The Red Door

Chapter 33

It was a miracle that Teller lived. Dr. Blake, who was brought out to attend him, said as much. “Lost blood, the internal damage. He’ll not be up and about for weeks.”

“His family is in Essex.”

“They could be on the moon for all I care,” the doctor snapped. “The hospital here in Thielwald will do very well.”

But who, Rutledge thought, would come to sit by his side? Not Susannah. Nor would Amy leave Edwin. Leticia? Perhaps.

He sent telegrams to the Yard and to Inspector Jessup. And five days later he left Lancashire and pointed the bonnet of the motorcar south at last.

There had been a great deal of time on his hands during those five days. He had sat by Walter Teller’s bed or walked the streets of Thielwald, and spent an hour or two with Lawrence Cobb one afternoon.

But when he was free to leave at last, he knew what he was going to do.

And despite the fury that was Hamish in his mind, he grimly kept his eyes on the road.

There were times when he thought about Florence Teller.

Driving all night, he came into London in a light rain, mist hanging heavy over the Thames as he turned toward his destination.

Hamish said, “Ye’re no’ fit to do this.”

It was true. He was unshaven, his clothing wrinkled and stained with Walter Teller’s blood. Mrs. Greeley had done her best with a damp cloth and an iron, but it was still there. Even if he couldn’t see it, he could feel the stiffness along the edges of his cuffs.

But there was no time to worry about that. He was nearly certain he was already too late.

Pulling up in front of the house in Chelsea where Meredith Channing lived, he sat for five minutes in the motorcar, searching for some sign of life. Proof that this hadn’t been a wild-goose chase.

And then he got out, feeling the cramps in his muscles, determined to know.

He had knocked at the door before he realized how early it was, how foolishly early.

But to his surprise, Meredith Channing opened the door herself. He only had time to notice that she was dressed for travel before she said, “Ian. What’s wrong?”

He could think of nothing to say. And then, “I’ve just returned from a case in the north,” he managed finally.

“I must finish my packing,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes filled with an emotion he was too tired to read. “My train leaves in an hour.”

“Don’t go,” was all he said then.

She shut the door without answering him.

As he walked back to the motorcar, he could feel her gaze on him from the window of her parlor.

He didn’t turn.

He had said what he’d come to say.

The decision must be hers.

ALSO BY CHARLES TODD

THE IAN RUTLEDGE MYSTERIES

A Test of Wills

Wings of Fire

Search the Dark

Watchers of Time

Legacy of the Dead

A Fearsome Doubt

A Cold Treachery

A Long Shadow

A False Mirror

A Pale Horse

A Matter of Justice

THE BESS CRAWFORD MYSTERIES

A Duty to the Dead

OTHER FICTION

The Murder Stone