The Red Door

Chapter 21

The parrot had finished its seeds and taken a bath in the water Rutledge had left in the cage.

In the gray light of a misty morning Rutledge showed the fatigue of a long drive and a short night’s sleep. He looked down at the stained newspapers in the bottom of the cage. He’d just watched Jake crack a nut with ease, and he had no intention of testing that beak against bone. But something had to be done.

He was collecting fresh newspaper when there was a knock at the door of his flat, and Frances came in, calling, “Ian? Are you here? I saw your motorcar. Shouldn’t you be at the Yard?”

“I’m in here,” he told her, and she walked through to his bedroom, where the bird was ensconced on a table by the double windows.

“What possessed you to buy a parrot?” she asked, stopping in astonishment. “But what a pretty creature. Does it have a name? Surely you don’t have the time to care for it properly.”

Rutledge straightened and gazed fondly at his sister.

“Frances, this is Jake. The bird is presently a ward of the court. Sergeant Gibson has already cursed my offspring, my hope of promotion, and my mental capacity. And so it’s here. But you’re right, I don’t have time to care for it properly. You do. Would you like to be its guardian for the next several days?”

“Ian, you must be out of your mind. What am I to do with a bird?”

“That’s exactly what Sergeant Gibson said to me. Although he called me Inspector Rutledge. You have a lovely window looking out onto the gardens. It would be very happy there. And all you have to do is feed it, water it, and—er—keep the newspapers at the bottom of the cage fresh.”

She had come over to the cage. The bird was sitting on a swing, regarding her with a fixed gaze, then it blinked and ducked its head down in a shy motion.

“I think it’s flirting with me,” she told her brother, laughing. “Look.”

Rutledge had wisely stepped aside. “Yes, I think it actually is.”

The bird ducked its head down again, and Frances touched the wires of the cage with her fingers. “Does it talk?”

“I’ve heard it say good night. That’s all. So far.”

“Pretty birdie,” she said lightly, and then, “Good morning, Jake.”

To her surprise, Jake sidled over to her fingers and tucked his head down close to them. “I think he wants to be petted.” She moved her fingers through the wire and touched his feathers, first on his shoulder and then his bent head. “He likes it.” She was smiling with that fondness women reserve for small children and baby animals. “Oh, you are a sweet boy.”

Rutledge had been on the point of warning her to watch the bird’s beak but stopped just in time.

Hamish said, “Ye ken, it belonged to a woman.”

Jake was leaning into Frances’s fingers, clearly enjoying the personal contact. Then it shook itself and flew to the door of the cage.

“He wants to come out.”

“Not on your life,” Rutledge told her.

“But, Ian . . .” She was already unclasping the cage latch, and she put her hand in. The bird hopped on her fingers like a hawk perching on a falconer’s glove. Frances lifted her hand out of the cage, then held it in the air, looking at Jake. They stared at each other, and then he flew to her shoulder, moving back and forth across it in a bobbing motion.

“If men were as malleable as this,” she said, smiling at her brother, “women would be happy as larks.”

“Frances,” he began.

“No. I can’t imagine having to mind it all day. No.”

“It likes you. Look at the feathers in the bottom of his cage. He’s been plucking them out. I think in mourning. His owner is dead. But he likes you. And he may be a witness. Who knows? I need to see to it that he’s safe and comfortable.”

“Do you think he saw a murder? Is that it?”

“I doubt if he did. But it’s possible that someone might confess, if the killer thought Jake knew something.”

She held up two fingers, and Jake stepped passively on them.

“No, don’t put him back. Not until I’ve cleaned out those newspapers.”

Frances talked quietly to the bird as her brother worked. Jake cocked his head, as if trying to understand, then ducked it for more petting.

“Was his owner a woman?”

“Yes. He lived with her for quite a few years. They must have grown close.” He thought of that touching good night that Jake must have heard week in and week out.

“I believe he understands that I’m not his mistress, but he knows I’m a woman.”

