The Red Door

Chapter 20

An old woman on the verge of senility had told him more about the Teller family than she’d realized. Driving to his flat, Rutledge considered the small pieces of information she’d supplied.

That the family had connections to Dorset, though not in the Teller line. That there was no other member in the extended Teller family by the name of Peter. That her son—the father of three sons—had chosen their professions—and the school for his grandson as well.

These were echoes of what Rutledge had heard in Lancashire.

Florence’s husband had claimed his family was from Dorset. That his father had chosen his profession for him. He’d also claimed to be an only child—but that could have been the reason given for never taking his bride south to meet his family and never being visited in turn by anyone from Dorset.

Hamish said, “Captain Teller has a wife.”

“So he does. And he wasn’t always a captain. I’ll have a word with him in the morning.”

Undressing for bed, Rutledge stood by his window where a very faint breeze was stirring. The day had been hot, nearly breathlessly so.

Chief Superintendent Bowles was likely to have an apoplexy if he was presented with a possibility of bigamy in the Teller family.

It was nine o’clock when Rutledge reached Bolingbroke Street and knocked on the door of Peter Teller’s house.

The housemaid who had admitted him before took him this time to the study and left him to stare at the books lining the walls as hunting trophies stared back with glassy eyes. Even though it was a warm day, the doors into the garden were closed.

Peter Teller came in shortly afterward, and Rutledge noted that he was sober, although he looked very tired. And he was limping heavily, walking without crutches or cane. He regarded Rutledge with a mixture of surprise and apprehension but said only, “Don’t tell me my tiresome brother has gone missing again?”

“As far as I know, he’s in Essex and safe as houses. No, I’ve come to speak to you this time. About a murder in Lancashire.”

There was a sudden strain in Peter Teller’s face. “I don’t know why anything in Lancashire should concern me. Certainly not a murder.”

“The interesting thing is that the victim was married to a Peter Teller.”

Teller’s lips tightened. “I’m sure she was. But she was not married to me.”

“Are you aware of another Peter Teller in your family?”

“Are you aware of all the Rutledges in England who may or may not be related to you?” he countered.

“I have only to match the dates of your leaves with your namesake’s appearances in Hobson. It may take some time, but it can be done.”

“Then come back and talk to me when you’ve done that.”

Rutledge considered the man. Was it bluster, or was he speaking the truth? If he had to guess, it was a little of both. The question was, where did the truth end and the lies begin?

Hamish said in Rutledge’s ear, “And who in Lancashire will remember the exact dates?”

In truth, someone had removed the letters that might go a long way toward proving those dates.

Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of inheritance after all, but of a man’s handwriting.

But why kill Florence Teller now, when the secret had been kept safe all these years?

“Don’t stare at me like that,” Teller said irritably. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about. Pray, who is this woman I’m said to have married?”

“Florence Teller, née Marshall.”

“And she married a Peter Teller.”

“Lieutenant Peter Teller. A career Army officer who was posted all over the empire at various times. As, I believe, you were.”

“My grandfather—you have only to ask my grandmother—was a man who liked women. How do I know that your Lieutenant Peter Teller isn’t one of his bastards?”

“I did speak to your grandmother. Last night. It appears her side of the family came from Dorset, not the Tellers. They were an Essex family. As your brother is now.”

That shook Teller. “Indeed.” He strove to recover and said, “You had no business speaking to my grandmother without Edwin or I being in attendance. Her mind is slipping .”

“It was clear enough on the important issue, last night.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Rutledge.”

“I daresay we could compare the handwriting where that Peter Teller signed the church register to yours. There’s your desk, if you care to write a brief sample for me. And then I’ll take my leave.”

“I’m writing down nothing. I’ll speak to my solicitor about this business. We’ll see what he has to say. Because I’m innocent, you know. And I won’t be dragged into another man’s folly, just because I share a similar name.”

He gestured to the door. “I think you ought to leave now. I’ve made my position clear. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

Rutledge left. But as he was shutting the door, he glanced back into the study.

Peter Teller was dragging his bad leg in the direction of the whisky decanter on a tray by the desk.

If Peter Teller was at home, the chances were his brother Edwin had returned as well.

Rutledge left his motorcar outside the Captain’s house in Boling-broke Street and walked the short distance to Marlborough Street.

