The Red Door

Chapter 8

As Rutledge was leaving Teller’s room, he found Sergeant Biggin looking for him.

Biggin said, “I didn’t want to disturb the wife. But there’s a body. You’ll have to come and see.”

“I can’t recognize Teller. And I won’t put Mrs. Teller through this until I know whether or not you’ve found her husband.”

“Fair enough.”

“Wait here.”

Rutledge went back into the sitting room where Mrs. Teller was just joining Matron in a morning cup of tea. It was painful to see hope flaring in her eyes at the sight of him, then watch it dashed again.

“Mrs. Teller, would there be a photograph of your husband at your brother-in-law’s house that the police could use to help them search for witnesses, anyone who might have seen him? I’ll be glad to send someone around for it.”

“A photograph?” She opened her purse and brought out a small velvet case. “I have this. But it’s very precious—”

“I’ll see no harm comes to it,” he promised, and took out the silver frame inside the case.

“He was younger, then,” she warned him. “He gave me this before we were married.”

Looking down at the likeness of Walter Teller, Rutledge saw a strong face, marked by something he couldn’t define. The years in the field? Possibly. It was there in the eyes, a shadow that belied the smile for the camera.

He thanked Mrs. Teller, and went back to where Biggin was waiting.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“He’s not wearing the clothing Mrs. Teller described for us when he first went missing,” Biggin told him as they walked out to the motorcar. “But the physical description fits. Height, weight, coloring.”

“What happened to him?” Rutledge asked.

“He was stabbed. On Westminster Bridge. He was found shortly after dawn.”

Rutledge’s heart sank. Had Billy killed him? Bowles would have an apoplexy if the boy’s first victim was Walter Teller.

They drove in silence to the morgue, where the body had been undressed and the man’s clothing had been put in a cardboard box.

“Do you care to examine his belongings first?” the attendant asked.

“Was he robbed?”

“I expect he was. No watch or rings. No money.”

“Then I’ll see the body now.”

He was accustomed to looking at the dead. Sometimes he was surprised at how much he could read in the dead face. At other times there was nothing but a blankness. As if the substance of the living being had been wiped away with his death.

Biggin was right. The victim was of the same general height and build as Walter Teller, his fair hair parted on the left side. But one look told Rutledge that this was not Teller. Even given the changes over the years, it was not. In fact, the dead man resembled Rutledge in size and weight, as well.

Rutledge asked that the body be turned so that he could examine the wound in the man’s back. The knife had been shoved in hard, just where Rutledge had felt the faint prick of the blade against his own skin. He’d found, after he left Lonsdale, that small blood-encrusted spot in his own back.

He had had the boy pinned against the parapet. He should have brought him in, in spite of the constable’s interference. He should have stopped him before he killed.

Now it was too late.

Nodding to the attendant to cover the body again, Rutledge said to Biggin, “It isn’t Teller. But I can probably identify the person who did this. If you bring in a suspect, send for me.”

“Fair enough,” Biggin said.

Rutledge left the morgue in grim spirits, and after dropping Biggin at his station, he drove back to the Belvedere Clinic.

Mrs. Teller had gone again to her husband’s empty room, and he found her there, staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts.

She turned as Rutledge stepped through the door. He could see the worry in her face, and he wondered again at the family’s abandoning her at such a time.

It didn’t make sense.

He said nothing about the dead man, smiling instead and telling her, “No news, I’m afraid, but the police have been bringing me up-to-date on their activities.” He had spoken to Biggin at length in the motorcar. “The search has been expanded to include the river—”

She cried out at that, but he said, “Mrs. Teller, we must be realistic. Your husband has been under some stress. He may have left the clinic with the intent to do himself a harm, and if we’re to find him in time we must try to understand his state of mind.”

“No,” she said forcefully. “Walter wouldn’t kill himself. I know my husband, he has no reason to want to die and every reason to want to live. I won’t listen to this.”

He spent another ten minutes trying to make a dent in her certainty.

Finally he asked, “If we knew what had caused your husband’s extraordinary illness, we might be better able to judge where he has gone and why. What happened to him between the bank and your house that changed him and brought on his paralysis?”

“Don’t you think I’d have told Dr. Fielding—or the doctors here—if I had any idea at all?” She was angry with him. “My sister was here earlier this morning. I asked her if she knew anything that would help. Sometimes Walter talked to her about his mission work. Mary has always strongly supported missions, and she has no illusions about the hardships people in the field endure. She couldn’t think of any reason either. And I could see that she was as worried as I was. So I didn’t have the heart to ask her what I really wanted to know. I wondered if someone could have cursed Walter out there. I’ve heard about such things. I mean, I don’t really believe in them, and I’m sure Walter doesn’t either. Still, you never know—”

Her voice broke and she put her hands over her eyes, partly ashamed of her fears and partly afraid to speak them aloud, to give them a reality.

Rutledge had nothing to say in response. It had hardly been twenty-four hours since her husband left, but irrational fears were already supplying answers to questions that had none.

He summoned a nursing sister to come and sit with her, then left.