The Red Door

Chapter 31

Rutledge made good time to London and went to his sister’s house before reporting to the Yard.

She was surprised to see him, saying as he walked through the door, “Are you coming for Jake?”

“Not yet. How is he?”

“I don’t want him to grow more attached to me than he is,” she said. “He likes to sit on my shoulder and walk around the house. I dare not take him outside, for fear he’ll fly away. But he wants to go to every window and look out, then he searches for roses.”

“His owner grew them. Bring a few inside. That might cheer him up.”

“A very good idea.”

“Any news of Meredith Channing?”

“I haven’t seen her since she returned to London. But I’m told she’s back and feeling much better. Oh, speaking of injuries and recoveries, did you hear that Chief Inspector Cummins was viciously attacked last night? I ran into his sister coming from the hotel in Marin Street. She was sent for. He was badly hurt, loss of blood, stitches. I hope they find whoever did such a vile thing.”

“I’m sure the Yard has every possible man searching.”

“What brought you here, if it wasn’t Jake?” she asked.

He smiled. “No further word from Scotland?”

“All’s well. Ian had his pick of the pups. He’s excited because Fiona is allowing him to sleep with it. I don’t think there’s any lasting harm from the horror of the train crash.”

“The resilience of youth.”

Leaving, he trolled the streets toward St. Paul’s, looking for Charlie Hood. But there was no sign of the man. Another loop, he thought, and then, six blocks from the cathedral, he spotted Hood.

This time Rutledge caught up with him and called, “Hood?”

The man turned, recognized Rutledge, and started toward an alley where the motorcar couldn’t follow. And then he thought better of it and came forward slowly, stopping about five feet from the vehicle.

People were swarming around them at this hour of the day, weaving in and out and making any sort of conversation nearly impossible.

“What do you want?” Hood asked. And Rutledge read his lips rather than heard his words in the noisy intersection.

“A drink. A few words,” Rutledge said to him.

“I don’t have the time,” Hood replied. Then, coming nearer, he asked, “You haven’t caught your murderer, have you?”

“Not yet. He came close to killing another man last night.”

Hood nodded. “Word gets about on the street.” He made to go.

Rutledge said, “Have you ever had trouble with the police?”

Hood laughed harshly. “Not since I was twelve and learned my lesson. Still trying to make a connection with that other man?”

“That inquiry was successfully concluded.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” And he was off, moving briskly through the late afternoon crowds, then crossing the street and disappearing into a shop.

Rutledge watched him go. “I’ll have you yet, my friend,” he said under his breath, then turned back toward the Yard.

Instead he went to Bolingbroke Street and asked to speak to Susannah Teller.

To his surprise, she agreed to see him. The shades were drawn in the sitting room, but even in the dim light Rutledge could see that her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep. Yet he thought she seemed to have found some inner strength to carry her through.

Hamish said, unexpectedly, “Anger.”

Rutledge thought that was very true. For she kept him standing, like a servant.

“I wanted you to know that we’ve released your husband’s body.”

“Thank you. I had a call from Inspector Jessup. I have arranged for the service to be held tomorrow afternoon.”

That was very quick, but he said only, “He didn’t kill anyone, Mrs. Teller. He’s been completely absolved.”

“How nice to know that the rector needn’t mention in his eulogy that Peter was nearly arrested for murder,” she said sardonically.

“If I’d had the whole truth from the start,” he told her, “it might have been different.”

“All I know is, you made his last days a hell on earth. I hope this knowledge will give you nights as sleepless as his were.”

“I expect there are worse burdens on my conscience than this one.”

“Who did kill that woman in Lancashire?” she asked him, unable to stop herself.

He told her, and she said, “Jealousy is a powerful thing.”

“But you weren’t jealous of Florence Teller. After all, there was no need. She wasn’t Peter’s wife.”

“It never troubled me,” she said, still keeping up the lie, “from the time I found out. We had a happy marriage, Peter and I. Whether you believe that or not.”

“Have you asked your solicitor what your rights are, if you persist in this charade? Whether you are in fact the legitimately surviving spouse? Mrs. Teller is dead. Of course, the Captain must have made proper provisions for you in his will.”

That visibly shook her. But she said, “Our solicitors will sort it out.”

“Or perhaps they weren’t informed of the necessity for provisions. Unless your husband changed his will in the last ten days.”

“You’re unbelievably cruel, Inspector. My husband is dead, and so is the woman in Hobson. He can’t be prosecuted for bigamy, and you will only bring public shame on me if you pursue this.”

