowledge his mistake, he’d rushed to London and laid full blame at Rutledge’s door. Circumstances had cleared Rutledge, but Bowles had not been swift to act on the information and still favored Mickelson.
Rutledge finished first, and went on foot back to the Yard. He felt like dozens of eyes watched his progress, but from street level he could see no one.
He went into the Yard. A quarter of an hour later, Constable Miller, dressed as a sweep, was drunkenly making a nuisance of himself in front of the House of Commons. A single constable was dispatched to deal with him, but the noise level didn’t abate. Rutledge, with another constable in tow, strode down to Commons and reasoned with the drunken man. Miller, young and excited, nearly overplayed his role, but in the end, the two constables marched him back to the Yard, protesting every step of the way at the top of his considerable lungs. A small crowd gathered to watch, laughing at the spectacle, and Miller played to his audience, offering to kiss the pretty girls and bring them a sweep’s luck. He dropped one of his brushes, bent over to retrieve it, and fell on his face. The two constables, one on either side, brought him to his feet and kept the bundle. By this time, Miller appeared to be turning a little green, and the onlookers moved away as he knelt and was sick in the gutter. The constables, waiting impatiently, urged the last two or three people who were lingering to see how the situation turned out, to be about their business. A decidedly uncomfortable Miller, holding his stomach, and complaining that he’d meant no harm, shambled between his captors and was soon hauled through the door at the Yard.
Rutledge, inside Commons, walked out talking to a well-dressed man who could have been as important as he looked. They stood together for a good five minutes, as the last of the light was fading from the sky, sped on by a heavy bank of clouds in the west.
The man with Rutledge finally took his leave and walked back to the Commons and disappeared through the door. Rutledge stood there looking after him for a moment, then walked back toward the Yard. Halfway there, one of the constables came out to meet him, passed on a message, and went back the way he’d come. Rutledge went down toward the water, studying the clouds that were already blotting out the western stars and moving downriver. A flash of lightning in the darkest part of the clouds lit them from within, and a cool breeze picked up to herald the storm. A roll of thunder followed.
“There’s no’ much time before the rain comes,” Hamish said. In the distance, somewhere near Trafalgar Square, a motorcar’s horn blew sharply. Rutledge started back toward the bridge and paused to watch a river skiff expertly run the gantlet of the stone arches, and voices carried to him across the water, three men as far as he could tell, and young enough to like the excitement of danger.
He had come to the bridge and stood there, as if debating what to do next. Another roll of thunder reached him and the flashes of lightning were brighter and more often. Taking off his coat and slinging it over his shoulder, he turned and walked back in the direction of the Yard.
He never knew where Billy came from. There was more thunder, a hiss of warning from Hamish, and suddenly the boy was there, arm round Rutledge’s neck, jerking his head back. Rutledge fought then, with every skill at his command. The boy was strong and driven by obsession. Rutledge had his hands full. And where, he wondered in a corner of his mind, was Mickelson with a half dozen constables?
“ ’Ware!” Hamish yelled.
The knife flashed, and Rutledge caught the arm wielding it, twisted, and brought his weight down on it.
The boy screamed, letting Rutledge go, and then kicked out viciously with all his strength, grazing Rutledge’s kneecap as he leapt back.
There was more thunder, and Rutledge could hear the German guns.
His attention on the boy, looking for an opening to bring him down once and for all, Rutledge felt arms flung around his shoulders, hauling him back. He thought it was one of his own people and relaxed his guard.
Billy hit him then with locked fists, across the face.
Behind Rutledge, someone said, “Will. For God’s sake—”
“No, I’ll kill him. And you as well.” His face was green in the lightning.
“Listen to me, Will. I’ll help you, I swear to God I will.”
“I don’t want your help.”
Billy lunged with the knife, straight at Rutledge’s exposed chest, but the man behind him shoved Rutledge to one side with such force that both went down, and the knife plunged into the man’s left side.
Rebounding, Rutledge was already on his feet, and before Billy could react to what he’d done, he had the boy in a grip that brought him to his knees. Billy yelped in pain. The man lying on the pavement l
ooked up and cried, “Don’t hurt him.”
Rutledge said through clenched teeth, “I’d like to throttle him.”
But he was referring to Mickelson, for the sound of boots pounding belatedly in his direction was none too soon.
The first constable to reach the three men held a torch in the face of the fallen man, and Rutledge nearly lost his grip on Billy as he recognized Charlie Hood.
“Are you all right, sir? That was a very foolhardy thing to do,” the constable chided him, bending over Hood. “And very brave, I must say.” He was shoving something against the heavily bleeding wound as two more men came up and took Billy roughly from Rutledge’s hold.
Rutledge knelt by Hood. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, but Mickelson had just reached them, out of breath, saying, “Who’s this other man?” Thunder cut across the rest of his words.
“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.
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