Amy Teller was at her door, just bidding a woman good-bye. She was on the point of shutting the door after her guest, when she happened to see Rutledge coming toward her down the pavement.

She froze, uncertain what to do, and finally as the motorcar with her guest inside drove away, she called to him, “I didn’t expect to see you again, Inspector. What have we done now?”

He smiled. He’d had time to do some thinking on his walk, and he said, “I hope, nothing. No, it’s information I’m after.” He’d reached the steps to the house door, and she moved aside to let him enter the cool hall.

“There’s been a murder,” he began and watched her eyes widen at the words. “No one you know, I shouldn’t think. But she happened to be married to a Peter Teller, who died in the war. We’re in search of any family he might have had, here in London or perhaps in Dorset.”

“Edwin has cousins in Dorset. On his mother’s side.” She hesitated. “Does—Was the murder in Dorset?”

“No. The dead woman’s name was Florence Teller. She lived in Lancashire.” He watched her face and then said, “There’s the matter of a will. We can’t seem to locate one, and it’s rather important that we do. We need to know her wishes in regard to her burial as well as the disposition of her property. That could lead us to her murderer.”

“You’d better come into the sitting room,” she told him and led the way to a small, very feminine parlor with a desk and several comfortable chairs. “You think her husband’s family might have killed her for her property?” she went on when they were seated.

“We won’t know, will we, until we find the will and contact them.”

“What about her own famiy?”

“Sadly she had none.”

“And—and there were no children to the marriage?”

“A son,” he said, and she bit her lip.

“Doesn’t he know where the will might be?”

“We have no way of asking him that.”

“He wasn’t—was he harmed when his mother was killed?”

“He wasn’t in the house at the time.”

She nodded. “Of course you would need to find her will. But I’m afraid I don’t know any other Peter Teller. Which doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Or half a dozen of them for that matter.”

“We wondered—forgive me, but the police must consider all possibilities—if perhaps this Peter Teller was not an—er—recognized member of the family.”

Amy stared at him. “Are you suggesting that my husband—or his brothers—might have a child out of wedlock? But you met Edwin, and he’s the eldest. It’s not possible that he could have had a child old enough to serve in the war.” She was deliberately misconstruing his words.

“It would have been his father, I should think,” he corrected her patiently.

She laughed outright. “You never met the man. I could believe Edwin had an affair before I could see his father with another woman.”

“You knew the man when he was older and had grown children. You can’t judge what he might or might not have done as a young man. These things happen in the best families.”

Amy shook her head. “He could have matched Prince Albert in rectitude,” she told him, and then suddenly seemed to realize that she had closed a door that the police were willing to walk through. Rutledge could almost read her thoughts as they flicked across her face. And he wasn’t surprised when after a moment she said, “Of course, you’re right. I can’t say with certainty.”

“Perhaps your grandmother might be in a position to know.”

“Gran?” she all but squeaked in her astonishment. “But she’s—I mean to say, you couldn’t possibly expect a woman of her age and her diminished mental capacity to remember something like that.”

She was right. But then, as if to prove her wrong after all, the sitting room door opened, and the elder Mrs. Teller stepped in, her face anxious.

“Amy, dear, has that awful woman gone—” She stopped, frowned, and then said, “Oh. It’s that handsome young man I was telling Edwin about. The one who came to call last evening.” Crossing the room with the aplomb of a duchess, she held out her hand. “How nice of you to come again.”

Amy said, “Gran . . .”

But Mrs. Teller was seating herself in the chair next to Rutledge and saying, “Are you staying for luncheon, Mr. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes were suddenly filled with tears. “I am so sorry. I can’t recall your name. I have troubles with names sometimes. It’s a terrible affliction, getting old.”

“Rutledge, Ian Rutledge,” he told her, omitting his title.

“Ah yes, Mr. Rutledge.” She smiled, the tears vanishing. “It’s so nice to see you again,” she repeated. “You’ve met Amy, I see. She’s my favorite granddaughter. Of course, I love Jenny as well. Everyone loves Jenny. Have you met Jenny? She’s Walter’s wife.”

“Do you have a granddaughter by the name of Florence? She was married to the man I was looking to find last night.” Amy was about to protest, but he glanced at her, warning her not to interfere. “The other Peter Teller.”

