The Red Door (15 page)

And then the bird said in a very human voice, “Good night, Peter. Wherever you may be.”

In a hushed whisper, Mrs. Blaine said, “That’s
her
voice. For all the world. As if she were still alive.”

“You’d never heard it speak?” Rutledge asked.

“Lord, no. Never in her house and not in mine, either. He was quiet as a lamb there, and here he’s done naught but to scream like a creature in pain.”

“I didn’t know you’d taken anything from the house—this bird,” the constable was saying accusingly. “I asked if you’d touched anything.”

“It’s a live bird, I thought it would be like a canary. I took it out of kindness,” she said, defending herself. “You’re not telling me it could name her murderer!”

“No, it’s just that you said—was there anything else?”

“Did she ever ask you to burn some letters for her, if something happened to her?” Rutledge asked. “Or take a photograph and post it to her late husband’s family? You were her nearest neighbor, she might have confided in you,” he added, though he couldn’t see a strong friendship springing up between two such different women. Still, needs must, and two widows alone on isolated farms could have turned to each other to carry out last wishes.

Incensed, Mrs. Blaine said, “Look here, I never touched a thing in that house. I took pity on this creature, as I would on a stray cat. And look how it’s repaid me, I ask you.”

“It could have been evidence,” Constable Satterthwaite pointed out, trying to keep his own temper.

“A bird’s not evidence,” she retorted. “I’ll wring its neck and be done with it, and bury it up there in her little graveyard. See if I don’t.” She marched around the table toward the cage.

Rutledge said, “Constable—”

“I’ve got a cat,” he said, as if that absolved him of all responsibility. Rutledge stepped forward. He could hear Hamish. It was clear that the voice in his head was trying to tell him something, but he reached for the cage and said, “I’ll take possession of it. The bird may not have seen who killed her, or watched if the killer searched the house. But until we know differently, it’s a ward of the court.”

Constable Satterthwaite turned to him as if he’d taken leave of his mind.

Mrs. Blaine said, “Ward or not, I’ll thank you to remove it from my house.”

“Did she have any enemies? Anyone who had had a falling-out with her, anyone who might have held a grudge against her?” he asked, gingerly lifting the bird—cage, cloth, and all.

“I’ll have my tablecloth back,” she told him. “As for enemies, you might as well ask if I have any. She wasn’t the sort to make people angry. She never asked for much, and it was just as well, she was never given much in this life but great sorrows to bear. She had nothing to steal, though she never lacked for what she needed. It was people who’d failed her. And I can’t think why anyone would have wished to see her dead.”

Rutledge looked around the kitchen and saw nothing he could use to cover the bird. He set the cage down again and took off his coat, wrapping it around the cage in place of the tablecloth. The bird had his head tucked under his wing, and hardly stirred.

“You’re a right fool,” Mrs. Blaine said to Rutledge as he handed her the tablecloth, “but I’ll thank you all the same for ridding my house of this nuisance.”

“What can you tell us about Mrs. Teller’s husband?” he asked.

“Only that he never came back from the war. They said there was a collection being taken up in London for a monument to the men gone missing. I’ve no doubt Lieutenant Teller’s name will be on it. I asked her if she was going to make a contribution, but she said that would be like walking over his grave. As long as she held him to be alive, he was. Though in the last months, I think even she had begun to give up all hope. She painted that door red to welcome him, and she’d set a dress aside for the day. Well, if he’s in heaven, she’s found him now and is at peace.”

She walked with them to the door. “She told me once that she’d read a story about a man who had gone on the crusades, and he lost his memory, and it was years before he came home again. She asked if I thought it was a true story. And I told her I did, because I couldn’t say, could I, that some writer had made it up out of whole cloth to make women readers cry. I was never one for that sort of thing myself.”

“If you can think of anything that would be helpful,” Constable Satterthwaite told her, “you’ll let me know, first thing?”

“I will. And I’m locking my door at night, and bringing in the dog. I don’t want to be found dead like she was. How long do you think she lay there? It was a cruel thing to do, kill her and leave her to the flies.”

They thanked her and left. For a second, Rutledge didn’t know what to do with the bird, standing there looking at the motorcar and unwilling to put it on the floor by what would be Hamish’s feet. But the constable took it from him and set it there, saying, “Here’s a travel rug. Shall I put it around the cage instead of your coat?”

“Oh—yes, thank you.” Rutledge took his coat back and pulled it on as he opened the door of the driver’s side.