“The woman who had temporary care of him threatened to wring his neck. He was screeching like a wild thing.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Will you take him? If only for a few days?”

Frances took a deep breath. “I will not keep him, Ian. Are we clear on that? But I’ll take him for your few days.”

“Wonderful. Er—why was it you stopped by?”

“For one thing, David and little Ian arrived home safely. I thought you’d like to know.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“And,” she went on, “I must admit, I miss the company. I came to see if you could arrange a few days of leave. We might go down to Cornwall or somewhere for a bit. Just to get away. And now I’m saddled with a parrot.” But she smiled wryly.

Rutledge had cleaned the bottom of the cage and put in fresh newspaper. Washing his hands, he said, “It won’t be for long. I promise you. As for leave, it’s just not possible at the moment. In fact, I’m driving north again this morning. I can’t say with any certainty when I’ll come back.”

He followed her back to her house and settled Jake in the breakfast room, where sunlight, breaking through the clouds, promised a better day. Through an open window, the scent of roses came wafting by on the light breeze.

Jake bobbed as he gazed with interest out the open window.

“Roses,” he said, quite clearly.

“His owner,” Rutledge told Frances, “had a garden outside the kitchen windows. This must remind him of his home.”

“It was a verra’ clever thing to do, bringing him here,” Hamish said.

Rutledge left his sister coaxing Jake to speak to her, crooning softly and letting her fingers brush the bird’s feathers.

He was very grateful to make his escape before she changed her mind.

At the station, he spoke to Gibson, who had no news of Thomas Burrows, and then went to see the Chief Superintendent.

He filled Bowles in on the direction he felt the case was taking, and got in return a tongue-lashing for disturbing the Teller family without permission.

“You’re mad if you believe they have had any hand in this business. I’ll be hearing complaints next, and what am I to say? That you’ve taken leave of your senses? And why aren’t you in the north? It makes no sense to be frittering your time away in London. She wasn’t murdered here, this Teller woman, and there must be a dozen Peter Tellers out there. Find him.”

“Gibson has given me a list of those he found. Not one of them is of the same age as we believe Teller would have been now.”

“Then tell Sergeant Gibson to look again.”

Rutledge went in search of Gibson.

The sergeant said in resignation, “I’ll be bound I found every one there is. But I’ll look again.”

Rutledge left him muttering to himself about time wasted.

He headed north, picking up rain showers halfway. And then it cleared as he turned toward Thielwald and Hobson.

Constable Satterthwaite had nothing to report when Rutledge walked into the station and greeted him.

“But I’m that glad to see you again. Any luck in the south?”

“The Yard is still searching for Lieutenant Peter Teller’s family. I’m beginning to think we have already found it. The Chief Superintendent disagrees. Here are the facts. There’s a Teller family in London. Three brothers, one of them presently a captain in the Army. There’s no reason they should even know Florence Teller’s name, but her death came as a shock to them. I’m beginning to wonder if her killer realized she was dead.”

“He made no effort to find it out,” Satterthwaite responded angrily. “Which in my book is still murder. What brought him here?”

Rutledge said, “That’s why I’ve come back. That and the funeral. Do you think Mrs. Greeley will have a room for me again?”

“Indeed, sir. She was asking just yesterday if I was expecting to see you.”

“No sign of the murder weapon?”

“As to that, he must have taken it with him.”

“The services for Florence Teller?”

“They’re tomorrow,” Satterthwaite told him. “I’m glad you’ll be here for them.”

“So am I,” Rutledge said, and went to find Mrs. Greeley.

To his surprise, the next morning Edwin and Amy Teller arrived in good time for the service.

They found Rutledge just coming out of the police station and asked if he could give them directions to the house where Florence Teller had lived.

“You can’t go inside,” he warned them. “This is still an active murder inquiry.” What he wanted to say was that it wasn’t a spectacle for the Teller family. How Florence Teller had lived and died was now police business.

