The Red Door

Chapter 32

It took them some time to discover how Teller had vanished so quickly.

Amy brought Rutledge the list of attendees. It took half the night to track them down. He and Jessup dealt with the local names, while Gibson at the Yard ran the others to ground.

The former missionary had been the hardest to locate, for he was traveling about England raising funds for various charities that helped support mission work and had no particular itinerary.

He told the constable who had tracked him down in the middle of Hampshire, “Yes, Walter asked if I was coming to London. I told him I was, and he asked for a lift. There was a meeting he had to attend in the morning. He didn’t want to put the family out, although Edwin had volunteered to take him. And I was happy to oblige, it was company on the road.”

The constable asked where the missionary had dropped Teller. “By Scotland Yard,” the constable told them.

“It was all a lie,” Edwin said, angry. “You were here. Why should he go to the Yard?”

“He’s going back to the field,” Leticia told them. “Leaving us to deal as best we can with the problems he left behind.”

Hamish said, “Lancashire.”

Through Sergeant Gibson, Rutledge had already sent a telegram to Hobson, asking Constable Satterthwaite to keep a watch on the house. But would Teller go there as penance for what he’d done to Florence Teller? Or to escape from his family? He could live as a recluse there as easily as he could in Africa.

Mary Brittingham said, “He might have gone to my house. There’s no one there. I’d given the staff a few days off. But Jenny still had her key. He could have taken it. I’ll have a look, at least.”

It was nearly dawn by that time. Rutledge said, “You should rest first.”

Mary, her eyes sunken with worry, laughed without humor. “I doubt I’d sleep at all. Someone ought to look and see if Peter’s revolver is here. I can’t sit still. Let me drive home and look. He may have turned back, to confuse us. I’ll stop at Leticia’s too. I’ll bring him back if I find him. If I don’t, I’ll take your advice and rest.” She held up a Thermos. “Mollie has given me tea to keep me awake on the road. I’ll be all right.”

There was a light breakfast in the dining room, but no one felt like eating. Rutledge said, “I have a feeling he’s not in London. He could have taken a train anywhere.”

Amy, who had gone looking for the revolver, said, “It isn’t there. He might well have shot himself this time. He was so depressed about Jenny. Although you’d think he would have a care for Harry.”

“He may have thought Susannah had reached her house. He could be there.” He went to put in yet another telephone call.

“Tiresome man,” Leticia said. “He’s thinking only of himself. I for one am going up to my bed.” She turned on her heel to leave.

The storm had gone with the night. A pale sunlight touched the windows.

Amy said, “Shouldn’t someone go to Portsmouth?”

Leticia said, “As I learned the last time, no one can simply arrive at a mission and announce his return. There are arrangements to make—travel for one, supplies, money, and so on. Details, like how long he’ll be expected to remain there, what comforts he can expect—or not. Whether Bibles have been translated into that particular dialect. What his expenses are, and who will sponsor him. Enthusiasm isn’t enough.”

“Which is why,” Hamish suggested, “he went with yon auld man.”

It was a strong possibility. Except that he’d left the missionary in London.

Rutledge said, “If there’s any news at the Yard, I’ll make certain you hear it right away. Meanwhile, I need to return to London. I can coordinate a search from there.”

“No, you aren’t,” Amy said. “You’re going along to Hobson. Aren’t you?”

It was true. He’d thought Hamish might be right, and in the silences of the house with the red door, Teller might use his brother’s revolver. Who would hear the shot? Even Mrs. Blaine was gone. But he hadn’t wanted to alarm them.

But on his way he detoured to speak to Inspector Jessup. The Teller motorcar had been moved from the scene of the accident, and it was now sitting in the small paved area to one side of the police station.

Inspector Jessup had gone home to bed. Rutledge was turned over to one of his constables, who gave him the report on the accident.

“Nothing anyone did caused Mrs. Teller to run off the road,” he said. “But someone had tried to tamper with the brakes and failed.”

He went out to have a look for himself and saw that Jessup had been right. “Any report on Mrs. Teller?”

“Dr. Fielding gave her something to calm her and kept her overnight. But he thinks she will be fine. Bruised and shaken, he said, but nothing time won’t heal.”

