by Charles Todd
He set aside the night's reports and considered his next step in the case that was his. He couldn't put a finger on what bothered him most about the disappearance of Walter Teller.
There were strong reasons why Teller might be experiencing bouts of depression and despair. His son's future, his own obligation to his calling.
But these couldn't altogether explain his disappearance.
Or why he had been paralyzed by indecision? If that was what it was.
Even the Teller family wasn't in agreement about the reasons behind what had happened. Although Rutledge had a feeling that they knew more than they were telling.
It was useless to speculate. No one was likely to solve the mystery of what lay so heavily on Walter Teller's soul until the man himself could answer the question.
And Rutledge had a feeling that that was not likely to be very soon.
How long would the Yard continue to search? When would the decision be made to call it off? It had gone on longer than the average missing persons case because Walter Teller was Walter Teller. Manpower was becoming a crucial issue in the hunt for Bynum's killer.
He was on the point of leaving his office to speak to Chief Superintendent Bowles when Sergeant Gibson stopped him. "There's a constable downstairs with a message. You'd best speak to him yourself."
Rutledge went down to the lobby to find one of Sergeant Biggin's men standing there, breathless from his bicycle ride across London.
"It's urgent, sir. Sergeant Biggin asks if you can come to the clinic at once?"
Stowing the bicycle in the boot of his motorcar, Rutledge said to the constable, "What's happened?"
"As to that, sir, you'd best wait and ask him."
They were halfway to the Belvedere Clinic when Rutledge thought he glimpsed Charlie Hood walking the other way. He swore as he lost sight of the man, but traffic was heavy, and he had to keep his attention on the motorcars, lorries, and drays that filled the street.
"Did you see that man? With the unkempt hair, and a dark brown coat?" he demanded of the constable in the seat beside him. "We just passed him. On your right."
"No, sir, I didn't," the man answered him, craning his neck to look back the way they had come. A brewery lorry was pulling in just behind them, blocking Rutledge's view as well.
It would do no good to set the constable down to follow Hood; he hadn't seen the man.
Rutledge took a deep breath and said, "Never mind."
They reached the clinic, and the constable took up his stance by the door.
Passing through the outer lobby, Rutledge nodded to the porter on duty, then walked through to Matron's sitting room.
There he was almost swept into an embrace by a joyful Jenny Teller, her face blindingly bright with happiness. Over her shoulder he saw a man stand and step away from his chair, a tentative expression on his face.
"Oh!" Jenny exclaimed. "I thought it was Edwin. Do come in, Inspector Rutledge. I want to show you that I was right all along. Here is my husband. Walter, this is the Scotland Yard inspector I've told you about."
And Walter Teller had the grace to stare sheepishly at Rutledge. He had changed from the younger man in the photograph that his wife had let Rutledge borrow. There were deeper lines on his face, fatigue mostly, and an uncertainty, Rutledge thought, about his reception.
He needn't have worried. Despite his shabby appearance, hair that looked as if he'd combed it with his fingers, and the beginnings of a beard, Walter Teller was the most wonderful sight in the world to his wife's eyes.
Then who was Charlie Hood?
As Rutledge crossed the room, he caught the distinct odor of incense with a soupcon of cabbage on Teller's clothing. He found himself remembering what Leticia Teller had said, that her brother would salve his conscience in serving the poor of London.
"I've sent for Edwin and Peter, but the doctors want to take Walter away and examine him," Jenny was saying.
Rutledge felt an odd mixture of relief that the man was alive and a strong sense of anger at what he had put his family through.
"Mr. Teller," he said, his voice cold.
"I know," Teller admitted. "I've done a terrible thing. But I can't tell you why or even tell you where I've been. I came to my senses outside a greengrocer's shop this morning, watching as he put trays of vegetables in his window. I went inside and asked him what day it was, and where his shop was. He told me I was drunk and to get out. I'd never been spoken to like that before. On the street, I passed a milliner's shop with a mirror in the window, and I saw myself then. Small wonder the man thought I was drunk or mad.