“I understand,” Edwin said. And Rutledge was surprised to realize that the man did. “It just seemed—the right thing to do.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

He could tell it wasn’t what they wanted, but he got into the motorcar and told Edwin to follow the High Street out of Hobson.

As they went, Amy commented on how empty the landscape was, and how lonely. Rutledge thought it was a reflection of someone brought up in the south, where the roads seldom lacked some form of habitation for very long.

Edwin was silent, concentrating on driving. When at last they began to crest the rise before the house, Rutledge said, “Ahead you’ll see a hedge. Stop at the gate.”

He could feel the tension in the two people in the front seat. And he thought, Is this how Hamish knows what’s on my mind?

But there was no time to consider that as Edwin came to a halt in front of the house.

“Sunrise Cottage,” Amy read, then looking up the path to the house, she said, “A red door. Once.”

Rutledge said, “Mrs. Teller painted it to celebrate her husband’s homecoming. Only he never returned. She left it, perhaps in the hope that someday he would. Or because she couldn’t bear to give up all hope.”

Edwin sat there, looking up at the house. “It’s not a very pleasing house, is it?” he mused aloud. “Small and plain and isolated. She lived here alone? That’s sad. He could have done better by her.”

“Perhaps it was what she wanted,” Amy said after a moment. “What she was used to. She took pride in it—you can see that.”

“Still . . .”

The silence lengthened. Finally Edwin let in the clutch and said, “I must find somewhere to turn around.”

“There’s a farmyard just down the road,” Rutledge told them.

Edwin found it and was soon headed back into Hobson.

When they reached the police station, Rutledge said, “Mrs. Greeley’s house is just there. I’m sure she will let you have a room to freshen up. She needs the money.”

Edwin thanked him and drove on.

Rutledge could see them speaking together, but not even Hamish’s sharp hearing could discern what was being said.

Satterthwaite had come out and was looking after them. “And who might they be, when they’re at home?”

“Edwin Teller and his wife, from London. He considers himself the head of the Essex branch of the family. He felt it was his duty to be here, to represent the family that we haven’t found. His brother is Captain Peter Teller.”

“Kind of him,” Satterthwaite said shortly. “Where’s his brother, then?”

“Does he resemble Peter Teller, do you think?”

Satterthwaite considered the question. “In a vague way. Hard to judge with yon beard. Remember, I’ve not seen the man for years. I don’t know how the war changed him.” After a moment, he said, “Does the wife know about Florence?”

“Amy? Yes. She must.” Rutledge, looking back to his first meeting with her, nodded. “But it’s Peter’s wife who has taken the news the hardest.”

St. Bartholomew’s bell, rather more tinny than deep throated, had begun tolling the age of the departed.

Satterthwaite nodded. “It’s time.”

They walked down the High Street, turning up Church Lane at the war memorial. Rutledge saw Cobb pausing there for his morning greeting to his sons, then move on, his cane supporting him over the uneven ruts of the lane.

Watching him, Rutledge said thoughtfully, “Edwin Teller’s brother was badly wounded in the war. He’s in need of a cane as well. But he doesn’t always have it to hand.”

“I’m told Mr. Cobb sleeps with his on the bed, on his wife’s side.”

“You’ve looked into his nephew Lawrence? Anything more on that front, since I left?”

“I’ve kept my eye on him. But there’s nothing there.”

“I saw him wielding a hammer in anger.”

“We’ll see, shall we, if there’s any guilt shown today.”

“Fair enough.”

People from the village were also walking up the lane, and among them Rutledge saw the Tellers in mourning black that was stylishly cut and out of place here among the rusty black of ordinary clothes that hung unused from Monday to Saturday.

St. Bart’s was as plain inside as it was on the outside. Built for sturdiness, built to last, built to worship and not adore. Rutledge had the fleeting thought that Cromwell would have approved. But the people of Hobson had probably not approved of Cromwell or King Charles. Their independence came from the land they farmed, not from London, and it was a hard life, short as well.

