The Red Door

Chapter 5

London, Early June, 1920

After several days of giving evidence in the case in Sheffield, Ian Rutledge had returned to the Yard to find Superintendent Bowles suffering from dyspepsia and a headache.

Glowering at Rutledge, Bowles had snapped, “You’re late.”

“There was a heavy storm in the north. Trees down, in fact, and part of the road washed away.”

“If you took the train like the rest of us, you’d have been on time.”

“As it happens, the train was late as well.”

“And how would you know that?”

“When I came in just now, I overheard Sergeant Gibson telling someone there had been problems with tracks in the north as well as the road.”

“What was the outcome in Sheffield? Well? Don’t keep me waiting,” Bowles snapped.

“The jury was not long in convicting. Tuttle will spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“I thought the Crown hoped he’d hang.”

“The jury was not for it.”

“Damned county jurors. It was a hanging case if ever there was one. It would have been, in London.”

Rutledge made no answer. He’d agreed with the jury. It had been, as the French would say, a crime of passion, an overwhelming grief that had ended in the death of Tuttle’s ill wife. Whether by design or by accident, only God knew. For Tuttle, hanging would have in many ways been a travesty.

Bowles took out his watch and opened the case, looking at the time. “Just as well you’re back. I’m informed there’s trouble in Brixton, and we’re shorthanded at the moment. Clarke is in Wales, and I’ve just sent Mickelson to Hampshire.” He waited for Rutledge to raise any objection. Satisfied that none was forthcoming, he went on. “Four barrow boys in a brawl with a handful of Irishmen. But it has to be sorted out. Two are in hospital, and one could be dead by morning. And he’s the brother-in-law of the constable who broke it up. There’ll be hard feelings, and no end of trouble if the man dies.”

And so Rutledge had taken himself off to Brixton, only to learn the fight had occurred because the men involved were out of work, gambling in an alley behind The Queen’s Head, and were far too gone in drink to do more than bloody one another when one side had accused the other of cheating. The man said to be on the verge of death by his hysterical wife was nothing of the sort, merely unconscious and expected to recover his senses momentarily. And the Irishmen were as sheepish as their English counterparts. A night in gaol would sober them sufficiently to be sent home by the desk sergeant with a flea in their ear, and they had already informed Rutledge during his interview with them that they were the best of friends despite a small misunderstanding over the dice.

They swore on their mothers’ graves that it wouldn’t happen again. Rutledge pointed out that one of their number was still in hospital and that more serious charges would be brought if he suffered any lasting harm.

Properly chastened, the Irishmen promised to say an Ave for his swift recovery. The Englishmen were all for assuming the cost of his care.

After speaking to the desk sergeant, suggesting that the offenders be held for another twenty-four hours until the doctors were satisfied that the injured man would make a full recovery, Rutledge left the station.

He had a strong suspicion that Bowles had sent him to Brixton out of pure spite, and that feeling was confirmed by Sergeant Davis’s commiserating grin when Rutledge finally walked back into the Yard.

“Wild geese are the order of the day, sir. Chasing them, that is. Inspector Mann is in Canterbury on much the same errand. And Chief Inspector Ellis is on his way to Chichester. Idle hands and all that. It’s been a week of quiet, you see. That rubs the Old Bowels on the raw.”

Free to leave at last, Rutledge was too tired to go home, and too angry to rest once he got there. Instead, late as it was, he had taken to the streets, trying to walk off his own mood and finding himself beset by Hamish at every turn.

He watched the last of the summer light fade from opal to rose to lavender and thence to darkness as the stars popped out above the blackness of the river. The streets around him emptied of pedestrians and wheeled traffic alike, until his footsteps on the pavement echoed in his head and kept him company.

It occurred to him at some point that today had been the anniversary of his return to the Yard. A year ago . . .

It had been a long and difficult twelve months.

Finding himself at the foot of Westminster Bridge, he went along the parapet and leaned on an elbow, watching the dark water swirl far below, mesmerized by the motion as it surged and fought its way through the arches that struggled to hold it back.

Lost in thought, he came to the conclusion that the past year was in some fashion comparable to the battle he was watching between river and stone. The implacable stone was the past, anchored forever amid the torrent of his days, redirecting, obstructing, thwarting, and frustrating him at every turn.