“Shaming you isn’t my intent, Mrs. Teller. But when people break the law—and there is a law against bigamy, I remind you—there are often repercussions that hurt the innocent. Your husband, for instance, whose name was used by Walter Teller. And Jenny Teller, who—if the truth had come to light—was about to discover that she was no one’s wife and her child illegitimate. It was convenient for both of them to die when they did. Accidentally? Very likely. But if not, I want you to realize that you may also stand in some danger. You’re very angry just now about your husband’s death. Understandably. He bore the brunt of his brother’s misdeeds. And he kept his head and fought me every step of the way. I recognize why, now. All of you are very fond of Harry. And you’re protecting him, not his father. But when you find yourself being denied your rights as the Captain’s widow, you might well see matters very differently. And if you are forced to tell the truth to protect yourself, you will break this wall of silence.”

He could see she hadn’t thought that far ahead, she hadn’t considered the legal repercussions or the danger she might stand in. She replied slowly, as if still thinking through what he’d said, “But you’ve just told me that Peter’s death and Jenny’s were accidents.”

“At this stage, we have to consider them accidental. We haven’t been able to find any proof to the contrary. But they were—providential. You must see that.”

She shook her head. “My murder would bring to light everything that the family has fought so hard to protect.”

He let it go and told her instead, “As for the voices your husband heard in the cottage when he was speaking to Florence Teller, it might well have been the parrot, Jake, that her husband brought her. It speaks sometimes. Mimics may be a better word.”

“I—parrot?”

“Yes. He’s here in London. You can see him for yourself.”

“No. You’re saying I have no grounds to believe Walter or Edwin were already there in the house? Peter was so sure.”

“I think Edwin can prove he was in Cambridge. And Walter was aware you’d discovered his secret. He never left London.”

“Or is this a trick to see to it I withdraw my charge of murder?” she asked suspiciously. “I don’t trust you, either.”

Rutledge smiled. “I don’t ask you to trust me. Just consider what I’ve said.”

He turned to go.

As he reached the door, she stopped him. “What you’re telling me is that you aren’t finished with Walter. And you want me to leave him to you.”

He turned. “I’ll do my best to protect Harry. For his mother’s sake. And I owe it to the Captain to protect you as well. At the same time I have a duty to the law. Until I am satisfied, neither your husband’s death or Jenny Teller’s will be closed.”

He left her then, and she didn’t call him back.

Rutledge was returning to the Yard when he saw Meredith Channing just coming out of Westminster Abbey. She still wore a sling on her arm but moved without pain as far as he could tell. He slowed the motorcar, and when she came within speaking distance, he called to her.

She looked up, recognized him, and paused, as if uncertain whether to greet him or not. And then she crossed to the motorcar.

“I see you’ve recovered,” he said.

“And you found the people you were searching for? Were they all right?”

“Yes, thank God. I came back to look for you. I was told you’d already been moved, but no one seemed to know where.”

“A very kind woman took in several of us. It was a relief to get away from such an horrific scene. And then friends came for me. I stayed a few days with them. ” She paused. “Ian. I’ve decided to travel for a while. I think it would be good for me.”

There was traffic behind him. He said, “Are you going home? Just now?”

“Yes. I sometimes come here to think. It’s very lovely and very quiet.”

“I’ll take you, then.” And he lied when he saw her hesitation. “I’m going in that direction.”

“All right. Yes. Thank you.”

As they pulled away from the pavement and headed for Trafalgar Square, he asked, “How long do you expect to be away? For the summer?”

“I’m not sure. A year or two, perhaps. I haven’t looked ahead.” After a moment, she added, “I’ve—become fond of someone. And I’m not sure that it’s wise.”

He couldn’t see her face. She was looking at the passing scene as if she had never traveled this way before. He wasn’t sure she was seeing it now.

“Something has upset you.”

“I think the train crash upset everyone who was there,” she said evasively. She turned to look at him, then looked away again.

He remembered that no one had sent him word about the name of the passenger who had died.

“Was he on the train? The man you’ve become fond of?”

Surprise flitted across her face as she turned back to him. “On the train? No. I was traveling alone. What made you think—”

“There was a man in your compartment. He didn’t survive.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m glad I didn’t. He was very nice. We’d chatted for a time.” She bit her lip. “He’d been to visit his son.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked to hold them back. “Well. You see. I’m still very emotional about the crash.”

“It’s not unusual. God knows—” He stopped.

“Like my shoulder, that will heal too,” she said, trying for a lighter tone. “With time.”