The service was brief and as plain as the surroundings in which it was held. The curate spoke simply about our dear departed sister, listing the major events of her life and commenting only once about her death, as an undeserved tragedy. He read several Psalms, and the choir led the mourners in three hymns, including “Rock of Ages.”

And then they moved to the churchyard, watching the plain coffin being lowered into the ground. Next to the open grave was the small patch of grass, slightly lower than its surroundings, that marked her son’s resting place. A rosebush bloomed where a stone should have been, the small pink blossoms reminding Rutledge of one very much like it he’d seen in Florence Teller’s garden.

Beyond Timmy’s grave was a third, the sod flat and untouched.

No one stepped forward at first to throw in the first handful of earth until the constable came up, did his duty, and said under his breath, “I hope you’ve found peace, now.”

Edwin walked up, stared for a moment into the grave, as if he were praying, and then took a firm handful of earth and scattered it gently. It dropped like the first sounds of a heavy rain on the roof as it struck the wooden coffin. Amy Teller followed him, and others came up as well, among them Mrs. Greeley and then Sam Jordan. Lawrence Cobb, watched by his uncle, paused for a moment looking up at the cloudless sky, then gently dropped a yellow rose into the grave. It landed at the broadest part of the coffin, and he nodded, as if that was what he’d intended. Without a word, he walked on, ignoring the red-haired woman just behind him. Rutledge could see her resemblance to Mrs. Blaine, but Betsy was slimmer, prettier. Her mouth was drawn tight now, and he noticed that she didn’t look into the grave or reach for a handful of earth. Instead her eyes were fixed on her husband.

Hamish said, “He’ll no’ spend a restful night.”

Rutledge was the last of the mourners to step forward. Mr. Kerr gave the benediction, and then Florence Marshall Teller was left to the attentions of the gravediggers and the sexton.

Rutledge stood there for a moment longer, then went to join Edwin and Amy Teller as they walked back to their motorcar.

“I’m glad we came,” Edwin said with conviction. “It was the right thing to do.”

“A very simple service,” Rutledge said. “But I think it suited her.”

“I’ve always liked that psalm,” Amy said. “ ‘I will lift mine eyes unto the hills . . .—”

Edwin said, “The curate spoke of a child. A boy. Were there any other children?”

“Only the one son. I’m told he died of illness many years ago.”

“But you told me—I thought you said he was still alive,” Amy accused him.

“I said I was unable to ask his views,” Rutledge answered her.

“How sad,” Edwin Teller said. The words sounded sincere, rather than a conventional expression of sympathy. “For her.”

“Was she your sister-in-law?” Rutledge asked without emphasis.

Edwin Teller stared at him. “This is neither the time nor the place,” he snapped.

Rutledge replied, “Where then is the proper place?”

But there was no answer to that. Even Amy Teller looked away, her face pale.

They had nearly reached the Teller motorcar. Before he could press the issue, Rutledge was distracted by a boy running toward the churchyard, in the direction of Constable Satterthwaite. Rutledge excused himself and left the Tellers standing there.

By the time he’d reached the spot where Satterthwaite was standing listening to the boy, the constable looked up.

He said in a low voice, “A message from the police in Thielwald. They’ve found a walker who admits to being in the vicinity around the time Mrs. Teller was killed. He can’t be sure of the exact day, but it fits well enough. He’s being held there. Are you coming, sir?”

“Yes. My motorcar is at Mrs. Greeley’s house.”

“I’ll meet you there in five minutes,” Satterthwaite said. He thanked the boy and turned to speak to the curate, commenting on the service.

Thielwald had ancient roots, but the town itself looked as if it had been born in the last century and had no recollection of any past before that.

Rutledge had only seen it in late evening, the night he and Constable Satterthwaite had called on Dr. Blake, whose surgery was in a side street before they had reached the High Street.