As the constable cranked the motorcar, he said to Rutledge, “What will you do with that thing? You can’t be serious about taking it to London.”

“Why not?” Rutledge asked. “For the time being at least. Who knows what else it might say.”

“Aye, and I’d give much to see the judge’s face when you offer a parrot in evidence.”

Rutledge laughed. “What matters is whether or not someone else thinks the bird can talk. That could be interesting.”

The motor caught, and the constable got in. All color had gone from the sky now, and the first stars were growing brighter. “Shall we go and see the body, sir? I think the doctor would like it released as soon as possible for burial.”

“Released to whom?” Rutledge asked. “There’s no family. You said as much yourself.”

“What else are we to do? I’ll be there. And some of the village women, no doubt. She won’t be put in the ground without someone by her.”

They drove through the dark streets of Thielwald, light from house windows making bright patches on the road. Satterthwaite pointed out the doctor’s surgery, and they knocked at the door. Dr. Blake answered the summons himself, nodding to Rutledge and saying to the constable, “Another five minutes and I’d have gone up to my bed. But I’m glad you’ve come. Any word on her killer?” He was a short man, graying at the temples, perhaps fifty-five, with pale, heavy-lidded eyes.

“No, sir. But this is Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard. He’ll be looking into her death.”

Dr. Blake took them back to the room where Florence Teller was being kept, and lighted the lamps. He carried one to the sheet-draped figure and held it high so that Rutledge could see her clearly.

In the flickering light, Rutledge studied the body. A slim, trim woman of perhaps forty, he thought, older than the Teller wives he’d just dealt with. The doctor was pointing out the location of the wound, but Rutledge only half heard him, seeing the look of peace that Constable Satterthwaite had spoken of. With the lines that sorrow had put in her face smoothed away, she looked young again.

“Is there anything more you can tell me?” Rutledge asked.

“I’m afraid not. That one blow on the back of the head, near the base of the skull, was enough. I should think the killer was right-handed, considering the direction of the blow, and possibly on a level with her, rather than shorter or taller. And he was either very strong or very angry. No one interfered with her, no one moved the body from where it fell. There were no other wounds.” He shook his head. “A tragedy. I knew her,” he added to Rutledge. “She was seldom ill, but her son was my patient. He had measles when he was very young and never fully recovered. He died of typhoid fever, and I thought she would go mad with grief. There was nothing I could do. There are times when I curse my profession for its ignorance.”

After a few more questions and a promise to release the body for burial, they thanked him and left.

Rutledge drove the constable back to Hobson and asked where he might spend the night. There was no hotel in the little town, and after the long day of driving, the thought of going another ten miles or more to find lodging was daunting.

The constable sent him to the house of a Mrs. Greeley, who sometimes took in summer walkers. The room was at the back of the house, and as she led him there, she said, “I was just putting the kettle on for my tea. There’s bread and butter, creamed eggs, and some slices of ham, if you’d care for it.”

He thanked her and offered to pay for the meal as well as the room. She accepted his offer, and he could tell that she was pleased to have the money.

She insisted on serving him at the small table in her sitting room, though he was perfectly willing to sit in her kitchen. But Mrs. Greeley was agreeable to talking as she laid out his cutlery and brought in a soup that she had made with beans from a tin and bits of bacon.

“Did you know Mrs. Teller very well?” he asked, after complimenting her on the soup.

“None of us knew her really well,” she said. “She was a quiet sort, kept to herself. I remember she met the lieutenant in Morecambe, where she had gone for a few days by the sea after a chest cough lingered beyond the winter. He was on a walking tour, but he came back later in the summer and called on her. Then back again he came before the end of October. I could tell she liked him. And he was very taken with her. They were married two years later. He liked the Army, he said. It gave him the opportunity to travel. But he couldn’t take her with him. Not then, and later, with the boy being sickly, he never wanted to take her to his postings. I always thought she must be very lonely, out there on the West Road, as they called it then. But she seemed to be happy there.”

Over the flan, he asked if she could think of anyone who held a grudge against Mrs. Teller.

“Her? Never. She wasn’t one to attract trouble, if you know what I mean. I don’t know what’s got into folks these days. The war changed everything, didn’t it People could live anywhere and be safe, no one would think of any harm coming to them. I’ve taken in strangers, young men on holiday, and never feared for my life.”

“I understand she painted her door red to welcome her husband back from the war.”

