The Red Door

Chapter 23

Rutledge reached London in the small hours of the night and went to his flat to sleep.

He was in a quandary over the cane. Peter Teller, of course, would deny any knowledge of it. But Edwin would have made the journey back to London in easy stages and would reach Marlborough Street tomorrow at the earliest.

Walter Teller, then.

Leaving London for the trunk road, he caught sight of Charlie Hood again, this time walking briskly along the pavement, head down and buried in his thoughts. Rutledge pulled over and called to him.

Hood turned around, stared at Rutledge for a moment, then placed him. Reluctantly he came toward the motorcar, saying, “You don’t have that man’s murderer in custody, do you?” There was a mixture of emotions in his voice. Fear uppermost.

“Not yet. I don’t think he’s killed again.”

“No. He’s lying low somewhere, I’ll be bound. He didn’t expect to stir up a hornet’s nest, now did he?”

“Do you know a Walter Teller?” Rutledge asked, still trying to place that vague sense of having seen Hood before.

“Teller? Should I? Is that what you’re calling the boy?”

“We still don’t have a name for him. I have a feeling the one he gave me was not his.”

“Stands to reason. He was committing a crime, wasn’t he?”

“Is your name Charlie Hood?” Rutledge countered.

“It’s as good a one as any.” Hood straightened up. Then he said, “Watch yourself, mate.”

With that he walked off, ignoring Rutledge, who called to him to come back and finish the conversation. Turning a corner, Hood was quickly out of sight.

Hood had heard something, Rutledge thought. In that secretive telegraph system that tied the poor and the wanted and the running together, and no policeman knew the key.

Hamish said, “He answered the question aboot Teller wi’ one of his ain.”

“So he did. I’ll give you odds he and Teller crossed paths.” He considered that. “When he gave his account of the Bynum killing, he was coming from the direction of the Abbey. I wonder if Teller slept there. Or if it was in another church.”

And then he swore. In his pocket was the photograph of Walter Teller that Jenny Teller had let him borrow to help the police find her husband. He had carried it with him, first to use, and then to return to her. And he had not yet kept his promise. He could have shown it to Hood. Who knew what name—if any—Teller had been using while he was invisible in London?

People behind Rutledge were sounding their horns, telling him to move on. He did, for a moment, consider returning to the Yard, but by the time he could send anyone to search for Hood the man would have been lost to sight again.

He drove on to Essex, and found Teller deadheading his roses after the night’s rain.

Teller looked up when he saw the motorcar coming up the drive and straightened, as if preparing himself for what was to come.

Rutledge left the motorcar on the drive and walked across the lawns toward the roses. “They’ve done well this year,” he said.

“You haven’t come all this way to praise our roses.”

“No. But they reminded me that Lawrence Cobb had put one in Florence Teller’s grave. I think he was in love with her.”

Teller’s face tightened. “I don’t know a Lawrence Cobb.”

“No, that’s probably true. Did you know a Charlie Hood? No? Then can you describe the cane that your brother Peter uses for his leg?”

“His cane?” The swift change in direction caught Teller unprepared.

“Yes. Was it ash, by any chance?”

“As I remember,” Teller said, frowning, “it was Malacca. I’ve seen it so often, to tell you the truth I don’t heed it anymore.”

“The knob at the end?”

Teller was wary now. “Ivory, I think. A Gorgon’s head. Why?”

Was he lying? Or telling the truth? It was hard to read his face.

“We have reason to believe it was a cane that killed Florence Teller. We found part of it in the hedge surrounding the front garden. I haven’t seen your brother using his of late. Instead, he struggles to get around without one.”

“I suspect he’s trying to wean himself from the use of it.”

“I doubt that. From the type of wound he suffered, I should think he will need a cane for the rest of his life.”

“That may be—”

“It’s likely,” Rutledge said harshly, “that he used that cane to kill Florence Teller. His motorcar was seen outside the house that same day. We’ve found that cane. And we have a witness who can describe both the driver and the vehicle.”

Teller said, “Peter would have no reason to kill the woman. What’s she to him?” He went back to the roses, his face turned away.

“His first wife, very likely,” Rutledge said. “I think you’ve suspected that all along. She had a child, you know. A boy. If Timmy had lived, he would have displaced your son as heir.”