He could see now that Thielwald’s gray stone houses were crowded along the main road, which was bisected by a few cross streets. In the town center there were the usual shops and a busy pub called The Viking’s Head. The church was just beyond the center, as plain as the one in Hobson but slightly larger, its churchyard clustered around it like lost souls on the windswept rise.

Hamish, who had been quiet during the service and the drive here, said, “It’s no’ a place I’d like to live.”

Rutledge had been thinking the same thing—no character to set it off, no natural features to make it more attractive. A small town with no pretensions.

Seeing the post office set in a corner of an ironmonger’s shop, Rutledge said, “Ah. I’d like to make a brief stop here before we see this walker. I want to ask the postmistress a question.”

“Can it wait?”

“No.” He halted the motorcar, and leaving it running, he said to the constable, “Wait here. I shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”

Striding into the ironmonger’s, he turned to the left and found the tiny square of space that was Thielwald’s post office. The middle-aged woman behind the counter smiled as he approached and said, “What can I do for you today, sir?”

Rutledge identified himself and asked if she handled the mail for Hobson as well.

“Oh, yes, sir. It’s carried up to the village once a day and delivered. Not that there’s much of it, now the war’s over. Business was quite brisk then, you know, everyone writing to a soldier son or father or brother. Quite brisk.”

“Do you recall mail for Mrs. Florence Teller?”

“Yes, sir, that’s Florence Marshall that was. She got the most exotic packets sometimes, covered with foreign stamps. I always wondered what was inside, you know. Mrs. Greeley told me once there were silk pillow slips from China. I hardly know where to find China on the map, and here’s silk pillow slips coming to my own post office.”

“It must have been quite exciting,” he agreed. “Did Mrs. Teller write to her family or her husband’s family in England?”

“Letters, you mean.”

“Yes. Was there an exchange of letters with members of her husband’s family? We’re trying to locate them. It’s the matter of her will.”

“I don’t believe she ever did. No, nothing like that. She wrote to Lieutenant Teller and he wrote to her. And that was the end of it.”

“Where did she send the letters to Lieutenant Teller? What regiment? Do you remember?”

“But they didn’t go to his regiment, sir. They were mailed to an address in Dorset. Lieutenant Teller had told her it was faster than waiting for the Army to send them on. Still and all, it was sometimes many months before a reply came.”

“Where in Dorset? Do you remember?” He tried not to sound eager.

She frowned. “A place called Sedley, I think it was. Peter Teller, in care of A. R.—no, I believe it was A. P. Repton, Mistletoe Cottage, Sedley, Dorset,” she finished triumphantly, and smiled at him. “I rather liked Mistletoe Cottege.”

Repton was the name of the village outside Witch Hazel Farm, where the Teller family had lived for generations. In Essex, not Dorset.

He thanked her and left.

So much for the theory of blackmail.

“Any luck, sir?” the constable asked when Rutledge came back to the motorcar and they drove on.

“Another dead end, most likely. At least there was no correspondence between Mrs. Teller and her husband’s family.”

Satterthwaite said, “Just there,” and pointed out the police station, which looked as if it had once been a shop itself, the front window overwhelming the door set to the side. Inspector Hadden was waiting for them with a scruffy-looking young man who was, Rutledge thought, an undergraduate student somewhere.

He was introduced as Benjamin Larkin, who stood to shake hands with Rutledge and the constable. His voice, when he spoke, was educated, and he said at once, “I was in a pub south of Morecambe when I heard there was a murder over by Hobson. A woman in an isolated farmhouse. So I got in touch with the police. It appears to be the same one I passed several days back. I was going to stop in and ask to refill my water bottle, but there was a motorcar on the far side of the hedge, and so I moved on.”

“A motorcar? Did you see anyone in it?” Hadden asked.

But Rutledge said, “Start at the beginning if you will.”

