The Red Door (23 page)

Hamish said, “She loved him verra’ much.”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath and went out to find the rest of the family.

They were a grim and silent lot when Rutledge walked into the dining room. Walter Teller was standing at the window, his back to his family. Leticia was also standing, staring down at the cold hearth. Amy and Edwin sat together at one end of the table, and at the other, Mary Brittingham was trying to calm her weeping sister.

Mary said, “Has he been taken away?”

“Yes. Just now.”

“Then if you will allow it, I’ll take my sister to her room and sit with her. It’s been frightful for her.”

“I must begin by asking each of you where you were when Captain Teller fell. Miss Teller?”

“I was just coming down the passage. I’d been in the kitchen, helping Mollie. I generally do when all of us are here. It’s a great deal of work, and finding suitable help from the village isn’t always possible on a Sunday morning.”

“Thank you. Miss Brittingham?”

“I was upstairs. I’d overslept and was late coming down for breakfast.”

“Could you see Captain Teller fall?”

“I was still in my room. Two minutes—less—later, and I’d have been in the passage.”

He turned to Jenny.

“I was outside, I’d taken my tea outside this morning. I—I wanted to walk a little.”

“It was misting here? Raining?”

“A soft mist. I don’t mind that. It was cooler after a string of warm days.” She broke down again.

Rutledge turned to Amy Teller. “I was in the study, looking for a book. I’d finished the one I’d been reading last night. I was the first to reach Peter. They may have told you. He was still alive, and he said my name. And then he died. It was awful. I think I screamed for Susannah.”

“Where was she?”

“I believe she’d already come down and was in the dining room. She appeared from that direction, anyway.”

Her husband looked up at Rutledge, his face grim, his eyes red. “I was in my room. Like Mary, a few seconds more and I’d have been with him. I might have saved him from falling. I can’t seem to get that out of my mind.”

Rutledge waited for Walter Teller to give his whereabouts. He didn’t turn. Finally he said, his voice muffled, “I was in the drawing room. I wanted to be by myself.”

And so no one had been on the scene. Or at least no one admitted to it.

He nodded to Mary Brittingham, and she rose, saying to Jenny, “Come on, love, you’ll be better off lying down.”

Jenny shook her head. “I won’t go up those stairs. I don’t think I ever shall again.”

“Then we’ll use the back stairs,” Mary told her.

Jenny said, rising from her chair, “I’m to blame. I told Walter I wanted to have a party, as I did last year. With everyone here. If I hadn’t, Peter would still be in London this morning, and not dead.”

“Don’t be silly,” her husband said roughly from the window. “Accidents happen. He could have fallen down his own stairs, for that matter. He was drunk enough last night.”

She looked at him, hurt clear in her face. And then without answering him, she turned and walked from the dining room. Mary followed her.

The covered dishes of the family breakfast were still on the sideboard. Rutledge could smell the bacon and see a dish of boiled eggs. Used plates had been set on the small table to one side. By his account, four of the family had already eaten their breakfast. It fit with their statements.

When Jenny was well out of hearing, Rutledge said, “Your sister-in-law has just told me that Peter Teller was shunned all weekend. Miss Teller, did either you or Mary say anything to the family about the evidence against Captain Teller?”

“I told Edwin. You had already spoken to Walter. I imagine Amy learned of it from Edwin. It was Jenny’s birthday, and we had agreed not to upset her. She’d been through enough, and it would make for a very unpleasant party. As it was, we were all struggling to put up a good front. In the end even Jenny felt the tension and wanted to know what was wrong. We all lied through our teeth. It might have been better if we’d told her the truth and been done with it. Peter was moody, he could read between the lines. Walter hardly spoke to him. Edwin was not himself either. He hadn’t been since he came back from that woman’s funeral—”

“Florence Teller. She had a name,” Edwin said sharply. “Use it.”

Leticia closed her mouth firmly and stared at him.

Edwin said, “Oh, to hell with it. Inspector Rutledge, when can we leave? It will be better for everyone if we just go home and stop pretending.”

“I don’t know. We’ll need statements from all of you, telling me where you were, and what if anything was said, what your reading was of Captain Teller’s state of mind.”

Amy said, “You aren’t suggesting it was suicide—” She broke off.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Walter said from the window. “I don’t think Peter had that much sense.”