He said nothing, weaving his way through traffic, giving her space to recover. The tension in his mind brought the voice of Hamish to the forefront, so loud it seemed to fill the motorcar.

They had reached Chelsea. Her house was just three streets away. He was searching for words now, unable to think for the other voice, realizing that time was slipping away.

Two streets now.

He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He had steeled himself against any feelings, and the wall was high, insurmountable.

One street.

“Running,” he said finally, “is no solution.”

She sighed. “No. But I don’t know what else to do.”

They had reached her house. He slowed the motorcar, stopped, was getting out to open her door, and the moment was lost.

“At least,” she said, smiling brightly, “it isn’t raining this time. Thank you, Ian. This was very kind of you.”

And she strode up the walk, opening her door, disappearing inside.

He stood there, Hamish hammering at him, and then turned and got in his motorcar.

Afterward, he wasn’t sure how he got as far as Windsor without knowing it. He had to turn around and drive back to London.

Chief Superintendent Bowles had given some thought to the trap he intended to lay for the murderer they knew only as Billy.

He said, as Rutledge reported to him, “Good, you’re early.”

“How is Cummins?”

“Out of the woods, but not thanks to Billy. He came damned close to severing an artery. We’ve got to stop this maniac, and you’re to be the bait. At least that’s the current thinking—that it’s you he’s after.”

“I don’t think he’s a maniac.”

“Stands to reason that he is. Hunting people like an animal. Then taking his knife to them.”

Rutledge let it go. Instead, he asked Bowles, “Was there any information on that man Hood, who is our witness for Bynum’s killing?”

“The address he gave us was false, a stationer’s shop. Like many of his kind, he doesn’t want to be found.”

So, Rutledge thought, little more than he’d known already. “Have you spoken to Gibson or one of the older sergeants? The man may have a past. I’ve seen him before or dealt with him somewhere.”

“It doesn’t matter. We shan’t need him until the trial. Here’s the plan. You’ll drive over to the police station in Lambeth, and speak to the sergeant on duty. It’s a routine question, about one of the men Billy robbed earlier on. I want you to be seen, and then return here. At nine o’clock, I want you to dine with Mickelson, walking with him to that pub on the far side of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Then you’ll return alone on foot as darkness falls, and walk along the Embankment. Failing any sighting of our friend Billy, you’ll walk to the bridge and stand where you did before.”

“He’s not going to fall easily into a trap,” Rutledge warned. “He’s seen your men, he knows he sent Cummins to hospital. Here’s a better choice.” And he outlined what he had in mind.

Bowles was willing to compromise, and at eight o’clock Mickelson and Rutledge left the Yard on foot for their meal. It was a stilted dinner, neither man feeling much like opening a conversation, the animosity between them making even a request for a saltcellar sound like a declaration of war.

Their dislike of each other went back to an inquiry in Westmor-land, where Mickelson misjudged a volatile situation and nearly got an innocent bystander killed. Rather than acknowledge his mistake, he’d rushed to London and laid full blame at Rutledge’s door. Circumstances had cleared Rutledge, but Bowles had not been swift to act on the information and still favored Mickelson.

Rutledge finished first, and went on foot back to the Yard. He felt like dozens of eyes watched his progress, but from street level he could see no one.

He went into the Yard. A quarter of an hour later, Constable Miller, dressed as a sweep, was drunkenly making a nuisance of himself in front of the House of Commons. A single constable was dispatched to deal with him, but the noise level didn’t abate. Rutledge, with another constable in tow, strode down to Commons and reasoned with the drunken man. Miller, young and excited, nearly overplayed his role, but in the end, the two constables marched him back to the Yard, protesting every step of the way at the top of his considerable lungs. A small crowd gathered to watch, laughing at the spectacle, and Miller played to his audience, offering to kiss the pretty girls and bring them a sweep’s luck. He dropped one of his brushes, bent over to retrieve it, and fell on his face. The two constables, one on either side, brought him to his feet and kept the bundle. By this time, Miller appeared to be turning a little green, and the onlookers moved away as he knelt and was sick in the gutter. The constables, waiting impatiently, urged the last two or three people who were lingering to see how the situation turned out, to be about their business. A decidedly uncomfortable Miller, holding his stomach, and complaining that he’d meant no harm, shambled between his captors and was soon hauled through the door at the Yard.

Rutledge, inside Commons, walked out talking to a well-dressed man who could have been as important as he looked. They stood together for a good five minutes, as the last of the light was fading from the sky, sped on by a heavy bank of clouds in the west.