“This is arrant supposition. My brother was in love with Susannah, and it was three years before he could win the family’s approval to wed her. Why would he take another wife in the meantime?”

“Lawrence Cobb wanted to marry Florence Teller. I’ve told you. And when he couldn’t, he married Mrs. Blaine’s daughter. Your brother may have acted in haste and disappointment and then lived to regret it.”

The strain on Teller’s face was plain to see as he looked up. “Do you think I’d have countenanced that? Do you think I’d have let him wed Susannah, if I’d known there was an impediment to the marriage?”

“I don’t know. Did you attend their wedding?”

“I was in West Africa. I didn’t learn of it until months later.”

“And so you let it stand by default. But he continued to visit Hobson, in fact. Even after his marriage. I have witnesses to that too. After the war, when his leg was so badly damaged he couldn’t travel north, he let her believe he was dead. An easy solution.”

“I won’t listen to any more of this. It’s a hodgepodge of wishful thinking and make-believe. There’s not a grain of truth in it!” It was more a cry of pain than of denial.

Rutledge nodded and walked back to his motorcar. He turned it and then drove back up the drive. When he was nearly out of sight of the rose bed, he glanced in his rearview mirror.

Walter Teller was bent over, his arms wrapped around his body, as if he were in pain, his head down. Rutledge was too far away to see his face, but he carried with him the image of a man in agony.

He decided to drive on to Leticia Teller’s house, and when he got there, he found that once more Mary Brittingham was ahead of him.

When the maid showed him into the garden, he realized that the two women had been having words. They hadn’t heard his approach.

Their faces flushed, their eyes bright, they were confronting each other, standing several feet apart, as if any closer might lead to blows.

As he stepped through the gate from the shrubbery, they turned to stare at him, as if he’d dropped down from the moon, a creature they had never seen before and dangerous.

Leticia forced herself to smile. “Inspector Rutledge,” she said. “Mary is just leaving.”

“On the contrary, I want to hear what he’s got to say.”

Leticia’s mouth tightened. “It’s nothing to do with you, this business. I’d be grateful if you leave.”

Mary said, “My sister is married to your brother. I’m here to protect her. She’s not as strong as I am.”

Leticia said through clenched teeth, “That can wait. Until we see what the Inspector has come to say.” Turning to him, she added, “I must assume we owe the pleasure of your company to Yard business?”

He said, “I’ve come to ask you what you know about Florence Teller.”

“Yes, that woman in Lancashire? I understand she was found murdered. It’s a tragedy, of course, but nothing to do with us. I don’t understand how we can help you,” Leticia said.

“Your brother felt it had enough to do with your family that he attended her funeral yesterday.”

The two women, their quarrel forgotten, were giving him their undivided attention now.

“Which brother?” Leticia demanded finally. “It’s the first I’ve heard of this. Not Peter, surely?”

“Edwin Teller. As we haven’t yet been able to locate her husband’s relations, he felt it was his duty to represent the Teller family there.”

“Was Amy with him?” Leticia asked as Mary’s voice cut across hers.

“Duty?”

“There’s damning evidence piling up against Peter Teller,” he told them. “I have a shard of cane in my motorcar, part of the murder weapon, if I’m not mistaken. I have not seen your brother use a cane since I’ve met him. But I’m sure Sergeant Biggin in London will remember if there was one before I came on the scene. A witness saw what we believe was your brother’s motorcar in front of the victim’s house the day she died, and then watched a lame man matching your brother’s description hobbling out to crank it and drive away in some haste. He was angry—upset, according to the witness. And if we take a sample of your brother’s handwriting, I’m sure it will match the signature in the records of St. Bartholomew’s Church in Hobson, where Florence Marshall and Peter Teller were married. For that matter, I could bring a dozen or more witnesses from Hobson, who knew Teller well enough to recognize him if they saw him now.”

Leticia said, “Then why haven’t your arrested him?”

“There are one or two loose ends to tie up. For instance, when you were in Portsmouth looking for your brother Walter, where was Peter?”

“He was with Edwin,” she said immediately. “They went together. To share the driving, since both of them have had health problems. It was agreed.”