“It was mid-afternoon, I think. I was coming over the rise, taking in the view, and there was a house to my left. I saw a pump in the kitchen yard and I thought I might stop and refill my bottle. But no one was about, so I thought perhaps I’d come around the front and knock, rather than help myself. The view was rather nice, and I moved toward my right to see more of it, when I realized there was a road below the house, not just a lane. I didn’t remember that being on the rough map I had, so I stopped and dug in my gear for it, to be sure I wasn’t in the wrong place. I was walking and looking at the map when I saw a motorcar was stopped at the end of the high hedge surrounding the front garden. It seemed to me that the owner might have come up from Morecambe—it was that kind of motor, and it occurred to me that it would do no harm to ask for a lift. No one was around, so I sat down by a small shrub and ate the last of my biscuits, hoping he wouldn’t be long. I was just putting away my map when I could hear footsteps. And there he was, hurrying back to the motorcar. He was lame, finding it difficult to deal with the crank, but before I could collect my gear and hail him, the motor turned over, and he hobbled around to haul himself in. I didn’t like the look of the situation—he appeared to be angry or upset, not the time to ask favors. I just walked on, and thought no more about it, until I heard talk in the pub where I spent last night.”

“Did he see you?” Hadden asked.

“I have no idea. Probably not. I did notice that he glanced around, as if looking for something, but it all happened rather fast.”

“Where did he go from there?” Rutledge asked.

“He was driving east.”

“What can you tell me about the motorcar?”

“It was a black Rolls, well kept and quite clean. I hadn’t expected to see that out here.” He turned to Inspector Hadden, adding, “With no disrespect. But it was more the sort of vehicle you’d find in a city. It hadn’t been used to haul cabbages or saddles or hens.”

“And the man?” Rutledge said. He had more or less taken over the questioning, Hadden deferring to him.

“Lame, as I told you. Tall, slim. Darkish hair, military cut. Well dressed. Like the car, he seemed out of place here.”

“Was there a quarrel, do you think? Was that what had upset him?”

“I can’t say. I wasn’t close enough to hear if there was. But no one was shouting, if that’s what you’re asking. Still, not the time to be knocking on doors or asking for a lift.”

“Did he have a cane? Or some sort of tool in his hand—did you see him toss anything into the motorcar, like a box?”

“I don’t know—no, actually I do.” Larkin squinted, as if bringing back the scene in his memory. “He was empty-handed when he went to crank the car. But if I’d seen a cane, I wouldn’t have been surprised, given the problem with his legs.”

“Describe the Rolls, if you will.”

“Black, well polished, 1914 Ghost, touring car. Rather like the one you drove up in, save for the color.”

And very like the one Edwin Teller had just driven away in.

Hamish said, “Do ye believe the lad?”

All things considered, Rutledge thought he did. Larkin needn’t have come forward, for one thing. He’d already disappeared into the landscape. But sometimes cases turned on unexpected evidence like this.

“Where are you studying?” Rutledge asked, curious.

“Cambridge,” Larkin answered and named his college. “Which is why this was a walking tour and not two weeks in Italy. I couldn’t afford it,” he added with a grin.

“Did you see anyone at the house? A woman? Or notice that the house had a red door?”

“I never saw the door. No one was in the kitchen yard. I don’t know about the front garden. There was the hedge, you see. Nearly as tall as I was.”

Rutledge turned to Hadden and Satterthwaite. “Anything else?”

They had no further questions. Rutledge thanked Larkin and told him he could go. And then he said as Larkin reached behind the desk and lifted his haversack, “Would you mind if I looked in that?”

Larkin slung it off his shoulder and said, “Help yourself. Mind the dirty wash.”

But there was nothing in the pack that could have been used for a weapon. And nothing that could have come from Florence Teller’s house. Only spare clothes, a tarp for wet weather, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, a comb, a block of soap, a razor, a book on English wildflowers and another on birds, a heavy bottle for water, and a small sack of dried fruit, biscuits, sweets, and a heel of cheese. Nothing, in fact, that a walker shouldn’t have, and everything he should.