The man with Rutledge finally took his leave and walked back to the Commons and disappeared through the door. Rutledge stood there looking after him for a moment, then walked back toward the Yard. Halfway there, one of the constables came out to meet him, passed on a message, and went back the way he’d come. Rutledge went down toward the water, studying the clouds that were already blotting out the western stars and moving downriver. A flash of lightning in the darkest part of the clouds lit them from within, and a cool breeze picked up to herald the storm. A roll of thunder followed.

“There’s no’ much time before the rain comes,” Hamish said. In the distance, somewhere near Trafalgar Square, a motorcar’s horn blew sharply. Rutledge started back toward the bridge and paused to watch a river skiff expertly run the gantlet of the stone arches, and voices carried to him across the water, three men as far as he could tell, and young enough to like the excitement of danger.

He had come to the bridge and stood there, as if debating what to do next. Another roll of thunder reached him and the flashes of lightning were brighter and more often. Taking off his coat and slinging it over his shoulder, he turned and walked back in the direction of the Yard.

He never knew where Billy came from. There was more thunder, a hiss of warning from Hamish, and suddenly the boy was there, arm round Rutledge’s neck, jerking his head back. Rutledge fought then, with every skill at his command. The boy was strong and driven by obsession. Rutledge had his hands full. And where, he wondered in a corner of his mind, was Mickelson with a half dozen constables?

“ ’Ware!” Hamish yelled.

The knife flashed, and Rutledge caught the arm wielding it, twisted, and brought his weight down on it.

The boy screamed, letting Rutledge go, and then kicked out viciously with all his strength, grazing Rutledge’s kneecap as he leapt back.

There was more thunder, and Rutledge could hear the German guns.

His attention on the boy, looking for an opening to bring him down once and for all, Rutledge felt arms flung around his shoulders, hauling him back. He thought it was one of his own people and relaxed his guard.

Billy hit him then with locked fists, across the face.

Behind Rutledge, someone said, “Will. For God’s sake—”

“No, I’ll kill him. And you as well.” His face was green in the lightning.

“Listen to me, Will. I’ll help you, I swear to God I will.”

“I don’t want your help.”

Billy lunged with the knife, straight at Rutledge’s exposed chest, but the man behind him shoved Rutledge to one side with such force that both went down, and the knife plunged into the man’s left side.

Rebounding, Rutledge was already on his feet, and before Billy could react to what he’d done, he had the boy in a grip that brought him to his knees. Billy yelped in pain. The man lying on the pavement looked up and cried, “Don’t hurt him.”

Rutledge said through clenched teeth, “I’d like to throttle him.”

But he was referring to Mickelson, for the sound of boots pounding belatedly in his direction was none too soon.

The first constable to reach the three men held a torch in the face of the fallen man, and Rutledge nearly lost his grip on Billy as he recognized Charlie Hood.

“Are you all right, sir? That was a very foolhardy thing to do,” the constable chided him, bending over Hood. “And very brave, I must say.” He was shoving something against the heavily bleeding wound as two more men came up and took Billy roughly from Rutledge’s hold.

Rutledge knelt by Hood. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, but Mickelson had just reached them, out of breath, saying, “Who’s this other man?” Thunder cut across the rest of his words.

“Good Samaritan,” the constable retorted as he worked. “We’ll need help straightaway, sir. This looks bad.”

Billy said nothing, standing there pale in the torch beams, looking down at Hood. Then he burst out with, “What did you want to go and do that for? Now look at what’s happened.”

Hood cleared his throat, and they could all see flecks of blood like black freckles on his lips. “I didn’t expect to see you again quite so soon,” he said to Rutledge.

“What were you doing here?” Rutledge asked again.

“My son, man. This is my son,” Hood replied haltingly.

They looked nothing alike. As Rutledge glanced from Hood’s face to Billy’s, he could find no resemblance at all. And then in a quirk of the light as Billy turned to him, fright replacing his belligerence, he caught a similarity in expression around the eyes.

He’d seen Billy only once before, and then only fleetingly. Yet he had managed to register that expression as Billy had tried to plead his innocence to another constable, and it had stayed with him. And Charlie Hood had triggered that memory.

Hood was leaning back in the constable’s arms now, his face pale, his mouth a tight line of pain.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered, smiling with an effort. “I should have been in time. Long before this.”

They were trying to lead Billy away, but he was fighting to stay with the man on the ground. A flash of lightning illuminated all their faces briefly in a shock of white light, and then they were blinded in the aftermath of blackness. Thunder rolled, and the breeze had become a wind tearing at their clothing and pulling at their hair.