“But that makes very little sense. The four of you left Jenny Teller in London, at the clinic alone. Why didn’t Peter, since he found it so difficult to drive, stay with her and cope with the police? Cambridge was not so great a distance for Edwin.”

“We did what we thought was most useful. We might well have found Walter, if he’d left London. We were fairly sure we would. And Peter was there to spell Edwin, if he were too tired to carry on.” Leticia’s eyes were hard.

“Peter couldn’t have been in two places at once,” he pointed out. “I suggest to you that he went to Lancashire under cover of his brother’s disappearance, because he knew Walter would try to stop him. Whether Edwin knew at the time what it was Peter was intending to do, I can’t say. But it would explain, very well, why Edwin felt compelled to attend Florence Teller’s funeral. It wasn’t a kind gesture to another of his name; it was a guilty conscience because he lied to protect Peter.”

Mary said with interest, “You’ve worked out all the details. But what if they aren’t true? What if it’s all circumstantial evidence? It could be, you know. I’ve known Peter for a good many years. I can’t believe he would have married someone else when he was so devoted to Susannah. That’s the human evidence, Mr. Rutledge. However beautiful or exotic or wealthy or socially prominent this woman was, he was waiting to marry Susannah.”

“She was none of those things.”

“And that may be the key. An opportunist. Perhaps he met her on a walking tour. And there was a child. He might have had no choice but to marry her. But this child,” Leticia added. “He’s older than Harry? Or was he never born, because he didn’t exist? What’s become of him?”

“He was the elder. He’s dead.”

“Well, then,” she countered, “if the child is dead, there was no longer a tie. He would have divorced the woman as soon as he uncovered her lie.”

“We have it on good authority that he was still involved with Florence Teller until the war. I don’t think he could make up his mind.”

Mary said, “I’m glad I stayed. This is nonsense, but it will upset Jenny no end. She’s very fond of Peter and Susannah.” She turned to Leticia. “We’re all invited to the farm, to celebrate Jenny’s birthday on Friday. It’s going to be a very uncomfortable state of affairs.”

“I must contact our solicitor. The time to stop this ridiculous business is now, before the police act on what they consider their ‘evidence.’ Thank you for your information, Inspector. I hope you will come to your senses and realize that you are about to take a step that will seriously jeopardize your career. I suggest you look into the background of this woman. The solution to her murder is there. Not with my family.”

He accepted his dismissal. There was other information he needed to collect now. A. P. Repton for one. That would explain why Florence Teller had never tried to contact Peter through the Army or at his London house at the war’s end.

Rutledge stopped in Cambridge and asked the porter at King’s for information about one Benjamin Larkin.

The porter looked him up and down. “And who might be inquiring about one of our young gentlemen, sir?”

“Rutledge, Scotland Yard.” Rutledge produced his identification, and the porter scanned it closely.

Then, satisfied, he said, “He’s one of our brighter lads. Never been in trouble. Comes of a good family. I’ve seen his father visit a time or two. A doctor, I’m told.” He hesitated. “And what’s he done, if I may ask, to draw the attention of the Yard?”

“He’s helping us with an inquiry.”

“I would expect no less of him. Very fine young lad, is Larkin.” Rutledge digested this as he drove west and then south toward Dorset.

He found Sedley in the middle of the county, a village with houses directly on the road, some of them whitewashed, others of local stone. There was a small but handsome church, a pub, and a green where geese swam in the warm waters of a shallow pond. In the pub, he paused for a late lunch and information.

“Mistletoe Cottage,” the man who brought his meal repeated. “It’s just on your left as you go out of Sedley.”

“Does A. P. Repton still live there?”

“A. P.—oh you’ll be meaning Alice Preston. Not Repton. She died in the summer of 1918 and is buried along there in the churchyard. A strange old bird. She came into money some years ago and told Rector she had only to receive and mail letters to earn it. Rector thought she was going dotty, but she traveled to Shaftesbury every week on the baker’s cart, to the post office there. Faithfully, rain or shine. If you want the truth, I expect she was just having us on.”

“What else did she do? To earn this windfall?”

“That was it.”

Then how did this woman in Dorset come to know Peter Teller?

“Did she have a son or nephew in the Army, by any chance?”

“Not that any of us knew about,” the man told him.

“What did she do with her free time? When not traveling to the post office?”

