The Red Door

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.

What sort of man was he? To run as he had, to leave her there, an act of such sheer cowardice that he couldn’t blot it out of his mind, no matter how much he drank.

And he could tell no one. Not Edwin, not Susannah. Certainly not Leticia.

For a time he considered going inside, finding his service revolver, and putting an end to his shame and revulsion. But he couldn’t do it. The same tenacity that had made him fight over and over again to keep his damaged leg when the surgeons were intent on removing it forced him to face the man he was. Perhaps, he told himself bitterly, after the shock wore off, he might even learn to stand himself again.

He was becoming a maudlin drunk, and that he despised.

Susannah came out into the garden, wrapping her dressing gown closer against the late night chill.

“Won’t you come to bed? A night’s rest will do you more good than this.” She nodded toward the glass in his hand.

“In a little while,” he said, still studying the stars, avoiding her eyes.

“You promised two hours ago. Please, won’t you see the doctor tomorrow, and ask him for drops or something to help with the pain? You can’t go on drinking to dull it. I blame Edwin if you want the truth, for not going himself.”

There were no drops to cure this pain, he answered her silently, and then aloud, “I expect the doctor will say what he always does. That I shouldn’t drive.”

She regarded him for a moment, and then asked, “What’s wrong, Peter? It’s eating away at you. Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“Go to bed, Susannah. I’ve had too much to drink to make any sense. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

She turned and walked back to the terrace door. There she paused and said, her voice carrying perfectly to him where he sat, “Did you kill her, Peter? Was all the rest of what you told us a lie?”

He pretended he didn’t hear. Reaching for the decanter again, he poured himself another measure, concentrating on not spilling it.

The terrace door closed behind his wife, and in a sudden fury, he flung the glass of whisky against the trunk of the ginkgo overhanging the iron rail fence. It shattered, but he was already regretting what he’d done and he shoved himself to his feet to cross the lawn and pick up the shards before someone found them in the morning and read more than anger in the glittering, whisky-soaked pieces.