Hamish said, “Ye canna’ resign. Ye ken, before a fortnight was out, ye’d be back in yon clinic, sunk in useless despair.”

And that was the truth of it. He wouldn’t be able to live with his own failure.

Or with the voice that was in his head. Hamish lay dead in a French grave. There was no disputing that. Nor did ghosts walk. But putting that voice to rest was beyond him. Working had been Rutledge’s only salvation, and he knew without it, the only escape would be drinking himself into oblivion. Hamish’s victory then. His own lay in the bottom of his trunk, the loaded service revolver that was more to his liking, swift, certain, without disgrace. He’d learned in France that a good soldier always left himself a sure line of retreat.

Without conscious awareness, Rutledge had registered the footsteps passing behind him—a man on crutches, a woman hurrying in shoes too tight for her tired feet, a dog trotting purposefully back to his side of the bridge. But he had missed the soft footfalls of someone creeping toward him, half hidden by the dark, jutting islands of the lamps.

Hamish said sharply, “Hark!” and Rutledge was on the point of turning when something sharp dug into the flesh of his back.

A muffled voice said, “Your money. Any other valuables. Be quick, if you want to live.”

Rutledge could have laughed. Instead he said quietly, “I won’t give you my watch. It was my father’s. But you can have whatever money you may find in my pockets.”

The point of the knife dug deeper, and he could feel it pulling at his shirt.

The man said, a nervous anxiety in his voice, “I’ve told you—!”

And nerves could lead to a killing.

Rutledge didn’t respond for a moment. Then, without changing his tone, he said, “I saw a constable on the far side of the bridge. He’ll be here soon.”

“You’re lying. He turned the other way.”

Hamish said, “ ’Ware. He’s verra’ young.”

That too could be unpredictable and deadly.

Rutledge said, “You don’t want to commit a murder. Take the money I’ve offered. Left pocket. I won’t stop you. What’s your name?”

“I’ll kill you. See if I don’t.” He pushed hard on the knife, piercing the skin, and Rutledge could feel a trickle of blood slowly making its way down his back.

“It makes no difference to me if you do. I was in the war, my lad, and I’m not afraid of dying. But I won’t give you my watch. I’ll throw it in the river first. You must take my word on that.”

He could smell the fear on the man behind him and listened for sounds of traffic turning into the bridge road. “What are you called?”

There was a brief hesitation. Then, “Billy.”

Rutledge doubted that it was, but the name would do.

Hamish warned, “Have a care. There’s no one about.”

Even as he spoke the words, Big Ben behind them struck one.

Trying to reason with his assailant, Rutledge said, “You don’t want to do this, Billy. I’ll help you find work, if that’s the problem. I give you my word.” There was a distant splash. “My watch is next,” he commented, taking advantage of the sound. “I won’t turn you over to the police if you give me the knife now.”

He could feel the boy’s uncertainty in the pressure brought to bear on the blade against his back. He could feel too the twisting of the boy’s body to look up and then down the bridge for witnesses. And then the pressure increased.

The time had come.

Before his attacker could shift his weight and drive the knife home, Rutledge wheeled and caught Billy’s free arm in an iron grip, twisting it behind him in a single move. His other hand reached for the knife. Startled, the boy cried out, and Rutledge misjudged the swift reflexes of the young.

The knife flashed as it swung wildly in the direction of Rutledge’s face. Before he could force it away and down, it sliced through his coat and into his right arm as Billy fought with the strength of fear.

Rutledge swore and ruthlessly pinned his assailant against the parapet, knocking the wind out of him for an instant as his fingers bit into the wrist of the hand with the knife. It flexed, and all at once the knife spun in the air, catching the lamplight before it clattered on the pavement. Rutledge managed to kick it out of reach, then concentrated on subduing the boy, gradually forcing his body backward until the fight went out of him.

He was just reaching for the cap that half covered Billy’s face when he heard a constable’s whistle and the heavy thud of his regulation boots as he came pounding over the crest of the bridge.

Startled, Rutledge sent the cap flying into the darkness.

“Here, now!” the constable exclaimed as he got closer and took in the two men, a knife lying some two yards away. From his vantage point, Rutledge appeared to be the aggressor, and Rutledge’s attacker took swift advantage of it.