“She knitted for a missionary society. She’d collect odd bits of yarn around the village, and then she’d make these scarves and gloves and hats for children in faraway places. Quite colorful, some of them. She said foreign children liked bright colors.”

“Which mission society, do you know?”

“One in Oxford, I think it was.”

“Not Kent?”

“No, I’m sure it was Oxford. They have missions amongst the Eskimos.”

A dead end. Circumstantial evidence with no way to learn if she was the same woman the postmistress had described. Likely, yes, but that was as far as it went. All the same, when he’d finished his lunch, Rutledge went to Shaftesbury and inquired at the post office there. But all the postmistress could tell him was that Miss Preston sent and received letters sporadically, although she didn’t recall the name Peter Teller. “I remember her only because she was eccentric,” she told him apologetically.

And then, just as Rutledge reached the post office door, the postmistress said, “Oh—there’s something else. Alice told me once she was nursery maid in the household of Evelyn Darley. My mother remembered Evelyn and her twin sister when they came out. She said they were the prettiest girls she’s ever seen. I asked Alice if it was true, and she said it was.”

Rutledge stared at her in disbelief, then smiled and thanked her.

This was the connection he’d hoped for and very nearly missed.

Evelyn Darley’s twin sister was Gran, the Teller grandmother.

Peter Teller had paid Alice Preston, onetime nursery maid to his great-aunt Evelyn, long since retired to Sedley, in Dorset, to act as go-between, so that Florence Teller never wrote directly to him through his regiment. And his letters back to her never gave away whether he was on leave or with the Army. He’d told her, according to the post-mistress in Thielwald, that it was the safest, surest way to reach him.

And when Alice Preston died in the summer of 1918, Peter let this only link to Florence die with her.

Lieutenant Teller never came home from the war.

Rutledge went to find a telephone.

He could just see the mellow stone of the church from where he was standing in the hotel lounge, asking to be connected to the Yard. When Gibson was brought to the telephone, Rutledge asked if there was any more news about one Lieutenant Burrows, whom Susannah Teller had told him about.

“It’s true enough, he was killed in the war. The only son. Widowed mother lives in Worcester, off the Milton Road. The family’s well connected, Army and politics. I’ve also had the Army looking for another Peter Teller. They move like treacle, but they searched the regimental records where our Captain Teller served, and he’s the only one of that name they could find, going back a generation.”

“Any reason to believe that a widow turning up would distress the Burrows family?”

“That’s the interesting bit, sir. The lieutenant married on his last leave and leaves a widow. No children. She has married again and now lives in Scotland.”

Hamish said, “It wouldna’ signify. Yon lass didna’ ken how to find her husband’s family.”

But Rutledge was prepared for anything. He thanked Gibson and put up the receiver.

No stone unturned . . .

Hamish said again, “It doesna’ signify.”

“It was important enough for Susannah Teller to bring it to my attention.”

“Aye, with lies. To throw you off the track of her ain husband.”

He drove on toward Worcester, tired now and ready to end the game of chase he’d been playing. But it was the last of the outstanding questions, and when it came to trial, Rutledge preferred not to leave anything to chance.

The house where the Burrows family lived was on the southern outskirts of Worcester, with a river view. It was a large and comfortable estate set back from the road. The house was of the same stone as the famous cathedral, with a portico and white pillars leading up two steps to the door. A fountain featuring a statue of Neptune, a conch held to his lips, and water horses at each corner spouting streams of water formed the centerpiece of the circular drive. From the age of the fountain, Rutledge thought it might have been shipped home from a Grand Tour a generation ago.

Wisteria climbed the wall of one wing of the house, and an old climbing rose set off the stonework on the opposite side.

When Rutledge lifted the knocker, he could hear the sound echoing through the house, and expected to find it was empty for the summer. But a maid in crisp black came to answer his summons, and he asked to speak to Mrs. Burrows.

She wanted to know his business, and he identified himself.

After a time she came back and escorted him to a sitting room overlooking a shrubbery, where a woman of perhaps sixty-five waited to greet him. Her graying hair was put up in the older style, and her clothing was rather old-fashioned as well. But her blue eyes were alert and wary.

“What brings the Yard to my door?” she asked, after asking him to sit down.