“There’s only one Peter, dear,” she told him. “Our Peter. A very brave man during the war, you know. Decorated and all that. But his leg is bad, he walks with a cane.”

“I was thinking perhaps that your son—Peter’s father—might have had a child. By someone else. And that son was also called Peter.”

“Peter’s father? Oh, no, dear, that’s not likely. The Teller men are extraordinarily faithful. It’s part of their charm. They love only once. Besides,” she said as she glanced at Amy’s stricken face, “it would be bad form to name a child on the wrong side of the blanket for one of your own. It brings bad luck, you see. Like a curse, you know. One of them will surely die.”

Rutledge’s eyes met Amy’s. “One of them has,” he said. “In the war.”

He stood up, adding, “I’ve taken enough of your time. I’d like to speak to Mr. Edwin Teller, if I may. And then I must go.”

Amy was on the point of saying that her husband was resting, when Mrs. Teller said brightly, “I saw him stepping into the study as I was coming here. Shall I take you to him?”

He accepted her offer and said a formal good-bye to Amy Teller, preventing her from following him to the study. “If there’s anything more you can think of that would be helpful, you know where to reach me.”

She glared at him. Why had he thought she was less involved?

Gran conducted him into the passage and, without knocking, opened the door to the study and walked straight in. This had been her house as a wife and then as the dowager of the family, and she stood on no ceremony. Her appearance caught Edwin Teller by surprise, and when he saw who was just behind her in the passage, his smile of welcome turned grim.

“Hullo, Gran,” he said. “Thank you for bringing Mr. Rutledge to me. If you’ll excuse us, we have some business to conduct, I’m afraid.”

She looked at her grandson, disappointment clouding her face. “He was staying for luncheon . . .”

Rutledge took her hand and said gently, “I’m afraid it must be another day,” he told her. “After your grandson and I have conducted our business, I must return to the Yard.”

“Yes, of course,” she said smiling and shaking Rutledge’s hand. “I shall look forward to it.”

And she took her leave, with the dignity of a woman who had all her life been accustomed to the niceties of social interaction. Business was business, and women were not a part of that world.

As the door shut behind her, Edwin said through clenched teeth, “What the bloody hell do you mean, coming here and interrogating my grandmother when I’m not present?”

Rutledge said, “Your wife was present during today’s interview.”

“But not last night’s. Walter is in Essex, where he is supposed to be. The search for him is over. He did nothing during the period when he was missing that would interest Scotland Yard. You have no business here. I’ll take this up with your superior, if you continue to harass my family.”

“Hardly harassment. I’ve come to ask if you could help me locate one Peter Teller.”

“You’ve met my brother,” Edwin said shortly. “As far as I know, he’s in Bolingbroke Street, where he lives.”

“This Peter Teller,” Rutledge said, “is being sought because we can’t find the last will and testament of one Florence Marshall Teller, his wife. Or I should say, his late wife. She was murdered several days ago.”

Edwin opened his mouth and shut it again. After a moment he asked in a very different tone of voice, “Where was she murdered? Here in London?”

“In Lancashire. Where she had lived almost all of her life.”

Teller was making quick calculations. He said, “The day Walter returned to the clinic?”

“Two days before that. Someone came to her door and, when she answered it, struck her down and left her lying there. A passerby finally saw her lying there, and summoned the police.”

Edwin Teller said, before he could stop himself, “My God.” And then he continued quickly, “I don’t see why any of us should know anything about this murder. Walter was missing. The rest of us were searching for him.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you might know anything that would help the police,” Rutledge responded mildly. “Lieutenant Teller wasn’t from Lancashire. He came from Dorset, or so he said. We’re trying to trace his family. We’ve been unable to find Mrs. Teller’s will. The police are always interested in who inherits property. Greed can be a powerful impetus to murder.”

“A pity we can’t help you. My brother is the only person in the family whose Christian name is Peter.” Edwin was doing his best in a rearguard action, but he was not the strongest of the three brothers.

“We aren’t sure that the murderer knew Mrs. Teller was dead,” Rutledge persisted. “But it appears that all her husband’s letters—which she kept in a box in her sitting room—were taken at the same time. He stepped over her once, walked into the house, and stepped over her again, on his way out. It suggests a rather cold-blooded person, in the view of the Yard.”

Teller cleared his throat. “What—do you know what sort of weapon was used in the murder?”