Hamish said, “He could ha’ left behind anything he didna’ want you to see.”

It was true. But the very compactness of the haversack, intended to minimize weight and maximize comfort in a small space, didn’t allow for extras.

Rutledge nodded, asked for his address at Cambridge, and when that was done, thanked him again. Larkin went out the door.

“What do you think?” Inspector Hadden asked, echoing Hamish.

“I’ll ask the Yard to be sure he’s who he says he is. But I expect he’s telling the truth.”

“Was it Teller coming home?” Satterthwaite asked. “If it was, he has money now. I never thought he did before. He had enough that he wasn’t looking to live on Florence’s money from her aunt. But not rich.”

“A good point,” Rutledge acknowledged. “Pass the word to keep an eye on Larkin while he’s in the district. He might be able to identify the driver, if we find him.”

Turning to Satterthwaite, Rutledge said, “Did you look at that hedge around the front of the house? If I wanted to rid myself of a murder weapon, I might consider sticking it deep in there. It’s thick enough.”

Satterthwaite said slowly, “No, we did not. Under it, yes. But we’d have seen anything in the branches, wouldn’t we?”

“It won’t hurt to have another go at it.”

By the time they reached Sunrise Cottage, clouds were building far out over the water, and Satterthwaite, scanning them, said, “Looks like this fine weather is about to break. I’m glad the service was dry.”

Rutledge agreed with him. But he thought they had another hour.

They searched the hedge carefully, together pulling at the thickest parts of it and then letting them fall back into place. Inch by inch, they worked one side and across the front. As they came round to the corner closest to the house, Rutledge had to step into the hedge to make it easier to part the thick branches there, and grunting, Satterthwaite pushed and shoved at them. Rutledge nearly lost his footing and caught the constable’s shoulder to steady himself. He turned to look down.

The earth under the hedge was thick with last winter’s fallen leaves and possibly those of winters before that. They formed a light bed perhaps a good inch or so deep.

Cobb, the schoolmaster, had told Rutledge that since the war, there had been no one but his nephew to help with the farm. And this was proof of it.

“What’s the matter?” Satterthwaite asked as Rutledge knelt to run his fingers through the damp and rotting mass.

He had to dig deep into the soil below, but it was loose enough and damp enough for him to wedge his fingers behind something there.

He found what he was after and pulled it toward him. He could hear the constable’s indrawn breath as he realized what was coming to light.

Not a walking stick as the doctor had first suggested, but the remains of a Malacca cane. Rutledge stood up with it in his hands.

Although filthy, with leaves still clinging to it, it was not an old and rotting thing. It had been hidden here fairly recently, buried just deep enough that a policeman searching among the sparse hedge trunks close to the ground would have seen only what he expected to see—the carpet of leaves. But someone had taken the sharp end and used it to thrust the length of the cane out of sight well below that layer.

“If I hadn’t felt it under my sole, I wouldn’t have thought to dig,” Rutledge said, running his hands along the wood, gently brushing off the debris.

“There’s no head,” Satterthwaite pointed out.

The head had been broken off, and the smooth dark red shaft was still raw where the wood had been splintered.

“It would match the wound in Florence Teller’s head—or at least the murderer thought it might.” He frowned. “It wouldn’t be easy to snap off the head. Rattan palm canes are very strong. There must have been a weakness—where the cane had dried and cracked around the knob that served as a handle.”

“Why leave the rest? Why not take the cane and throw it off a bridge far from here?”

“The killer wouldn’t have wanted to be seen with it in his possession.”

“But if he brought it here—”

“Yes, that’s the point. But it only became a weapon once Florence Teller was killed. Before that it was simply someone’s cane.”

He looked around. The tidy bit of lawn, the flowers on the path, the step and the street door . . . They hadn’t been disturbed.

Hamish said, “The step.”