He screamed, “Don’t let him hurt me—he’s trying to kill me. Help me—”

The constable was there, catching at Rutledge’s shoulder, hauling him away from his victim, and for the first time Rutledge glimpsed the flushed and frightened face of a boy who looked eighteen or nineteen but for all his size must be no more than sixteen.

And then as the constable’s fist closed over Rutledge’s bleeding arm, his fingers just as quickly opened again.

“What’s this, then?” the constable demanded, stepping back. He was thin and middle-aged, an imposing figure with the light reflecting from the crown of his helmet, giving the impression he was taller than he was. “Is that your knife, or his?” he asked the boy.

In that split second of hesitation, Billy wriggled free of Rutledge’s grip and set off over the bridge, his feet flying. The constable looked from him to Rutledge, and Rutledge said rapidly, “I’m Scotland Yard. Rutledge, Inspector. Go after him, man.”

But it was too late. By the time the constable had collected himself and pelted after the suspect, he had turned at the bridge abutment and was lost in the darkness on the far side of the river.

The constable came back, breathing hard, to meet Rutledge halfway. “I’m sorry, sir—”

“So am I. His next victim might not be as lucky.” He gave the constable a description of the boy, including the false name, and added, “He’s frightened enough to be dangerous.”

“I didn’t get a close look at him,” the constable admitted. “But I’ll see word is passed on.” He gestured to Rutledge’s arm. “You’d best have that seen to, sir.”

The wound was beginning to hurt now. Rutledge warned, “He may not always choose this bridge.”

“Yes, sir, I understand that.” He shook his head as he bent to retrieve the knife. “A pity. Nothing here to tell us where it came from. Common enough, by the look of it.” He ran his finger along the edge. “And sharp enough to bone a chicken.”

“I’ll come to the station tomorrow to make a statement,” Rutledge told him. “Where are you? And what’s your name?”

“Lambeth Station. Constable Bishop, sir.” He grinned tentatively, adding as if it were a longstanding joke, “Though there are none in the family that I know of.”

Rutledge didn’t return the smile. He nodded and walked back to where he’d left his motorcar. The blood trickling down his arm to his hand left a trail behind him, and he thought cynically that it was too bad that the boy hadn’t cut his own arm instead.

Dr. Lonsdale, answering the summons at his door, was in his dressing gown and still knotting the belt. “It can’t wait until morning?” And then he noted the dark patch of blood on Rutledge’s sleeve. “Come in, then,” he said and led Rutledge directly to his surgery.

“It’s not deep,” the doctor informed him, turning to wash his hands after examining and then bandaging the wound, “but it will be sore enough for a few days. Be careful how you use it.” Accustomed to patching up men from the Yard, he added, “Providing infection doesn’t set in from the knife that did this.”

It was good advice. The next morning the arm was still sore and felt heavy, but he reported to the Yard, where news of events had preceded him.

Bowles said as they crossed paths in the corridor, “Constable Walker has reported that a week ago on the Lambeth Road a boy tried to rob a doctor returning from a lying-in. Someone came along, and the boy ran. But the description is similar. He claimed he had a knife, but neither the doctor nor his rescuer actually saw it.”

“So I wasn’t the first victim.” He had hoped that he was.

“In fact, there have been a number of robberies at knifepoint south of the river, but most victims hand over their money without any fuss. You and the doctor argued. What were you doing on the bridge at that hour, anyway?”

“A good question,” Rutledge answered him shortly. And then seeing that Bowles was intent on having an answer, he went on. “Making plans of a sort.”

“A mad place to go woolgathering,” Bowles commented. “How’s the arm?”

“It will do.”

Bowles grunted. “Dr. Lonsdale tells me otherwise. You’ll be on light duty for several days.” He handed Rutledge the stack of folders he was carrying. “Inspector Mickelson is behind in his paperwork. You can deal with these.”

He walked away without looking back.

Rutledge stood there for all of ten seconds, then strode in the direction of his office, his expression grim.

Lonsdale had said nothing about light duties. This was Rutledge’s punishment for not taking his assailant into custody. And having him do Mickelson’s paperwork was intended to drive the point home.