It was late when Rutledge finally arrived in Hobson, and he was tired. He debated knocking on Mrs. Greeley’s door and asking if his room was available. But he was afraid that Cobb might still be staying there, and the last thing he wanted tonight was to talk to anyone.

Instead, he found his way in the dark to Sunrise Cottage, and well before he reached the house, he stopped and stared up at it. There were no lights. The house looked just as it had done when he’d left it the last time.

“You wouldn’t see a change. He’s asleep,” Hamish said quietly.

If he was even inside.

There was a rug behind his seat of the motorcar. It was tempting to reach for it and sleep for half an hour. Neither his wits nor his reflexes were at their best.

When he didn’t immediately open the door, Hamish said, “It isna’ wise to stay here on the road.”

“He’s not likely to slip up on me.”

“Aye. True enough. But ye must move the motorcar.”

Walter Teller might well be twenty paces from where Rutledge sat, asleep in his wife’s bed. He didn’t want to risk more noise.

There was no way of knowing what the man’s state of mind was. Or even if he’d come this far. Walter Teller was a man who kept his emotions close, whose feelings had been lost in a welter of events, from the day he left for Africa, or possibly even from the day he was ordained. Was he a killer? He hadn’t murdered his first wife. The odds, then, discounted his murdering the second.

Hamish said, “Why did ye no’ feel for the second wife what you felt for the first? The lass here?”

Caught off guard, Rutledge said, “Because no one else did.”

“Aye.”

“I can’t help but wonder if it would have made any difference if Florence’s son had been brought up in London, not here. He might have had better medical care. That might have occurred to Walter Teller as well.”

But Hamish had no answer for that.

“We may never explain Walter Teller satisfactorily. Tidily and with ribbons.”

He had only to open his door to find out. That is, if Walter was indeed in Sunrise Cottage—and still alive.

“Ye’re no’ thinking straight,” Hamish said.

Rutledge could feel the darkness coming down, the sound of big guns in the distance, and closer to hand, the rattle of a Vickers gun.

No, that was at the Front. When Hamish was still living and breathing. Before he’d had to shoot him for disobeying orders . . .

His mind felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. But he’d come this far. Pulling his motorcar out of sight on the far side of the hedge, he listened, but nothing stirred.

Opening the motorcar door as quietly as he could, Rutledge stepped out into the night. There were stars overhead, and the looming shape of the house, rising behind the hedge, the whiteness of it almost ghostly in the ambient light.

He could still hear the guns in France, distantly echoing in his mind. Closer than they ought to be.

Shaking off the encroaching darkness, he turned toward the gate, then stopped.

He could have sworn another motorcar was coming up the rise. Moving deeper into the shadows cast by the hedge, he listened. The road was empty still.

He hadn’t imagined the motorcar. Footsteps were approaching the house on the unmade road, someone trying to walk quietly.

There was a slight creak as the gate opened and closed. Rutledge stayed where he was in the deep shadow of the hedge. A shaft of lightning lit the sky like a searchlight. Peering through the hedge, he was nearly certain someone was standing on the step by the red door.

Teller, arriving? What had kept him?

Or Cobb, coming to the house because he couldn’t stay away?

Hamish said, “He hated Teller.”

It wouldn’t do for the two of them to meet, both of them tense and under a great strain.

Either it was his imagination or someone had opened the door now and stepped inside. The front step was empty.

The silence lengthened. Rutledge shut his eyes, to hear better. But the only sound was his own breathing, and the beating of his heart.

Something fell over in the house. Rutledge moved quietly through the gate.

Hamish said, “Someone’s in yon parlor.”

“Yes.”

And then a light bloomed in the bedroom window, a candle flame, he was sure of it.

Rutledge returned to his motorcar and collected the torch. Then crouching low so that he couldn’t be seen from the windows, he made his way to the rear of the house.

He stumbled, realized that he’d tripped over one of the tiny head-stones, and froze. But no one came to the windows or the door. Aware that he’d failed to gauge his approach properly, he realigned his direction to avoid the flower beds by the kitchen door.

Ducking under the kitchen windows, he glimpsed a flash of light, as if whoever was holding the candle was moving down the stairs.

Time was of the essence.

He reached the door, counting to twenty-five before putting his hand on the latch. Lifting it gently, he waited in the doorway.

No one spoke, and he stepped inside.