It was a long, rectangular slab of stone, smoothed to serve the doorway. Rutledge walked over to it and ran his hands along the edge. Someone could have shoved the head of the cane under the slab, and with the force of anger or of fear, managed to snap it off. Brush the earth back again, where the head had dug in, and who would notice what had been done. If the police hadn’t found the cane, the slab of step would hold no significance. Someone, having just killed, had taken the time to think through what to do with the weapon.

That was an interesting look into his state of mind, whoever he was.

Rutledge began to sift the earth very gently through his fingers, moving aside a plant and reaching down under the stone. The head of the cane wasn’t there. He hadn’t expected it to be, but he’d had to be sure.

He was just smoothing the earth back into place when Hamish said, “There!”

Rutledge stopped. There was nothing he could see at first, and then he recognized what was caught in the roots of the pansy.

It was not as big as a toothpick. Just a fine splinter of wood, like the proverbial needle in a haystack. It was, in fact, more like a needle than anything else, one that had been held to a flame and tarnished.

He dug it out carefully, blew away the earth that smothered it, and put up his hand for the broken end of the cane that Satterthwaite was still holding.

There was no match, of course, but there was no doubt that it was the same wood.

Satterthwaite said, “It was savagely done.”

“He’d have liked to hit her a second time, I expect. One blow was not enough to satisfy him. I wonder why? Because she died so easily? Or would her battered head give him away?”

“The walker. Larkin.”

“I doubt it. The only thing taken was a box of letters.”

“I wonder where the head of the cane might be? Was it valuable, do you think? Larkin indicated he had no money to speak of, this summer.”

“He might have found the cane here, and stolen the head. But that would be after the murder, and her body would have been lying here in plain sight. Still—” Rutledge turned to stare beyond the gate, in the direction of Thielwald. “It’s just as well we’re keeping an eye on him.” He returned to the cane in hand. “It will be a miracle if we ever find the rest.” It must have been distinctive, he thought, this head. They were usually ivory or gold, with initials or a figure that could easily be identified and therefore was equally damning. He wondered if Edwin Teller would be willing to describe his brother’s cane.

Teller’s motorcar? Teller’s cane? But none of these was proof of murder. Only that he was here on the day that Florence Teller died. Or one of his brothers was here . . .

“The man in the motorcar. He didna’ have a cane when he left,” Hamish pointed out.

“But we don’t know if he carried one with him when he arrived. For all we know, he found the body and panicked.”

He’d spoken aloud.

Satterthwaite said, “The man in the motorcar? That could be. He didn’t have the casket of letters either.”

“What if he’d already put them in the boot? He might have returned to the house to destroy the cane.”

“True enough. I’d sworn we’d searched that hedge carefully.”

“I’m sure you did. But not the ground below it. Only for something caught in it.” Rutledge put the splinter of wood carefully away in his handkerchief and then dusted his hands.

Looking up at the sky, at the heavy dark clouds drawing closer, he said, “We’ll be caught yet.” Turning to Satterthwaite, he said, “Did you sift the ashes in the stove? In the event anything was burned in there?”

“We did. And nothing came to light. Of course, it might not have, if there were no hinges on that box. Or clasp. It’ud burned right up. But that would take time. In my mind, he took the box with him.”

“All right then. I think we should be on our way to Hobson, before that storm gets here.”

As it happened, they had only just reached the police station when the dark clouds, heavy with rain, rolled in on their heels. Satterthwaite thanked Rutledge, and said, “You’re staying the night?”

“I want to take the cane to London as quickly as I can. I’ll see that you know what we found out.”

“You think the answer is in London then? One of those brothers.”

“I don’t know,” Rutledge told him. “But you and I have run out of suspects here. Let me try in London.”

Satterthwaite grinned. “You’ll drown before you get there.” And he made a fast dash for the door of the station just as the first heavy drops of rain became a raging downpour.

Backed with wind, it was a cold rain for June. And it followed Rutledge nearly as far as Chester. He ran out of it there and considered staying the night another fifty miles down the road. But his mind was busy with new directions, and he was in a hurry to test them.