Jenny, tears in her eyes, said, "You mustn't think about it. You're safe now, you're here."
Teller's gaze was on Rutledge, wanting him to believe, wanting him to accept what he was saying.
Rutledge was saved from answering by the appearance of one of the doctors, urging Teller to come and let them examine him, but Jenny said, "No. His brothers are on the way. Please, we've been so worried. Let them see he's safe now. Then you can have him."
But Rutledge thought it was Jenny herself who couldn't let her husband out of her sight just yet. She clung to his arm, as if still not sure this miracle was real, or if she had dreamed it.
Dr. Sheldon said, "Half an hour, and then we really must insist." He left, shutting the door behind him.
Teller said, "Jenny. Do you think Matron might arrange a cup of tea? I'm dry as a desert."
She was of two minds about leaving him. Rutledge said, "I'll be here," and finally she walked out the door, looking back at her husband, as if she expected him to vanish before her eyes.
Teller said quietly, as soon as she was out of earshot, "I left here with every intention of drowning myself. But when I got to the river, the water was filthy. Oily and with things floating in it. Paper and feathers and the odd tin. I even saw a dead seagull some twenty yards away, feathers a dirty gray, and I thought I couldn't let them find me like that. So I began walking. My God, I don't know how far I walked. Halfway to France, it seemed. At night I slept in churches. I know churches, I felt safe there. I'd wait until nearly dark, and then slip inside. There are places in the organ loft where it's not as cold, and I'm used to sleeping on the ground when I have to. I managed. Never the same church twice, for fear I'd be seen. I had money with me. I could buy enough food to keep up my strength." He smiled ruefully. "Once a constable nearly took me into custody. I'd offered to pay for my meal with a five-pound note. He thought I'd stolen it, that I was a pickpocket. I had to convince him I was down on my luck and living on the kindness of strangers. I'd bought workmen's clothes."
"Is any of this true?" Rutledge asked him.
"It's true. But I don't want to tell these things to my wife. So I'm asking you to let her believe I was dazed or ill. It will hurt her to know I was in my right mind and still let her believe the worst."
"She never accepted the possibility that you were dead."
He flinched.
"Why did you leave here?"
"I told you. I wanted to die."
"There's usually a reason for suicide. What happened on the road between London and Essex?"
"You might as well ask me what happened on the road to Damascus. I don't know. At first I thought I was dying. And then I feared for Harry. Dr. Fielding couldn't find anything wrong, and I thought he was lying."
Rutledge, judging him, could believe that, as far as it went.
Teller, seeing that Rutledge wasn't fully convinced, shrugged. "I know. I have much to live for. A fine wife, a fine son, a home I love. I have no worries about money or my health. What right have I to feel the weight of depression? But I don't think depression is measured by what you have-"
He broke off with a warning glance to Rutledge as the door opened. But it wasn't Jenny with their tea; it was Edwin Teller and his wife who came into the room and stopped stock-still, staring at the apparition before them.
"My God," Edwin said, moving as if to embrace his brother. And then h
e stopped. "Where the hell have you been? Do you know what you have put Jenny-all of us-through? If Father were alive now, he'd horsewhip you!"
Amy put her hand on her husband's arm. "No, don't, Edwin. Please-"
Walter said, "I have no excuses. No explanation. I'm sorry. More sorry than you know. More sorry than you will ever know."
Peter Teller and his wife came in just then, and Peter, recognizing his brother, glowered at him. "I hope you can explain yourself," he said through clenched teeth. "I hope there was a damned good reason for what you've done."
Susannah, her face flushed, said, "Where's Jenny?"
"I asked her to bring me a little tea. I couldn't bear her relief any longer."
"Someone should telephone Leticia. And Mary," Susannah said. And then in a burst of anger she said accusingly, "It's been a terrible week. We've driven miles, we've tried to console Jenny, we've tried to think where you might be, and then your clothes were found by the river-" She turned away, brushing angrily at the tears in her eyes.