The candle was in the parlor. He couldn’t see who was holding it, only the faint glow as it was raised to allow someone to survey the room.

It moved on to the sitting room.

Rutledge was well inside the kitchen now, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness within the house.

Then there was an intake of breath, and a curse as the candle went out.

“My God, what are you doing here?” It was Teller speaking. And then the scrape of a match, and the candle bloomed into life again. Rutledge could see Teller’s shadow thrown against the far wall, black and formidable, but knew he himself was invisible.

Teller raised his voice. “I asked you what you were doing here?”

A woman’s low voice said, “The police said you weren’t here. But I knew you were. Do you think you can make amends to her? Or is this sackcloth and ashes too late?”

Rutledge strained his ears. Was it Susannah? Hamish disagreed.

“Sanctuary. Of a sort. That’s all.”

“Men like Rutledge don’t walk away. He’ll find you here.”

“Well. I’ll think of somewhere else to go. I’ve lived rougher than this. At least the roof is sound, and I have a bed. Though I couldn’t sleep in it. I made myself a pallet on the floor, next to Timmy’s bed. I slept there many a night when he had croup or a heavy cold. It was familiar.”

“Did you love him more than Harry?”

“I didn’t know Harry. Even though I was there with him as he grew. Timmy kept getting in my way. I’d see his smile in the way Harry’s lips quirked. The shrug of a shoulder—the way he’d kick a football. Even the way he sometimes talked with his mouth full and the way a lick of hair stood up straight after a nap. God, how I tried.”

“And Jenny? Did you love her as much as you loved Florence? Or are you unable to love anyone but yourself?”

“What difference does it make to you? Yes, I thought I was in love with Florence—I was young, I wanted the world, and she thought I was everything I wanted to be. I could see myself in her eyes. Better than my father’s, surely.”

There was a silence, and he said, “Jenny knew nothing about Timmy. It was a relief to talk to her—to pretend this part of my past didn’t exist. And then I couldn’t bear not to come here and remember. You saw through me. You always have known the kind of man I was. It was like looking into my mirror, when I was with you.”

“Yes. Well. It all came crashing down. You brought it down, you know. Wittingly or unwittingly.”

“You haven’t told me. Why did you come?” he asked.

“I brought you something.”

“That’s Peter’s revolver.”

“I thought you might like to die as Peter Teller. This Peter Teller.”

“I won’t hang, and I won’t shoot myself. I disappeared before, and I can do it again. You heard Gran—what she said will still be enough to hang me about the laudanum.”

“I was angry enough with you to want to see you hang,” she said. “I could have told them it was nonsense about the laudanum. She could tolerate it perfectly well, mixed with warmed milk. I don’t know why she was ill that other time. She might have had a miscarriage for all I knew.”

“Why the hell didn’t you speak up and tell Jessup what you knew?”

“Why should I make life easier for you? It would be best, really, if you just went away, but the police will find you in the end. Harry will do very well with Amy and Edwin to care for him. Put the barrel in your mouth and simply pull the trigger. Like this.”

“You’re wrong about me. I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Of course you didn’t. I did it for you.”

Even from where he was standing, Rutledge could hear the hiss of Walter Teller’s indrawn breath.

“It sorted out everything very nicely. Jenny died knowing she was safe and loved. Peter was the last connection with Lancashire. You of all people should appreciate the logic of that. After all, everything pointed to him. And it left Harry as the Teller heir, and that was all everyone cared about. If you’re honest, you’ll agree with me.”

“Were you that jealous? I wasn’t aware of it.”

“That’s because you’re selfish and self-absorbed. So do the decent thing and get it over with. I loved you once—single-mindedly, blindly—but I was misled like everyone else. And now I’ve come to my senses.”

“No. I won’t touch that gun. In the morning, I’m going back to Essex. There’s nothing left for me here.”

“Are you so afraid to die?” she asked pityingly. “Well, then. I’ll take care of that for you as well. My last gift.”

And before Rutledge could move, the revolver fired. Through the echo, Rutledge heard a slight cough, then the sound of a body hitting the floor.

He reached the dining room in time to see Mary Brittingham standing over Walter Teller, the revolver down by her side, tears on her face shining in the light of the candle.

“Put down the weapon and step away from him,” Rutledge said, his voice sharp.