Rutledge said, “We aren’t releasing that information at the moment.” Then, changing his line of questioning without warning, Rutledge asked, “When was your brother promoted to captain?”

“I—as far as I remember, it was shortly before war was declared. They were bringing the regiment up to strength in the event the Kaiser caused any trouble over the situation in the Balkans. You said that Mrs. Teller’s husband was in the war?”

“He never came home from France. So I’ve been led to believe. Which is why we must find his family. His wife’s will could very well be among his papers or in the hands of his solicitor.”

“We would have no way of knowing who that might be,” Teller said shortly. “A pity we can’t help you,” he added a second time, as an afterthought.

“Which is why I was speaking to your grandmother, in the event she might know more about other branches of the Teller family.”

“You didn’t tell her of the murder, did you? Damn it, she’s nearly eighty years old.”

“There was no need to tell her about the murder. She understood that we were looking for information on the other Peter Teller, who is believed to have come from Dorset.”

“Make certain you leave it that way.” Edwin got up from his desk and came around it, standing face-to-face with Rutledge. “Now if you will show yourself to the door, I have other matters to attend to.”

Rutledge crossed to the door and, with his hand on the knob, he said, “I understand that before the war you were often in Scotland building private boats. I wonder if in your comings and goings you might have stopped off in Lancashire or walked in that vicinity. It’s said to be a very popular spot for walking.”

Edwin, alarmed, said, “I have never been to Hobson in my life. In the first place I was too busy, and the second, because of my health, I always traveled by private rail carriage.”

Rutledge thanked him and went out, closing the door behind him.

Hamish was battering at the back of his mind, and as Rutledge cranked his motorcar to continue his rounds, he said, “Ye never telt him yon woman lived in Hobson.”

Rutledge pulled the crank, listened to the motor turn over softly, and came around to the driver’s side to open his door.

“Interesting, isn’t it? That family knows about Florence Teller—I’ll give you any odds you like. And who her husband is. But which of the brothers married her? And which of them killed her?”

Leaving London, Rutledge drove to Essex. The telephone could outpace him, but there was still the possibility that whatever the rest of the family knew—or thought they knew—about Florence Teller, their brother Walter had not been a party to it.

Hamish said, “His brothers were fashed wi’ him, when he came back.”

That was true. They had been very angry. For vanishing, instead of playing his part in whatever was happening during those crucial days?

“Ye ken,” Hamish pointed out, “yon doctors believed he’d had a great shock after leaving the bank.”

Was that it? Had he been drawn into something that he couldn’t face?

But why now? Why had Florence Teller suddenly become a problem, if any of this speculation was true? She had not seen her husband since the war. She thought he was dead. She had lived for years, as far as anyone in Hobson could testify, perfectly quietly in Sunrise Cottage, making no demands on anyone. Who then had felt threatened by her?

“But ye havena’ asked the person in the post office if there were ither letters.”

He hadn’t. It was an important oversight. The only excuse was, at that early stage of the inquiry, he hadn’t been sure who Peter Teller really was. A member of the family that Chief Superintendent Bowles had demanded that he treat with circumspection and courtesy, or an outsider who happened in a bizarre twist of fate to be christened with the name of Peter.

That rosewood box—what had it contained besides letters from a soldier on the other side of the world to a lonely wife waiting for him to be given another leave? A will? An exchange of correspondence of a different sort that had gone unnoticed in a tiny village like Hobson where the business of everyone was everyone’s business? Hardly likely.

“There’s the ither town . . .”

And Hamish was right, there was Thielwald. But how would Florence Teller have got there and back, to fetch her mail? It was too far to walk.

Still, the farmer with the sick ram might occasionally have given her a lift.

Rutledge couldn’t accept that the woman he’d seen lying dead on a table in Dr. Blake’s office was a blackmailer.

“Or ye do na’ wish to believe.”

The main road forked, and Rutledge followed the sign to Repton. Not five miles on, he came to the turning into Witch Hazel Farm.

As the drive meandered toward the house, it passed a bed of handsome roses just now in their prime that gave off a sweet perfume in the warm air and filled the car with their spicy scent all the way to the door of the house.

He lifted the knocker and let it fall. After a moment or two Mollie, the housekeeper, answered the door.

“Mr. Teller, please. Inspector Rutledge to see him.”