Someone had come with a motorcar, and there was an effort to get Hood in the back before the rain fell. Already the first heavy drops accompanied the thunder just overhead, and Big Ben striking the quarter hour sounded muffled.

Mickelson said out of the darkness, “We couldn’t see. There was a third person, and so we weren’t sure.”

Rutledge ignored him. He went to the motorcar as the rain fell and leaned in to speak to Hood. The man was breathing with some difficulty, and pain had set in. His clenched fist beat against the seat in rhythm with the throbbing.

“Why were you hunting him?” Rutledge asked urgently, bending over Hood.

“His mother and I separated years ago. I didn’t know he was in trouble. I’d been working in the north. When I heard, I started looking. I nearly caught up with him the day Bynum was killed. Too late to save him. He needed a father’s hand. I wasn’t there. The men she lived with were bad for him. I didn’t know. Criminal records.”

“Why did he want to kill me?”

“I think—you got in his way. He never liked being thwarted. He tried to kill me once, when he was twelve. I made him return a stolen bicycle.”

“Sir?” a constable said, and Rutledge pulled away. The motorcar gathered speed as it turned back the way it had come.

Billy too was gone, in custody.

A constable had stayed with Rutledge, rain cascading off his helmet and onto his cape. “Sir?” he said again.

“Yes, very well.” And Rutledge turned with him toward the Yard. He realized he was wet to the skin and cold.

Mickelson had disappeared.

The constable said, “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly, and the constable was wise enough not to say more.

In truth he was not fine. Tired, hurting, and angry enough to take on Mickelson and Billy at the same time, he set the pace, stride for stride with the constable.

When they reached the Yard, the constable—he realized in the light above the door that it was Miller—said, “He held us back, sir. He said he couldn’t see who was with you. The other man confused him. He said.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rutledge told him.

“I think it does, sir.”

But Rutledge refused to be led into answering. He went to his office and sat there for some time in the dark, watching the storm move downriver, thinking about Billy and the man who had called him Will.

After an hour had passed, and then most of another, Rutledge stood up and walked to the door.

Chief Superintendent Bowles had not come to find him. Not to apologize for Inspector Mickelson’s disregard for orders or to congratulate Rutledge on his role in capturing the killer the newspapers had begun to call the Bridge Murderer.

He drove to his flat, bathed, and changed to dry clothes, then slept for two hours. When he woke, his face on one side was bruised, his knee ached, but on the whole no damage had been done.

He stopped at the Yard to ask the night duty sergeant for news of Hood and was told that the hospital reported he was holding his own.

“And there’s a message as well from Inspector Cummins, sir.”

He handed it to Rutledge.

The single word Thanks was written in a bold script he recognized.

Nodding to the sergeant, he left and drove to Essex.

It was very early. The storm over London hadn’t cleared the air here. The clouds were heavy, the rain dismal, and he had had no breakfast

Hamish said, “It willna’ improve your mood.”

He waited in a lay-by until eight o’clock, and then drove the short distance to Witch Hazel Farm. He found Edwin standing in the doorway, looking out at the weather.

“It doesn’t appear that this rain will stop,” Edwin called as Rutledge got out of the motorcar. “Good God, man, what happened to your face?”

“An altercation with a belligerent prisoner,” Rutledge said.

“Peter’s funeral is today. Did you know?”

“I spoke to Mrs. Teller yesterday in London. She told me.”

They walked indoors, and Edwin said, “What about Jenny? Can we go ahead there as well? I think it’s not in Walter’s best interests to go on brooding. We’ve hardly clapped eyes on him. He stays in his room. Leticia has been taking up his meals.”

“I see no reason not to release the body,” Rutledge said. “I’ve decided to agree with Inspector Jessup for now that these were accidents. I have found no evidence that they weren’t.”

“I don’t see how anyone would gain by their deaths. Financially or otherwise.”

Rutledge said, “It has nothing to do with money. What concerned me was the fact that your brother is no longer alive to deny he was married to Florence Marshall. And Jenny Teller is no longer alive to be hurt should the legitimacy of her marriage be questioned.”

“I don’t think—”

“No. I’m sure none of you did when first you embarked on this venture.”

Edwin said, “As I was about to say, I don’t think justice would be served by pursuing this.”

Rutledge entered the study to find the family collected there, save for Walter. They looked tired, dispirited, and isolated in their own thoughts.

Mary said, “The funeral is at two o’clock this afternoon. Did Edwin tell you?”

He thanked her, and asked after Harry.

“He’s bearing up well enough. The rector’s son gave him a puppy. I don’t know what Walter will say to that—he never cared for pets—but it has taken Harry’s mind off death.”

