The Red Door

Chapter 13

The journey to Kent had been successful, and both Frances and David Trevor were in high spirits, carrying Melinda Crawford’s greeting and best love to Rutledge and telling him about the great pheasant hunt that had left them all exhausted and hurting from laughter.

A stray pheasant had wandered into Melinda’s garden, and the boy had been very taken with it. He had persuaded his grandfather to let him carry it back to Scotland if he could capture it.

That had led to an afternoon of merriment as every scheme they had tried saw the pheasant still at large and mocking them from a safe distance.

In the end it was Ian who had tired first, and after one last glorious chase through the kitchen gardens had ended with the promise of cake for tea, the pheasant had been forgotten.

Listening to them, Rutledge was reminded of another child bribed by the promise of lemonade, unaware that his father was missing and possibly no longer the familiar figure the boy remembered.

He joined in the laughter, despite the day’s frustrations, unwilling to spoil their high spirits, and found the tension in his mind slowly relaxing.

It wasn’t until they were saying good night that Rutledge remembered that his godfather would be leaving on the morrow. The time had gone too quickly, and he’d got his wish—to be too busy to spend much of the day with Trevor and the child.

He regretted that now as he drove back to his flat, but there had been no way to change it. Even if he’d recognized the need in time.

The next morning as Rutledge collected his godfather’s cases and stowed them in the boot, he wished he could find the words to ask Trevor to stay longer. But Hamish, in the back of his mind, had been a source of stressful emotions while David Trevor talked of Scotland and the war and his son Ross. Of the boy’s young governess, who was being courted by a solicitor in Edinburgh. Of things best forgotten, of people left unnamed. Consequently, fatigue had racked him, and Rutledge had spent sleepless nights walking the streets in the cool summer darkness until he was too tired to stay awake.

And still Hamish reminded him over and over again of what he, a dead man lying in a French grave, had lost.

There was nothing left now except their good-byes.

Coming to the door of the house, Rutledge said to his godfather, “I think that’s everything.”

Frances, kissing first David and then the boy good-bye, wished them a safe journey, and sent her love to Morag, along with the gaily wrapped shawl that Rutledge had purchased for this woman who had served the Trevor household as long as he could remember. He had wanted to buy one in Tartan plaid, but Frances had told him that the sea-green Irish woolen one was a better choice. He hoped she was right.

The boy scooped up his box of toy soldiers, hugged Frances again, and ran out to the motorcar, excited to travel by train once more. He had already asked over and over whether he could come back again to London.

They reached the station in no time at all, and Rutledge had been silent most of the drive, fighting with himself and with Hamish over how to prolong the visit.

Then they were in the station, the train was coming in amidst clouds of white steam that set the boy dancing with glee, and it was time to board.

Rutledge said, hurriedly, before it was too late, “I’m glad you came.”

Trevor smiled. “I’m glad I came as well. And I’ll do it again, if you fail to come north to us.”

Rutledge said tightly, “I can’t—not yet.” Not ever. “The men you commanded and sent to their deaths have forgiven you long ago, Ian. When will you forgive yourself?”

Trevor’s words were too close to the mark.

Rutledge could only answer, “Time. . .” That was as far as he could trust his voice.

“Time has a way of slipping through our fingers.”

Then they were embracing, the carriage door was closing, and Rutledge could hear a whistle somewhere down the line as the engine gathered steam.

The train began to move. Trevor had dropped his window and called back to his godson, “Christmas, Ian. Come for Christmas!”

Rutledge stood there, knowing it was too late, far too late, and waved the train out of sight.

From the station, he drove to the Belvedere Clinic to inform Jenny Teller that there was no word still on her husband’s whereabouts.

But when he got there, he was told that Mrs. Teller had stepped out with her sister-in-law for a cup of tea.

Matron said, “Mrs. Teller is quickly losing heart. It took some persuasion to convince her that it was all right to leave for a little while.”

“Will you tell her for me that there has been no news?”

“You could probably catch them—they’ve only just left.”

He was restless, not in the mood to sit in a tea shop and tell a wife that her husband was still missing and that the Yard couldn’t find him despite all its trained personnel and experience.

“No. Let her have her brief respite. I’ll only remind her of what she’s trying to put out of her mind.”

Matron said, “That’s very generous of you. I’ll see that she gets your message.”

He went instead to Marlborough Street, to ask Edwin Teller if he possessed a later photograph of his brother, only to be told that Mr. Edwin Teller was resting and left orders not to be disturbed. Nor was Amy Teller available.

At the Yard, in the passage on the way to his own office, he encountered Chief Superintendent Bowles, who said in passing, “Still no trace of Teller. And that witness you wanted from Bynum’s knifing hasn’t been found either. Are you certain he’s not the man we’re after?”

“He’s a witness. Nothing more. I just wanted to ask him other questions. I saw Billy, remember. More clearly even than Hood, who called him dark.”

“Your priority is the Teller case. I’ll put Mickelson on to finding Bynum’s killer.” He cleared his throat. “Are you quite certain Teller is still alive? We can’t give more manpower to the search for him, with this murder case hanging over us. But I wouldn’t wish the family to feel we aren’t doing all we can. At least thank God there has been no plague.”

“There’s something wrong with this inquiry,” Rutledge told him. “I sometimes feel I’m chasing a ghost.”

“Nevertheless, if you know what’s best, you’ll find him—or what’s become of him—as soon as may be. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you taken the time to read Teller’s book? It might be useful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rutledge moved on, pausing to speak briefly to Sergeant Gibson just as Constable Turner came up the stairs two at a time.

Gibson, frowning, said, “That one’s in a tearing rush.”

Turner reached Chief Superintendent Bowles and saluted smartly. “Sir. There’s a train off the tracks up the line. Word just came in.”

Rutledge called to him, “Which train?”

“The northbound to Edinburgh,” Turner answered over his shoulder.

Rutledge said quickly, “Where, man, where did it derail?”

“Just to the north of a village called Waddington. Not that far—”

But Rutledge was already racing for the stairs, his mind filled with his godfather’s last words: Time has a way of slipping through our fingers.

If he’d asked Trevor to stay, if he’d come out with the words in time, they wouldn’t have been on that train—

He ran to where he’d left his motorcar. Out of breath and damning himself for not speaking up when he’d had the chance, Rutledge drove out of London at the best speed he could make, cursing the motorcars and lorries and pedestrians that held him up.

As soon as the outskirts of the city lay behind him, he gunned the motor and prayed he would be in time.