“Inspector.” She repeated the word cautiously. “I’ll see if he’s in,” she said finally and disappeared, leaving him to admire the white roses in stone tubs by the door. They hadn’t been here when last he called, he thought.

Mollie had come back, and she led him to the study, whose windows looked out toward the drive. Teller had seen him coming, Rutledge suspected.

Walter Teller was sitting in a chair, an open book in his lap, and he said as Rutledge came in, “One of my brothers has disappeared?”

It was dark humor, not intended as a jest.

He offered Rutledge a chair and then went on, “Do people always suspect the worst when a policeman knocks at their door? Or do you sometimes bring joy in your wake?”

“We seldom have the opportunity to bring joy. But yes, sometimes.”

“Did you come from London? May I offer you some refreshment?”

“Yes, I drove here from London. And no thank you.”

Teller marked his place, closed his book, and set it to one side, as if preparing himself.

Rutledge said, “There’s been a murder, and I’m trying to find the family of a man who died in the war. They may be able to cast some light on the last wishes of the victim and who is to inherit.”

Teller frowned. “A death in Repton? Why wasn’t I told?” He got to his feet. “I’ll come at once.”

Rutledge said, “Not here in Repton, no. The man I’m after is Lieutenant Peter Teller—”

Walter Teller had turned at his words and walked to the window.

“The only Peter Teller I’m aware of is my brother. And he survived the war.” There was a silence, and when Rutledge didn’t carry on, Teller said tensely, “Who was murdered? Surely you can tell me that.”

“A woman in Lancashire, by the name of Florence Teller.”

“Flor—” He broke off. And then, as if the words were torn from him, he said, “I don’t know anyone by that name, I’m sorry.”

“But I think you do,” Rutledge said. “Your brothers know who she was.”

Teller wheeled. “Don’t lie to me. Ask me what you want to ask, and get out of here. But don’t lie.” His face was ravaged, aged.

“I’m not lying. I’ve just come from asking them the same questions. And while they deny all knowledge of this woman or the Peter Teller who married her, there’s something they’re both concealing, and Edwin Teller’s wife, Amy, as well.”

“I don’t believe you. It’s a ruse, and I’m not stupid, Rutledge. Get out of here. I won’t hear any more of this.”

“You aren’t even curious about how Florence Teller died?”

Rutledge could see that he was torn between asking and giving himself away.

Finally he said, “I don’t know her. I’m sorry to hear that she has died, but I can do nothing about it. I hope you find the husband you’re looking for.”

Standing his ground, Rutledge said, “She was struck over the head and left lying in her own doorway for two days until someone passing by the house happened to see her there and called the police. It’s a murder inquiry, Mr. Teller, and you’d be wise to tell me what you know.”

“I can prove I have not left this house since my wife and I returned from London. Now get out.”

“It happened while you went missing from the clinic. Your brothers and your sister are unaccounted for as well. You may have been sleeping in churches or you may not have. They may have been searching in Cambridge and Cornwall and Portsmouth. Or they may not have. Unless I can find this Lieutenant Teller and prove beyond a doubt that he is no connection of yours, I have no choice but to consider you all as suspects in Mrs. Teller’s murder.”

Walter Teller crossed the room, took up the book from the table beside his chair, and in one motion, heaved it at Rutledge.

It missed his head by inches and clattered against the door before falling hard to the floorboards.

“I’ll assume that was a reflection of your distress,” Rutledge told him coldly. “But I’ll advise you now never to try that again.”

And he opened the door and left the study.

As he walked out of the house, shutting the outer door behind him as well, Hamish said to Rutledge, “He kens the lass.”

“But did he kill her?”

Back in London, Rutledge was met with a message left at the Yard by Edwin Teller.

He drove to Marlborough Street and found Teller waiting for him in the study.

Teller said, without preamble, “I’ve sent for you because I need to know when this woman will be buried?”

“I’ve given permission for the body to be released,” Rutledge said and watched Teller wince at the word body. “I should think services will be held in Hobson tomorrow or the next day.”

“I should like to attend.”

Teller saw the surprise on Rutledge’s face and said, “She was married to a man by the name of Teller, is that not so?”

“As far as we know.”

“And you haven’t found his family, I take it.”

“No.”

“Then I feel honor bound, as the present head of the family, to be there when she is interred. As a gesture. You may discover that her husband has no connection to my family. It’s what I expect. But I have a duty all the same.”