Rutledge was reminded of another small boy rewarded by a puppy from the litter in the barn.

Leticia said, “Did you speak to Susannah, Inspector? Is she coming?”

“I expect to see her,” he said.

She started out of the room. “I’ll see that her bed is made up.”

Rutledge had the feeling that his very presence dampened the conversation. He followed Leticia out into the passage. “I don’t believe she’ll stay here,” he told her.

“Well. Her choice, of course.”

He went to the nanny’s room that had been Jenny’s sanctuary and sat there until it was time to come down for the service. It was a quiet room, serene and seemingly distant from the tense atmosphere of the study, and from its windows, Rutledge could count the motorcars and carriages arriving for the funeral.

He made a point of attending. The church was larger by far than the one in Hobson. He watched the mourners gather and listened to a well-meant eulogy by Mr. Stedley, extolling the Captain’s bravery, his sense of duty to God and country, and his love for his family.

And then Peter Teller was buried in rain that pattered softly on the cluster of umbrellas struggling vainly to keep the mourners as dry as possible. But the earth that was to be sprinkled into the grave struck the coffin in muddy clumps, and he saw Susannah Teller wince at the sound.

She had held up remarkably well, greeting the guests with quiet dignity, her face nearly invisible behind the long silk veil of mourning, her feelings hidden as well. But he heard her voice tremble once or twice.

Afterward, the guests returned to Witch Hazel Farm for the funeral repast.

Mollie and her cohorts had done their best, and the family stood about in the drawing room and the dining room, making the right remarks and responding to questions that must have galled them.

Rutledge watched Susannah Teller, with Edwin at her side, as she greeted each guest and thanked them for coming.

When the last of the mourners had left, Edwin went straight to the drinks table in the study, pouring himself a whisky. He held it out to his wife, but Amy shook her head, asking for a sherry.

He brought her a glass, then turned to Rutledge.

“Nothing. Thanks.”

Edwin sat on the small settee and said, “God.” He looked tired and drained.

“It was a nice service,” Amy said. “Everything considered. A few gawkers, there out of curiosity. Three fellow officers and their wives came. Someone who’d known Peter in school. Three women who were widows of men who served under him in the war. One of them had the handsomest boy with her. Thirteen, at a guess. She said he was the image of his father, and you could hear the grief of his loss still there in her voice. I can’t remember who else. Oh—someone who had served in the field with Walter. He must have been close to eighty but was spry as a man ten years younger. I think that pleased Walter. At least he seemed happy to see the man. A good number of people from the village, as you’d expect. Most of them remembered Peter as a boy. I think Susannah was quite touched.”

“Where is she?” Edwin asked.

“She left fifteen minutes ago. Leticia told me. She stood up very well, didn’t she?” Amy went on. “Women generally do. It’s expected of them not to make a fuss. I remember Walter telling us that somewhere he was sent, the women beat their breasts and tore at their hair while making the most haunting noise. An ululation, he called it. He said it made him shiver.”

“Did Inspector Jessup come?”

“No. His wife was there. She said he’d been called away.”

Leticia came in. “Mr. Rutledge. There is tea in the dining room, and sandwiches. Please help yourself.”

He thanked her and went to find Mary sitting at the table, crumbling bits of bread from her sandwich into little pills on her plate.

He poured himself a cup of tea, then took sandwiches from the platters set out on the buffet. “May I join you?” he asked before sitting down.

“Yes, please do,” she answered, whether she was pleased to see him there or not.

“Mrs. Teller felt that the service went well.”

“Yes, I’m glad. And there’s still Jenny’s funeral to get through. Today I wished myself anywhere but there. Still, one has to support the family. As they’ve supported me.” She got up and set her plate on the small table already piled with used dishes. “I’ll come in later and help Mollie with these,” she said. Then after hesitating, as if of two minds what to do, she came back and sat down. “Have you seen Walter? He was here for a bit, and then I looked for him and he was gone. I thought he might have retreated to the study.”

“I was there. I haven’t seen him.”

“Then he’s in his room,” she said, nodding. “Did he kill Jenny?” Surprised, Rutledge countered, “There’s no real proof. Why should he wish to see her dead?”