“A wild-goose chase, at a guess,” he said, smiling. “Your son Thomas was, I’m told, lost in the war.”

“Yes. Such a promising future lost with him as well. It was a pity. Does this have to do with Thomas? I can’t think why!”

“I understand that his widow has remarried and lives in Scotland.”

“Yes, Elizabeth was the sweetest girl. A perfect match. My husband and I were terribly pleased.”

“Can you tell me where your son might have been in 1902? I’m sorry, I can’t give you the month. Summer, I should think.”

“Of 1902?” She smiled. “That’s very easy to do. He contracted rheumatic fever and nearly died. It was something of a miracle that he lived. We had him with us for almost fifteen more years. The doctor warned us there might be lasting effects, but thank God, he sprang back to health with the vigor of youth and was chafing at the bit to rejoin his regiment.”

“Did he walk as a way of recovering his strength? For instance, in Lancashire, which isn’t as demanding as the Lake Country or Derbyshire. Or perhaps he took the sea air in Morecambe?”

“I don’t believe anyone in this family has ever been to Morecambe? I’m beginning to think you must have the wrong Burrows, Inspector.”

“We’re trying to find anyone who might have been in that vicinity in 1902 and into 1903.”

“It couldn’t have been our Thomas. He was very ill for weeks, and then there were weeks of recovery after that. Walking tours would have been impossible.” She frowned. “I’ve always had the feeling that Thomas knew he was living on borrowed time. He grasped life with such eagerness after that. I was surprised his regiment allowed him to sail with them for India. But of course the long sea journey was good for him.”

Rutledge hadn’t intended to name names, but he could see no other choice.

“Do you perhaps know Peter Teller, who was in your son’s regiment?”

“Yes, we met him at a regimental affair. Quite a handsome young man in his dress uniform, and his wife was charming. Susannah? Was that her name? Imagine remembering it after all these years. But I couldn’t help but think watching her that I hoped Thomas would find someone just as loving. I heard from friends that Captain Teller was severely wounded and is still recovering. Is there better news now?”

“He’s walking again,” Rutledge told her, “though still with great difficulty.”

“I’m glad. Thomas admired him so. I must say that if my son had to emulate anyone, Peter Teller was as fine a choice as I could wish for.”

Susannah Teller had been right about the imitation, then. But either she’d forgotten or didn’t know about Thomas Burrows’s illness.

Hamish said, “Ye ken, he’d ha’ put it behind him. It was no’ something to bring up.”

And that was true. Stiff upper lip and all that for a young subaltern just learning to fit in.

Rutledge took his leave, thanking her for her help.

“But I’ve given you very little,” she said. “I hope your inquiry prospers.”

In the motorcar once more, Rutledge said as he let out the clutch, “I don’t think Susannah Teller expected her story to collapse so quickly.”

“Aye. That’s verra’ likely. But she’s afraid her husband is a murderer.”

“And she may be right.” He took a deep breath. “It’s time to go to Hobson. Constable Satterthwaite and his superiors have the right to know where we’re looking, and what the evidence is.”

“He will be verra’ angry,” Hamish warned. “It was a cruel thing to do to such a lass.”

He stayed the night in Cheshire and drove the rest of the way to Hobson just after first light.

The village was awake and the shops busy when he got there. Constable Satterthwaite was pleased to see him, standing in the police station doorway with a packet of tea biscuits in his hand and smiling.

“Did you learn anything more about Larkin?”

“I went to his college in Cambridge. The porter there vouched for him. Meanwhile, I’ve been searching for the real Peter Teller. Not the man you thought you knew. That man never existed.”

“I met him—we saw him time and again here in Hobson,” the constable argued. “He wasn’t a figment of her imagination. Or ours. Besides, there’s the boy.”

“He was someone else. There’s much to tell you,” Rutledge said, taking the chair across the desk, as they reached the office.

“The man in London, then,” Satterthwaite said with resignation.

Rutledge proceeded to outline what he had learned so far, and how he believed it all fit together. Satterthwaite listened in silence, but his face reddened as the evidence against Peter Teller mounted.

“Why did he have to kill her, then?” he asked finally. “She thought he was dead. It was finished.”

“I don’t know. Yet,” Rutledge admitted.