“Then be there day after tomorrow. If you are serious about this.”

“I’ve never been more so. But I shall also tell you in no uncertain terms that it is a duty on my part, entered into freely. And it has nothing to do with her life or her death. It is merely a show of respect.”

“I understand,” Rutledge said, and he thought he very likely did. But he thought there might be as well a measure of curiosity mixed in with that sense of duty.

And he wondered who else might decide to come to Hobson out of curiosity.

Rutledge was driving back to the Yard and was nearly there, when he saw a woman walking along the street and stopping at the next corner to cross over. She looked up at the same time, and he realized it was Susannah Teller.

Pulling over just beyond the crossing, he said, “Mrs. Teller?”

“Mr. Rutledge? I was just on my way to see you.”

“Let me drive you the rest of the way,” he said. “Or would you prefer to talk to me somewhere else?”

“Perhaps we could walk to the bridge. What I have to say is—rather private.”

He took her to the Yard, left his motorcar there, and then accompanied her to the river, where a slight, cooling breeze moved across the water.

She paused to look at the river, and he realized she was not more than five feet from where Bynum had been murdered.

“Shall we?” he said, and gestured in the opposite direction.

It seemed that whatever she had to tell him was weighing on her mind, but she was not certain how to begin, or possibly where to begin. He kept in step with her and let her take her time.

Finally she said, “My husband—Peter has told me about this poor woman—in Lancashire, is it? The one who was murdered. And he told me as well that you can’t seem to find her husband’s family. He was from Dorset, I believe?”

“Apparently, yes. It’s what we were told in Hobson.”

“Yes, well, I may have an explanation for this mystery.” She paused again and watched a small boat pulling upriver. “There was a young subaltern in my husband’s regiment. Burrows was his name, and he was from a good family. He had connections to Dorset, but I believe his family lived outside Worcester.”

She glanced up at him and looked away again.

“He was a very nice young man. We saw a good bit of him. And I’m afraid my husband and I made fun of him behind his back. It was unkind, but Thomas admired my husband no end. He had no older brothers, and I think he saw Peter as a role model, in a way. And he emulated Peter at every turn. When Peter showed an interest in golf, it became Thomas’s enthusiasm. When Peter bought himself a pair of matched blacks to pull his carriage, the next month Thomas sported a pair that was almost identical. Peter grew a mustache, and Thomas must have one as well. Peter shaved his, and soon after, so did Thomas. It would have been very trying, except for the fact that we knew it was harmless.”

“And what has this to do with the dead woman in Hobson?”

“I don’t know anything at all about Hobson,” Susannah Teller said. “But I should imagine it was a very small place, and that the dead woman—”

“Her name,” he said, “was Florence.”

“—Florence, then. That Florence was not from a wealthy, influential family, however nice she might have been?”

“If you are trying to say she wasn’t of his class, she was a school-teacher and not an heiress, although she had property of her own.”

“Oh.” Her face flushed. “This is difficult enough for me, Inspector. I’m not trying to disparage this—Florence Teller. But I wonder if perhaps Thomas fell in love with her and married her under a false name. Or perhaps felt obligated to marry her, and knew his mother and father would not approve of the match. In fact, they might well have cut him off without a penny. I have no way of guessing his reasons. But he might have been desperate enough to marry her not as Thomas Burrows, the nephew of a member of Parliament and the grandson of a baronet, though the title went to his mother’s brother, but as the man he most admired. Peter.”

It was, Rutledge thought, as likely to be true as the possibility that her own husband was a bigamist. And possibly a murderer as well.

“I’ll look into it. Where is Thomas Burrows now?”

“Lieutenant Burrows died in the war. He was shot leading his men across No Man’s Land. Peter saw it happen. By the time Lieutenant Burrows could be brought in, he was dying and never reached an aid post.”

“And he never told his family about his marriage? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I don’t know whether he did or not. But if he did, they surely disowned him. All I can tell you is that Thomas Burrows was a very different man when the war began. The brash young subaltern striving so hard to please ten years before was by that time a very good officer, but he had lost his illusions. About the Army and about himself. He seldom spoke of his family, nothing more was said about the Army as a stepping-stone to his uncle’s seat in Parliament.”