“Well, that’s what we’ve all been waiting for, isn’t it, these past few days?” she said bitterly. “Proof one way or the other. About Walter’s illness. About Peter. About that death in Lancashire. Then about Peter again, and now about Jenny. The other shoe dropping.” She turned away. “Do you have any idea what the tension has been like, since Walter first took ill? I went through his study, trying to find out who to contact in the Alcock Society, I thought someone might come and speak to Walter at the Belvedere. I was foolish enough to believe he was worried about going back into the field and they might set his mind at rest. Imagine my shock when I learned about his other life. And all the time—it was Edwin who suggested that Florence Teller might have been here in London and Walter happened to see her. But of course she wasn’t, as it turned out. So we will never know, will we, why he was ill?”

Rutledge said, “It doesn’t matter now what made him ill.”

“Yes, it does, because he still has to come to terms with it and choose. I think it has to do with Harry, with Walter’s insistence that the boy be sent away to school. It was as if he didn’t want him anymore. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. And then he recanted on Harrow, telling Jenny it would be all right to wait a few years. But now, this morning, he told me he thought it would be best for Harry to go after all, because he’s motherless. I’d already promised to take him and look after him for a bit, but Walter is adamant. Harrow it is to be. I knew Walter long before Jenny met him. As a brother-in-law, he was kind and thoughtful and always willing to help me with the house where Jenny and I grew up. I couldn’t have asked for better. And I could share Harry with them—they were always asking if I’d take him for a night or for a few days. I really care for the boy, I’d do anything to protect him. But I’ve begun to realize that Walter uses people. Not wittingly, purposely, but most certainly conveniently. I’ve even begun to wonder if he married Jenny to have a son again, to replace that dead one. He’s capable of it, you know.”

Her bluntness was almost brutal. And he found himself thinking that Mary had understood what was behind the two marriages better than anyone else, because she was so alone herself.

“I don’t know, Miss Brittingham, what to say. But you may be right. As to what he intends to do, there’s no impediment. Walter Teller can do as he pleases. I’ve every intention of closing the inquiries here, and asking the inquests to bring in a verdict of accidental death in both cases.”

Before she could answer, Amy came to the door. “Inspector, Inspector Jessup is here. He wants to speak to you urgently.” She turned to Mary. “Have you seen Walter? And what’s become of Gran?”

“He must be in his room,” Mary said. “I don’t have the energy to go and see. Mr. Rutledge tells me he wasn’t in the study. Your grandmother is lying down. Leticia settled her half an hour ago.”

“Thanks. I’ll go and look for him.”

Amy closed the door again. Mary rose and said, “Needs must. I ought to join the others, whether I feel like it or not. I’m a guest, now that Jenny’s gone. And so I must fit in with the wishes of others.”

She went out of the room, and Rutledge followed her, in search of Jessup.

He was pacing the hall. When Rutledge came down the passage, he turned and said, “There’s been an accident. Can you come at once?”

Rutledge followed him out to the waiting motorcar. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“It’s Mrs. Teller. Captain Teller’s widow. She left here, I’m told with the last of the mourners, intending to drive to London. She’s had an accident.”

“Is she dead?” he asked, remembering the warning he’d given her.

“No. Badly bruised. And she wants to see you. She won’t let us fetch a doctor to her until she does.”

They drove on in silence, through the gray evening, and shortly after the intersection where the Repton Road and the one to Waddington met the trunk road to London they found Captain Teller’s black Rolls touring car with the bonnet having run up into an ancient hedgerow topped by a wooden fence that lead into a pasture. He was out of the Inspector’s vehicle before it had come to a halt and was striding to where Susannah Teller was sitting in the rain, the veil she had pulled to the back of her black hat drooping. Her coat sparkled with raindrops in the light of her motorcar’s headlamps.

He came and sat down beside her, then put his arm around her shoulders. She cried out in pain, then began to weep in earnest.

Jessup was saying, “Bruising where the wheel struck her, scraped knees—” He broke off as Rutledge silently shook his head to stop him, and he moved away to speak to his men.

“What happened? I didn’t know you’d left. Was the motorcar tampered with?”

“I couldn’t stand being there—every time I went past the stairs or saw someone stepping on the place where he was lying, it was more than I could bear. I wanted the garden doors open instead, but Mary told me that with the rain, the lawns were too wet. I went to Walter, but he wouldn’t open his door and help me. I left as soon as I could.”

“Did you tell anyone you were leaving?”

“Only Gran. You don’t know how much I miss Peter. It’s been worse than anything I could have imagined, coming here. The funeral. And I feel so alone.”

“How did this happen?”

“I was crying. I couldn’t see where I was going. I did to myself what you were afraid someone else might do.”

“Are you sure there was no problem with the motorcar—the steering or the brakes?”

She shook her head.

He sat with her a little longer, and then she agreed to let Inspector Jessup take her to Dr. Fielding.