“Damn the man!” he said heavily, and then to Rutledge, “I’m sorry, sir, but you weren’t here, I was. I’d like very much to watch him hang for what he’s done. Not just the murder, you understand, although that was bad enough. But for her empty life, for not being there when Timmy died and she was half out of her mind with grief, wanting to bury him at the farm, and not in the churchyard. We had all we could do to convince her to let us take him away. She wanted him there, where she could see him every day.”

Rutledge was reminded of Mr. Cobb, who spoke to the memorial to his sons, every morning and every evening. He could understand her need.

Satterthwaite got up and paced the floor, his feet heavy on the boards as he traced the same line back and forth, back and forth.

Then he stopped and looked at Rutledge. “It all fits together. I must say it does. But in spite of what I feel about the bastard—begging your pardon, sir—it’s hard to believe, isn’t it? That someone could be that cruel? I never got to know Teller well, of course, but I wouldn’t have put him down as that cold-blooded. Selfish, yes, he was that.” He shook his head. “It’ull take a little getting used to. You’ll bring him back to Hobson to face charges?”

“Yes. On Monday.”

“I’d like to be with you when you take him to Thielwald.”

“I’ll see that it’s arranged.”

“Thank you, sir. And thank you for telling me. It means more than I can say. I’ll keep it to myself until you bring the man here.” He cleared his throat. “Will you be staying the night?”

“I might as well. And get an early start tomorrow.”

“Mrs. Greeley will be that pleased to see you. She was asking only yesterday if there was word of Jake.”

“He’s with my sister,” Rutledge told him. “In good hands.”

Satterthwaite nodded.

Rutledge went back to Sunrise Cottage in the late afternoon. He couldn’t have said why he was drawn there. Satterthwaite offered to go with him, but Rutledge thanked him and shook his head.

The day was fair, with a stiff breeze that cooled the air and made it feel more like early spring than June. Fat lambs followed slow-grazing ewes in the pastures along the road.

As he drove, he asked himself again, as he had on the journey to Lancashire, what had become of the cane’s head? It was the last piece of crucial evidence, and he wanted very badly to find it.

If it had been taken away and dropped from a bridge, as Satterthwaite had suggested, it would never come to light. Which meant that the rest of the evidence against Peter Teller had to be damning.

“He’ll have a verra’ good defense,” Hamish agreed.

The house was just ahead, first the roof and then the hedge coming into sight on its knoll. He left the motorcar on the road and walked through the gate, intending to dig around in the flower beds with his fingers, to see if the cane’s knob was there. It was hopeless, he knew that very well, but he had to try.

But someone had watered the plants, and pulled out any weeds that would mar their appearance. He bent down to touch a leaf.

It was still wet.

Instead of opening the door, he went out the gate again and walked around the house to the gardens by the kitchen door.

The man squatting beside one of the beds leapt to his feet with surprise as Rutledge suddenly appeared, braced for anything that might come at him.

It was Lawrence Cobb, his trousers stained from working the earth and pulling weeds. A pile of wilting debris lay on the grassy path next to his boots.

“Oh—it’s only you, then,” Cobb said in relief. “I’ve come here to keep the gardens for her. Until someone knows what’s to happen to this place. It’s the least I can do. Her flowers shouldn’t die too.”

Rutledge could read the unspoken words in his eyes—and it brings her closer, as if she were still alive and somewhere inside.

“I see nothing wrong with it,” Rutledge answered him. “A pity you weren’t out here working on the day she was attacked.”

“Don’t you think I dream about it at night?”

“If your wife hears of it, it will be on your head.”

Cobb said, “If I had been here, she might still be alive. But that’s hindsight. I hear you found that walker. Was he the man?”

“As it turned out, he was a witness and a very helpful one. He saw the motorcar by the hedge and the man who was driving it.”

Cobb dusted his hands, nodding. “I knew it. Someone from his family, most likely, with an eye to the property.”

“Someone from his family, yes, but I don’t think this property entered into it. I think he’d come to see her, and decide what to do about her. What I don’t know is whether or not she invited him in. It must have been a shock to her to see him there. She wouldn’t have known what to say.”