Her voice rang true, and yet he found it interesting that Susannah Teller had come to tell him this story, and not her husband. But sometimes women were more perceptive than men. They caught undertones and nuances that were lost to male ears, and drew conclusions that depended as much on intuition and instinct as on solid fact.

“Does your husband know that you’ve come to give me this information?”

She blinked. “You can ask him if you like. About Thomas Burrows. He’ll tell you that Thomas did all those things, and perhaps more than even I can recall. But I think he will be less willing to accept the fact that Thomas could have married without his family’s knowledge and consent. And yet Peter had to fight for me. I was his cousin on his mother’s side, you see. The family was against it from the start. It was very likely that my children would have the same blood disorder that afflicts Edwin. They were right, actually. We lost two before we gave up. It might color his feelings about Thomas, you see. The fact that he never fought for that—for Florence.”

And there he knew she was telling the truth. But how much of it?

“Thank you, Mrs. Teller. I’ll look into this matter. May I drive you home?”

“No, thank you. I’ll just walk up to Trafalgar and find a cab.”

But he accompanied her that far anyway and hailed the cab for her. As he was about to shut the door, she put her hand out to stop him and said, “You won’t tell Peter where you heard this? He’ll be very angry with me.”

“Not,” he said, “unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Thank you.” She spoke to the driver, and the cab pulled away. The last sight he had of her was a handkerchief in her hand, pressed against her eyes when she thought he could no longer see her.

Rutledge had asked the Yard for information on any other Peter Teller, and Gibson had answers for him, though from the sergeant’s terse manner, Rutledge knew that Jake had been troublesome.

Gibson said, “As to that infernal bird, sir. We’ve a list of things he’s likely to eat. I’ve put that on your desk. Along with a box of samples to see you through until you can decide what to do with the creature.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Is there anything else?”

“We’ve come up empty-handed in our search for one Peter Teller.”

“You haven’t found one? In all of England?”

“Oh, we’ve found them right enough. One lives in Gloucester, and he’s just on the point of celebrating his seventy-sixth birthday. The other is one of a pair of twins, Peter and Helen Mowbray Teller, who are seven. There was another Peter Teller in Ely, who died in 1910 of pneumonia. The constable there believes he was about thirteen at the time. The man outside New Castle on Tyne, lost both his legs in a mining accident in 1908. He was a supervisor, went down with his men to look at a troublesome face, and there was an explosion. The last one was the son of Peter and Susannah Teller, died age two of bleeding internally. The list is also on your desk.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll relieve you of the infernal bird. Meanwhile, if you will, I need to know more about one Lieutenant Thomas Burrows who didn’t survive the war.” Rutledge gave the particulars of his regiment and added, “Uncle is an MP. Or was. I believe his mother still lives somewhere outside Worcester.”

“I’ll see to it, sir. And if I may make a suggestion, I’d take the bird out covered before the Chief Super learns he was here. We were able to blame one squawk on a baby whose mother had come in to complain of her neighbors.”

Rutledge laughed, and went to recover Jake.

Not knowing what else to do at this time of day—it was well past his dinnertime and possibly Jake’s as well—Rutledge took the bird home with him.

It was silent as the tomb on the journey in the motorcar, but Jake took an instant dislike to a jackdaw outside the flat window where Rutledge set him at first, and the loud denunciation of Rutledge’s choice of accommodation was nearly deafening.

Moving Jake’s cage to another window, he took note of that beak and the condition of the papers inside the cage, and wondered how to manage cleaning them without losing a finger or two in the process.

As a last resort, Rutledge put a little food on the table across from the cage and left the door open while he went to change his clothes and find something cool to drink. When he came back, Jake didn’t appear to have budged. But the food Rutledge had left out for him was gone.

He was tired and said to Jake, “We’ll deal with you tomorrow, my lad.” Shutting the cage door, he sat down across from the bird and considered the day’s events. But he found himself on the edge of sleep instead.

Hamish said, “It wasna’ a verra’ profitable day.”

“But a beginning,” Rutledge answered him drowsily. “The question now is how to put the pieces together. And what we’ll have, when we’ve done it.”

And then he had a horrible thought.

What if Jake could hear Hamish, and began to speak in his voice?

That brought him wide awake. A solution eluded him, but he got up and flung a cloth over the birdcage and listened silently as Jake began his nightly ritual of saying good night to Peter.