“It was a seven days’ wonder, that red door. Everyone found an excuse to walk out that way, just to see it. Afterward, when he didn’t come home, I thought it must be a daily reminder of her loss. But she wouldn’t hear of having it painted something else. I even offered one of the lads who stayed with me. He’d caught himself a chill, and was at his wits’ end for something to do until he could move on. He would have painted it any color she liked.”

He waited until she had gone to bed before bringing the bird in and settling it in a corner of his room. He gave it some sunflower seeds he’d seen in Mrs. Greeley’s kitchen and filled up its water bowl. And then as he covered it again, it said softly, “Good night, Peter. Wherever you may be.”

T
he next morning Rutledge could hear the parrot mumbling to itself, and so could Mrs. Greeley. “I see you’ve got Jake. Lord, I’d forgotten all about that poor bird, or I’d have gone up myself to see to him.”

“I understand Mrs. Teller’s husband brought him to her on one of his leaves.”

“He did, and I could have laughed myself silly when I heard Florence say Jake could speak. I didn’t believe a word of it; he was silent as the grave whenever I called. They say it’s possible to teach a magpie to speak, but I don’t believe that either. All the same, Jake was company for her, and that’s what mattered. She’d just lost Callie Sue, her cat, when Jake arrived, and I was glad she had something to take her mind off her loss. Callie Sue had been Timmy’s cat, you see.”

Rutledge left the parrot to Mrs. Greeley’s tender care—she appeared to know what the bird ate—and spent the morning walking around the village, asking residents about Mrs. Teller. But most of the answers to his questions were a variation on what he’d already learned from Mrs. Blaine, the constable, and Mrs. Greeley. And no one could offer any explanation for her murder. When they spoke of Peter Teller, it was with warmth, but it was also clear that they had never quite felt he was one of them. For one thing, he’d never been in Hobson long enough to put down deep roots.

The ironmonger, Mr. Taylor, told Rutledge, “When he came in for this or that bit of hardware for the house or outbuildings, he talked about Dorset more often than not. That’s where he lived before he went into the Army.”

“Did he say anything to you about his family—brothers—sisters?”

“Not directly, no, though when Timmy was born, he told me he hoped the boy wouldn’t be an only child, as he was.”

“What did his father do? Was he in the Army as well?”

“His father was a rector, and Teller mentioned that he’d regretted it all his life. That he’d have been an Army man if the choice had been his. Like his son.”

Sam Jordan, the man who owned what was the closest thing to a pub that Hobson possessed, could add very little more to what Rutledge already knew. But he made one remark in passing that was helpful.

“I’d ask him sometimes about his regiment and where he was stationed. I never got a clear answer to that. I expect on leave he didn’t want to think about going back. Then Jack Blaine said he thought Teller was in the Buffs. Florence told my wife he was in a Hampshire regiment.”

“Did he come home on leave during the war?”

“As I remember, he didn’t. Well, it’s a long way from London, and the trains were carrying troops and the wounded. My own boy came to London twice, and there was no way to travel down to see him. Upset my wife no end.”

Mrs. Greeley’s neighbor commented that Teller had brought her a box of cherries from the tree that grew out beyond the Teller barn, and she had made preserves with the last of her sugar. “I wasn’t to know the war was coming and we’d see no more. I sent a bottle up to Mrs. Teller—I sometimes did the heavy washing for her when Mr. Teller was at home—and she said they were the best cherry preserves she’d ever tasted. I remember it as if it were yesterday, her standing there in her doorway, praising my preserves, and then the Jordan boy come up on his bicycle to say we were at war. Mr. Teller came to the door and said, ‘It will be over by Christmas.’ But it wasn’t, was it? Nor for four more Christmases to come. I asked Mr. Teller if he must join his regiment straightaway. And Mrs. Teller, poor thing, looked as if I’d struck her. Her face went all white, then flushed, as if she was about to cry. It was the last time I saw him. Two days later and he was gone at first light, to make the train.”

Mr. Kerr, the curate of the small church, told Rutledge, “He never came to services, which I thought was sad. Not even after Timmy died. But Florence was here every Sunday until near the end of the war. I think she must have had a feeling, you know—a premonition—that he wasn’t coming back.” The curate rubbed his bald head thoughtfully. “Of course, I talked to Mr. Teller whenever I saw him in Hobson. And I wondered if he’d lost his faith. Soldiers do, sometimes, you know.”

Rutledge understood that all too well.

The curate added with a smile, “Of course, attending services here at St. Bart’s was never compulsory.”