Cobb stared up at the bedroom windows, as if he could see the answer written there on the glass. “She stopped looking for him—waiting, listening for the door—over a year ago. She told me he must be dead, but you could tell she hadn’t really started to believe even then. I think she expected some miracle, and then when it never happened, she lost hope. The logic in her head told her one thing, her heart something else.”

“Was he good to her?”

Cobb brought his gaze back to Rutledge. “It depends on how you define good, of course. She never wanted for anything—food on the table, wood for the fire in the winter, clothes to keep her warm. He never struck her or called her names. This was the place she wanted to live in and bring up her son. Just as she’d grown up here with her aunt. And he made no objection. Of course, if he’d asked her to go wherever his regiment was sent, she would have, just to be with him. No matter what the hardships were. But the truth is, he wasn’t here as often as he should have been. There’s the Army, I understand that, of course I do. But I’d have moved heaven and earth to come home if she’d been mine. I’d left the Army and found other work to do, digging ditches if I had to, anything to be near her.”

“You knew her well,” Rutledge said quietly.

“I loved her. And so I listened to her, and read between the lines sometimes. But she saw me as her friend. And I was scrupulous about keeping it that way. I’d have lost her, otherwise.”

“I think you would have,” Rutledge said.

He rubbed his forehead with his gloved hand and left behind a long streak of rich earth. “I was here when Timmy died. Not in the house. I meant, in Hobson. I thought she’d lose her mind. She stopped coming into town, stopped eating, stopped looking out for herself. But some of us saw to it that she had whatever she needed. Mrs. Greeley. Satterthwaite. Others People would bring her food, for fear she wasn’t cooking. I chopped wood that winter and piled it outside the kitchen door there, within reach even on the worst days, and kept it covered with a tarp. When she didn’t milk the cow, because it reminded her too much of feeding the boy those last days, I took it down to Mrs. Greeley to keep until she was ready to have it back. I’ve never seen so much grief as she felt.”

“I saw the photograph of her son in her room.”

“That was the only photograph she had. And I took that for her. She said that Teller never cared for pictures set about. But she was glad of it. You’d have thought Teller would have understood something like that.”

“There was never a photograph of her husband? Not even a wedding picture?”

“There was a small one of the wedding couple. She kept it safe somewhere, out of sight and out of mind.”

With his letters very likely, Rutledge thought. And gone with them.

Cobb took off his gloves and swatted at an insect busy about his ears. “I want to know. Have you found her killer? Don’t lie to me, I want to know. I can’t sleep nights, sometimes, thinking about everyone who knew her, anyone who could have done such a thing, and I need to know. I come into Hobson sometimes and look at the faces of people I meet on the street or in a shop or sitting next to me on a Sunday. And I think, could that be him? Or that one? My uncle tells me I’ll drive myself mad doing that, but it’s the only way I’ll have any peace, finding him before the police do.”

“I can’t tell you how the inquiry is progressing. I will say that it’s possible that we know who it was.”

“And the bird? He’s been no help? My mother-in-law told me you’d taken Jake. I was glad. I thought she might do it a mischief with its squawking so loud she couldn’t sleep. And Betsy wanted no part of it.”

“The bird hasn’t said much. So far.” He hesitated, then said, “If you found something unusual—out of place—tell Satterthwaite, will you?”

He left Cobb there and went into the house, walking through the empty rooms, listening to the sounds of his own footsteps in the silence. Hamish, in the back of his mind, was busy, but he could find nothing to trigger a sudden thought or offer a glimmer of light.

Nothing had changed. He hadn’t expected it to.

And that was the problem. Nothing had changed, he could see only what he had before. With the eyes of the past, not the present.

He considered what to do about Cobb coming to tend the flowers, and decided he was doing no harm. And it gave him something to think about besides taking the head off whoever had killed Florence Teller.

Without speaking to Cobb again, he left the house and drove back to Hobson.

Rutledge and Satterthwaite ate their dinner together at a pub in Thielwald. The food was heavy, suitable for men who did physical labor, filling and satisfying. As Satterthwaite promised, the pudding was excellent, and as they were finishing it, he said to Rutledge, “You’re quiet.”

“I was thinking about a birthday celebration. Tonight in Essex.”

“Did you want to be there?”

“I wasn’t invited. I just have a feeling that I shouldn’t have stayed over. I should have gone directly back to London.”

“One day won’t matter.”