Rutledge recalled that Peter had been drinking heavily. It explained, a little, his wife's distress.
"I know. I say again, I'm sorry. It's not enough, but it's all I can do."
The door opened, and Jenny held it wide for one of the sisters to bring in Matron's tea tray. She carried it to the table, and then turned to Walter.
"We're very happy to see you've returned safely," she said. "And Matron would appreciate a word, when you've seen the doctors."
Teller looked overwhelmed, but he said, "Yes, of course."
Jenny was saying triumphantly to his brothers, "I told you he wasn't dead. But when they brought him in to me, I couldn't believe my eyes." She laughed, trying hard to ignore the tension in the room.
Amy went to the tray and began to pour tea into cups. The practical one, Rutledge realized. Or-less involved? She carried one to Walter without a word, and then gave one to Jenny. Peter refused his, but Edwin accepted one as well, as if needing to keep his hands busy.
Matron came in, saying, "I'm so sorry to interrupt your celebration, but I'm afraid we must borrow Mr. Teller for a bit."
He followed her, almost as if he was glad of escape. Jenny started after him, then stopped at a glance from Matron.
Edwin said, when he'd gone, "I'm sorry. It's been a very difficult time for us. For Walter as well. I shouldn't have lost my temper."
Smoothing what oil she could over troubled waters, Amy said, "Jenny, you must be so happy. He looks well, doesn't he? A little tired, perhaps."
"I want to leave here as soon as the doctors will let him go," she answered. "I want to go home, and I want to have Harry back again."
"You ought to stay with us for a few days," Amy suggested, but Jenny shook her head.
"I'm sick of London."
Edwin moved to stand beside Rutledge. "Has he told you why he left? Or where he was?" he asked quietly.
"I'm not sure how much I believe," Rutledge answered. "But at a guess, I'd say he never left London."
"London?" Edwin stared at him. "Well. That most certainly is good news." He hesitated. "There are no charges, I hope, growing out of this. The inquiry, the search?"
"None." Bowles would never agree to any, Rutledge knew.
But before Rutledge left the clinic, he had a last word with Walter Teller. The doctors had pronounced him in good health and told him that he was free to return to Essex. What they really believed they kept to themselves.
Rutledge said, "This will not happen again. Is that understood?"
Walter's head reared back, as if about to challenge Rutledge. And then he said, "It wasn't deliberate. I didn't ask the police to search for me."
"What did you think would happen, when the clinic discovered you were missing? To protect themselves, the first order of business was to summon the police."
"Yes, I suppose I should have expected that. But why the Yard?"
"You're an important man, Mr. Teller. We were concerned."
Teller had the grace to look ashamed of himself. "Yes, all right. It won't happen again. For that matter, I can't think of any reason why it should."
Rutledge said as he walked to the door, "There's something else. You've put your wife through a very difficult time. The least you can do for her sake is change your mind now about your son's schooling."
Teller said, "It was my father's wish-"
"He's dead, Teller. Your wife is very much alive. Do it for her."
"I'll consider it. I can at least do that."
Rutledge nodded and went out.
Rutledge could hear Hamish before he reached his motorcar. He could feel the sunlight fading, replaced by the raw gray light of the trenches just before dawn. And then the guns picked up, their shells dropping with precision, without a break between them. It had driven more than one man mad, the shelling, and he had lived with the sound until it was almost a part of his very bones.
Somehow he managed to start the motorcar, but how he reached the Yard, he didn't know. And then the trenches faded as quickly as they had come.
Rutledge sat in his motorcar, staring through the windscreen, trying to shake off the aftermath. And then the motorcar began moving again, and almost without thinking, he found himself driving toward Chelsea.
A reasonable time had passed. It would be proper to call and see how Meredith Channing was faring. It would be expected.
But when he got there and knocked at the door, no one came to answer it.
Hamish said, "She's no' in London."