Rutledge found he was learning as much about Peter Teller as he was about the man’s widow. She was well liked, people had known her as a child and accepted her as one of their own. But her husband apparently had kept to himself when he was in Hobson, making very little effort to fit into his wife’s social life. Which of course had made the local people more curious about him than they would have been if he’d attended church services and spent an evening in the pub. It was in a way very selfish.

Hamish said, “Selfish? Or secretive?”

Or perhaps Peter Teller—like Chief Superintendent Bowles—felt he was a cut above the local people, unwilling to sink to their level?

Then why had he chosen to live here? He didn’t make his living in Hobson, he was free to go. Or was it his wife’s choice, because he was away so often and she preferred familiar surroundings to Dorset or London?

A little silence had fallen. Rutledge said, “I’m curious about Teller’s background. Did you marry them? Did any of his family come to Hobson for the ceremony?”

“It was my predecessor who officiated. I wouldn’t know who was or wasn’t among the guests, or who stood up for him.”

“What attracted Peter Teller to Florence Marshall? Was it money, do you think?”

“You never met Florence. There was something about her that drew people to her. As for money, she’d inherited from her aunt, and I understood that Peter’s late father had left him well-to-do. It was never an issue, as far as I know.”

“Can we find the date of their marriage in the church records?”

“I needn’t consult them. They were married in the early spring of 1903. My sister was married in May of that same year. In 1913, when I happened to mention to Mrs. Teller that I was taking a few days to go and celebrate Katie and Ralph’s tenth anniversary, she told me it was her tenth as well. I brought her a small gift from Katie, on my return. She was that pleased. I don’t believe her husband was here to mark the occasion. A pity.”

Rutledge, walking back to the High Street, paused at the Great War Memorial just at the turning into Church Lane. He always spared a moment to acknowledge the dead. The Hobson men who had gone off to fight had served together. It was a common practice, for these men who had never been as far as Carlisle or Chester, much less London, felt more comfortable in one another’s company. And consequently, they often died together.

He could see that it was the case here. For every surname there was a list of Christian names. Under Satterthwaite he saw three, and under Greeley five. There was a Taylor, a Blaine, and two Jordans. He could see them in his mind’s eye, marching together out of Hobson to find the nearest recruitment office, then returning together in new uniforms where the crease was still sharp and their caps sat at a jaunty angle. Off to kill the Hun . . . And die themselves, whether they shot a Hun or not.

He was turning away when the elderly man walking past stopped to speak to him. Although graying and distinguished, with a trim white mustache, his shoulders were beginning to stoop with age. His voice was educated and strong, without the heavy local accent.

“That’s from the fields,” he said, using the tip of his cane to point to the irregular stone some three feet high that was the centerpiece of the memorial. “We thought that fitting. They came from this land, and many of them never returned to it. And so they still have a part of it.”

“Yes, it’s moving,” Rutledge answered.

The man lowered his cane to marble tablets encircling the stone. “My sons are there, both of them. My nephews too.” The cane moved on to point to the name of Cobb, and the long list beneath it. “My elder son, Browning, and his brother, Tennyson. A schoolmaster’s folly, those names. I come by every morning to greet them and every evening to say good night.”

“It’s a quiet place to be remembered.”

“You served in the war?”

“France. The Somme.”

“You saw some of the worst fighting. Though I daresay none of it was better than any other.”

Rutledge could only nod.

“You’re here, I think, because of Mrs. Teller. A sad thing. There’s no one in Hobson who would have hurt her. I can’t think why a stranger might.”

“No one has been able to offer the police any useful information. Yet I’ve discovered in places barely as large as Hobson that grudges can run deep. And in the end, they often surface in violence.”

Cobb shook his head. “I repeat. Not here.”

“Apparently her husband was with his regiment more often than he was here in Hobson,” Rutledge said, changing the subject. “It must have been a lonely life for her. Waiting for him to return. And not knowing, throughout the war, if he would.”

“She was orphaned as a child and brought up by an elderly aunt. Well meaning, of course, but not precisely accustomed to children and their needs. I expect that’s why Florence became a teacher, to surround herself with children. But they weren’t hers, were they? They went home every day to their own families. It was on the first holiday she’d taken from teaching that she met Peter Teller and fell in love. I don’t believe she had high expectations of it turning into something more. Not from the start, knowing he was in the Army.”

“Did you meet Teller, talk to him?”