He said to Jessup, “Go over this motorcar. If there is any reason for that crash other than her emotional state, I want to know.”

Jessup looked at him. “Are you saying someone would like to kill that woman?”

“I told her that if there was an attempt at a third accident, we would know that the other deaths were murder.”

“And she thought . . .”

“She was frightened. But it was the only way I could make her watch for trouble. She was angry with the family, she blamed them for her husband’s fall.”

“I don’t understand how she could.”

Rutledge was walking around the motorcar, but in the rainy darkness he could see nothing. “It doesn’t matter. The fact is, she did. All right, let me know what you find.”

He asked one of the constables to drive him back to Witch Hazel Farm, and with a nod from Jessup, one stepped forward and said, “This way, sir.”

Hamish was saying something, but Rutledge wasn’t listening. He went to find Amy as soon as he reached the house.

“Your sister-in-law ran off the road in the rain. Dr. Fielding is seeing her in his surgery.”

“Oh, dear. I ought to go to her. She should never have been allowed to drive to London alone. Are you sure she’s all right?” She clicked her tongue. “I don’t know what’s to become of us. It’s a little frightening.”

“She’s all right, but I think she might prefer not to be alone.”

“Of course not. But—there’s another problem. We’ve looked everywhere, and Walter isn’t here. No one has seen him since the funeral service. I telephoned the rector—he told me he hadn’t seen Walter since we left the church. You don’t think he’s vanished again? It would be too horrible to contemplate.”

“Did you look in the nursery?” Rutledge asked.

“Yes, before I called the rectory.” She glanced uneasily toward the door. “You don’t suppose he went for a walk?”

“Not tonight. Is his motorcar here?”

“I’m sure it is,” she began doubtfully, then said, “Would you look? It’s in the small barn just beyond the kitchen garden.”

Rutledge went around to the shed where the motorcar was kept.

It was still there. Rutledge laid a hand on the bonnet. It was almost completely cool after driving to the service.

When he found Amy Teller and told her, she said, “I don’t remember exactly when I saw him last. But then I didn’t realize Susannah had left, either. There was such a number of motorcars and carriages and people, at the end.” Amy turned toward the stairs. “Let me fetch my coat,” she said. After a moment she was back, adding, “Perhaps we ought to go to the church. I’ll feel better when we know he’s all right.” She bit her lip. “We let him stay to himself too much. But we were all angry still, and upset about Peter and then Jenny. We let him bear the brunt of our feelings.”

“The church?” Rutledge asked. “All right, we’ll have a look.”

He drove with her to the church, but it was dark and empty, with no sign of Walter. They encountered Mr. Stedley just coming to return the church umbrellas, and asked him again if he’d seen Walter.

“I’m afraid not.” He looked across the churchyard to the raw mound of earth that marked Peter Teller’s grave. “Do you have a torch, Inspector?”

He found the one in his motorcar, but although he flashed it across the stones and beneath the yew trees, there was no sign of Teller.

Stedley, standing in the porch shivering, said, “It’s grown quite chilly. I hope he’s not wandered far.”

Rutledge drove Amy Teller back to Witch Hazel Farm and with her searched the house again, then the outbuildings. But Teller had gone.

“He might have decided to spend a little time with Jenny,” Amy said doubtfully.

She called Dr. Fielding’s house, but Mrs. Fielding told her that they had not seen Teller since the service for his brother.

Edwin, coming down from his bedchamber where he’d been resting, said, “I should think he’s all right. He might have just walked around, trying to clear his head.” But it was like whistling in the dark. His voice betrayed his concern.

Mary said, from her corner by the fire they’d built in the hearth against the chill of the rain, “You don’t suppose he went to my house? Or Leticia’s? Or he may have gone back to London with Susannah. We’re all staying the night here. He may have wanted a little peace and quiet.”

Leticia, who joined them, said, “On foot? The motorcar is here. No, he must have begged a lift from someone.”

Edwin said, “We may be worrying prematurely. Let’s give him another hour. It’s foolish to panic like this.”

“He wouldn’t just—vanish again, would he?” Mary asked Rutledge.

But he could offer her only cold comfort. “I don’t know.”

“Call the Belvedere Clinic, Amy,” Mary suggested.

“He couldn’t have reached London this soon,” Amy protested.

Mollie came in to ask if anyone would care for tea, and they asked her again if she knew where Teller might be.

But Mollie hadn’t seen him since the first mourners had departed.

Hamish said, “Ye’re worrying about the lass. It’s possible you were fearing for the wrong person.”