Rutledge stood there on the steps, accepting the silence beyond the closed door. And then he turned and walked back to his motorcar.
Chapter 16
It was necessary to report to Bowles how the inquiry into the disappearance of Walter Teller had ended.
Rutledge braced himself and knocked at the man's door. "Come."
It was difficult to judge his mood from the one word.
But as Rutledge walked into the office, he could see that for once Bowles was not scowling.
Rutledge said, "The Teller inquiry is closed. Teller returned to the clinic on his own, and from what the doctors have said, he's recovered and free to return to Essex."
Bowles raised his eyebrows in an expression of surprise. "Did he now? And where has he been all this time, pray?"
"Sleeping in churches. Walking the streets. Thinking. Who knows? I wasn't sure how much I could believe. He's a very private man, and I don't expect anyone will ever know the truth about what happened. Not even his wife."
"You're the policeman. What's your opinion?"
Rutledge considered the question. "It seemed to me that the arrival of a letter from his missionary society coincided with problems with his wife, and he didn't know how to respond to the letter. At the same time, he was on the point of sending his son to Harrow early, against her wishes." That answer would serve well enough for a report. He had no idea why Walter Teller had been ill or left the clinic without a word. He rather thought, but had no intention of telling Bowles, that Teller's brothers had suspected something. Yet they hadn't confronted him. And that was decidedly odd, given their anger when he returned. Was it Jenny's presence that had stopped them?
Bowles nodded. "I should think it might be very difficult to go back to those godforsaken posts after all these years away. I wouldn't fancy it myself. But he may have felt honor bound to fulfill his commitment to the Society."
Rutledge said nothing.
"If it were anyone but Walter Teller, I'd have a word with him. Wasting police time and putting us all through the hoops. I must say, I expected better of the man."
"I already have made it clear-"
"At least you managed to keep this business out of the newspapers. With the number of police involved in the search, it's a wonder word didn't get out."
"If it had gone on much longer-or had had a different ending-we might not have escaped their attention."
"There's that. All right. Let me have your report before the day
is out."
But instead of returning to his own office, Rutledge went out of the Yard and walked to Trafalgar Square and then past St. Martin-in-the-Fields, taking the streets at random while his mind was busy.
It had reached a very unsatisfactory conclusion, this inquiry, he thought, ignoring the people coming and going around him, the busy traffic of a London day.
Why had Teller returned on his own? And where was he? What had he really been doing with his time?
Hamish said, "He willna' tell anyone."
And Rutledge thought that that was probably true. He wondered if Teller had decided to return to the field. Perhaps his soul-searching had found his answer.
Suddenly he recalled what Mary Brittingham had said, that Walter Teller wasn't a saint. He was bitter. About what? It would be enlightening to know.
And that, Rutledge decided, was the best explanation of the man he'd heard.
But of course that was not something that could be expressed in a report.
Chapter 17
Peter Teller sat in his garden in Bolingbroke Street and poured himself another glass of whisky. His hand was shaking, but he was far from as drunk as he wanted to be.
His brother Walter was back, greeted like the prodigal son. It was a travesty. All that was needed was the fatted calf, he told himself sourly.
What did he know? He had stared into his brother's eyes and seen nothing. And not even Walter was that cold-blooded.
Draining the glass, he sat back in his chair, moved his bad leg a little in the hope of finding a more comfortable position, and stared through the silhouetted leaves above his head at the night sky, black as he was sure his soul was.
What in God's name had he done? To make matters worse, he couldn't have said under oath what had become of his cane. It wasn't in the motorcar. In his haste he must have dropped it. In the grass? Along the road? When he got out two hours later to stretch and massage his leg?
He hadn't intended to frighten her. He had only wanted to say what he'd come to say and walk away.
He wasn't even sure now just what he had said-the words had spilled out, a reflection of fear and anger. He'd charged German positions under fire, he'd killed men, he'd fought for King and Country, and yet in those few seconds he'd lost his courage, and with it lost his head.