“I’d see him on occasion on the High Street. He didn’t frequent the pub and he wasn’t gregarious. But I found myself thinking sometimes that he was a tormented man. I don’t know precisely why—he was a cheerful sort in a brief conversation about the weather, where he’d be serving next, or what plans he might have for his son’s education. Alas, Timmy died young. It was a devastating blow to both parents. As you’d expect. No one should have to endure such tragedy.”

Hamish said, “He speaks for himsel’.”

“Was Teller eager to see his son follow him into the Army?”

“Not at all. In fact, he told me once that the only bright spot in the coming war was that Timmy would never have to go off and fight. A war to end all wars, they claimed. But it will be forgotten in a generation, and there will be another.”

And then Cobb hesitated. “Perhaps I should tell you. My nephew, Lawrence Cobb, worked on Mrs. Teller’s farm when she needed help. He was glad to do it. I think he’d have married her if word had come that Teller had been killed. But of course he was missing, and that’s very different.”

“Was she in love with your nephew?”

“No. Loneliness might have, in the end, brought them together. But it was not to be. Lawrence married Mrs. Blaine’s daughter instead. Only last year.”

“I’d like to speak to Lawrence,” Rutledge said. “If you’ll give me your nephew’s direction?”

Cobb did, after a moment’s hesitation.

Hamish said, “He’s no’ pleased now. He wishes he hadna’ telt ye about his nephew.”

Rutledge thanked him, and Cobb nodded, then walked on without looking back, leaning heavily on his cane.

Rutledge drove out of Hobson to the northwest, and after two false starts he found the farm where Lawrence Cobb lived.

A man was in the barn, working on a steam tractor. Rutledge could hear the clang of a hammer on metal. He walked back there, and as he came through the door, the man yelled, “Damn!” and began to suck his thumb where the hammer had struck a glancing blow.

“Lawrence Cobb?” Rutledge asked, and identified himself when the man nodded. “I’ve come from Hobson. Your uncle suggested I might speak to you about Florence Teller.”

Suddenly wary, Cobb set down his hammer, glanced briefly at his bruised thumb, and then said, “You’re here about her death. Well, I had nothing to do with it, but if I ever lay hands on the bastard who did it, I’ll finish with him before the police can touch him.”

“Do you still care that much for Florence Teller?”

Cobb shot a look toward the house. “What if I do? She was married, I couldn’t speak to her. It came to nothing. She guessed what I was feeling, and we decided it was best that I move on. I did. My wife and I are happy.”

But Rutledge thought it was not true. Content, perhaps, but at least on Cobb’s part, not happy.

“Do you know who might have wanted to kill her?”

“No one in Hobson. I’d have torn out their throats if anyone touched her. I think if it hadn’t been for Timmy, she might have turned to me when Teller went missing. But she loved her son, and she loved his father. Never mind how he treated her.”

“What do you mean, treated her?”

“If I’d had a wife like that, I wouldn’t have stayed away so many years at a time. I’d have written more often. He sent gifts, but it wasn’t the same as being there. After Timmy died, she needed him more than ever. But I think coming here hurt too much, and his visits got fewer and farther between. Or so it seemed to me.”

“There were letters?”

“She kept them in a little rosewood chest on the table beside her favorite chair. When I was working there and came in for a cup of tea or mug of water, I sometimes saw her putting one away, as if she’d just read it again. Her lifeline, she called that chest.”

But there had been no such chest by the chair nor anywhere else in the house, as Hamish was remarking.

“You worked for her as a handyman, when you might have done far better for yourself,” Rutledge told him.

“My mother left me her money. And I’d have wanted to be there, helping out, rather than in some position in Carlisle or Chester where I couldn’t see her every day. I’m not ashamed that I loved her. But I’ll thank you not to pass that on to my wife. Betsy is jealous. I found that out too late.” He picked up the hammer and struck the frozen nut around a screw. This time the blow broke the rusty bond that had locked the two together, and he could spin the nut. “How can you be so wrong about a woman’s smile? But I was lonely, and I wanted a son. I’ve not had even him yet.”

Hamish said, “Ye ken, he was more likely to kill his ain wife than the lass in the cottage.”

Rutledge had got the same feeling. He thanked Lawrence Cobb and left. But not before Cobb said, “I’ll tell you this, and then deny I ever said it. But it’s crossed my mind a time or two since I heard Florence was dead. It’s possible her husband didn’t want her anymore, that he’d met someone else he wanted to marry, and he couldn’t find a decent way out of his dilemma. And so he killed her. Ask Jake. He might know.”