She looked up, startled, so intent on the man lying at her feet that she hadn’t heard Rutledge coming toward her.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “I’d have left him for them to find. They’d never have realized he hadn’t killed himself.”

Reaching Teller, he went down on one knee, feeling for a pulse. It was faint, fluttering. Rutledge swore silently. He shoved his handkerchief into the wound in Teller’s chest, pressing against the warm flow of blood, willing it to stop. As the handkerchief was soaked, he flung out his other hand, trying to find something else to add to it. And Mary reached for the table’s cloth and was down beside him, frantically adding the pressure of her hands to his.

They worked for several minutes, but Walter Teller’s breathing slowed, caught, then stopped altogether.

Rutledge rocked back on his heels, easing his shoulders.

“No—don’t stop,” Mary cried.

“He’s dead,” Rutledge told her, but she wouldn’t hear of it, begging him to find something else she could use, and when he wouldn’t, she screamed at him, her voice a shriek that sounded like Jake’s, wordless and primeval.

And then over her scream, he heard the faint choking sound that preceded a long indrawn breath, and Teller was breathing again.

Mary collapsed over Teller’s body, telling him that she hadn’t meant for him to die, begging his forgiveness. Rutledge picked up the revolver and put it in his pocket. He felt drained, but his mind was already setting out what had to be done next. He found sheets in the bedroom and tore them into strips, rough bandaging of a sort. And working swiftly, he moved the woman aside, leaving her huddled in a corner, crying, as he ripped the buttons from Teller’s shirt and set about keeping the man alive.

The sun was just showing over the horizon when Mary Brittingham got to her feet. The first rays struck the front of Sunrise Cottage and illuminated the faded red door.

She looked down at Teller, still unconscious but alive.

Turning to Rutledge, she said, “Will you give me the revolver? I’ll write anything you wish me to write. But I don’t want to hang.”

“You’ve killed two people. It was nearly three. A court will have to set this to rights. I can only do my duty.”

“And if you let me be tried, Harry will be branded a bastard. Everyone will know. That’s worse. We can end this here, quietly. A lover’s quarrel People will wonder at it, then forget us.”

“Susannah Teller will want to see you hang if you killed Peter and tried to kill her. I’ve got to take you to Constable Satterthwaite, and bring a doctor back here with me. It’s been a long night. Don’t make it any longer.”

“All right.” She seemed resigned to her fate, her face lined with fatigue and grief and despair. “Will you at least let me make a cup of tea? I don’t think I can endure the rest of this without it.”

“No. Did you have a coat?”

“I left it in the parlor, I think.” She looked down at Walter Teller. “I wish I’d never come. But I didn’t want him to go to the gallows in my place. At least cover him with something. A blanket from one of the beds upstairs.”

Rutledge stooped to retrieve the bloody cloth from the table to spread it over Teller. And at the same instant, Mary Brittingham made a lunge for the revolver in his pocket.

It was well out of her reach. He had seen to that. But she was driven by something stronger than muscle and bone. Her will carried her across the distance, and her hand gripped the metal just as his clamped down over it.

There was a struggle. She was unbelievably strong, and it took every bit of his own strength to turn the weapon toward the wall as she managed to pull the trigger.

The second shot went into the ceiling before he could force the revolver out of her hands and shove her hard as far away as he could.

She hit the wall with a force that knocked the wind out of her, and for an instant she stared at him with such venom he took a step backward. Before she could recover, he’d emptied the chamber and pocketed the bullets.

Taking her arm, he led her out of the house and to his motorcar. The seats were wet after the rain, but she let him put her into the passenger door. He turned the crank, got behind the wheel, and happened to see a long shaft of sunlight touch the roofline of the house where Mrs. Blaine had lived.

There would be another woman for the hangman now.

Hamish said as Rutledge backed into the road, “There’s her motorcar. Down the road. ’Ware.”

Rutledge saw it, and pressed hard on the accelerator. It didn’t deter her. Just in time, he caught Mary Brittingham’s arm as she tried to open the passenger’s door and throw herself out of his vehicle as it gained speed.

“Not this time,” he said.

Pulling her back, he kept a firm grip on her arm.

“I will succeed,” she told him through clenched teeth. “In the end, I will cheat the hangman.”

And he had a feeling that she would.

But not on his watch.