Rutledge cut across Amy Teller’s retort. “It might interest you to know that the Captain’s wife—widow—has just told me that she feels he was murdered.”

There was a sharply indrawn breath from the people looking up at him. A collective reaction to his suggestion.

“She’s upset,” Walter said.

Edwin added, “I don’t think she knows what she’s talking about.” Leticia said, “Yes, she does. She doesn’t see this as a blessing in disguise, that Peter—and the rest of us—will be spared the nightmare of a trial. It doesn’t matter how it ends—in full acquittal or a conviction. The damage will have been done.”

Amy said, “That’s an awful thing to say. No one is rejoicing.”

Leticia crossed the room and poured herself another cup of tea.

“It’s time we all faced some very unpleasant facts. And one of them is that Jenny will have to face them as well. We can’t go on lying to her. It’s not fair to Peter or his wife.”

“Oh, do shut up, Leticia,” Walter Teller told her. “I’ll deal with Jenny in my own way.”

“If we could have thrashed this business out amongst ourselves on Friday, none of this might have happened,” Leticia retorted. “And what about Harry? What is Harry to be told?”

There was a strained silence.

“Harry,” Walter began. “Oh, my God, we’ve forgotten Harry.”

“He’s all right,” Amy said. “He’s gone to the church services at Repton. He asked if he could. I told him yes. I thought it would be a good idea. And so he wasn’t here when—when it happened.”

“Surely not alone?” Walter demanded. “You must have taken leave of your senses.”

“He went with the rector and his family,” Amy said curtly. “I went over and asked politely. They were delighted to have him. There’s some sort of blessing of the animals today. He likes that. And he’s staying for lunch.”

“I’d forgot,” Walter said. “Jenny was to take him. When Peter fell, everything else went out of my mind.”

“There’s Gran to be thought of. What are we to tell her?”

“Why wasn’t she invited to the birthday celebration?” Rutledge asked.

“It’s distressing for her to travel. It’s confusing,” Edwin said.

But she had traveled to visit her dead sister’s grandchildren.

Rutledge waited until they had finished dealing with the unforeseen problems brought on by a death.

And when there was a lull in the conversation, he said, “Now that that’s settled to your satisfaction, there’s something I should like very much to know.”

They turned to face him, wary, their eyes waiting for the blow to fall.

Rutledge said into the tense silence, “What did Susannah Teller mean when she told me that it wasn’t Peter who had killed Florence Teller. That one of you was in the house when Peter came there, and used the opportunity he’d given you to kill her?”

I
t was as if, collectively, they had lost their tongues.

“She was upset,” Leticia said finally. “And imagining things. All the blame for whatever happened to that woman in Lancashire had fallen on Peter’s head. She was trying to clear his name. To give him dignity in his death. I think she believes that he must have fallen deliberately, because everyone had seemed to turn against him People do lash out in grief,” she ended. “I’ve seen it myself. And so must you have, Mr. Rutledge.”

He had. But he’d heard the pain and anger in Susannah’s voice, and he’d almost believed her.

He turned to Walter and said, “What was the real reason for not calling off the party?”

“I’ve told you. We didn’t, for Jenny’s sake. She was looking forward to it. It meant more to her than we realized. A family healing, if you will. After my disastrous disappearance.”

“I think,” Rutledge said, “you went ahead with the party to gauge just how much of my evidence was true. To shame your brother into telling you what happened in Hobson that day. He hadn’t, had he? He’d been tormented by his own knowledge—even I could see that he’d begun to drink heavily. And once I’d outlined my own evidence, you knew he was very likely to be taken into custody very soon. And you wanted to make him tell you before the police came, so that you could band together to protect him. Only he didn’t quite see it that way. I think he felt you’d abandoned him. In which case he might well have chosen to fall down the stairs. His only way to punish you for what you’d done to him.”

They stared at him, nothing in their gazes telling him whether his guesses were right or not.

“I can’t force any of you to confess. But I’d give a great deal to know why Peter Teller suddenly felt compelled to rectify the situation in Hobson in regard to Florence Teller after all these years. I want to know for her sake where all of this began.”

Amy Teller said, “You can’t expect us to answer that, when we were left not knowing the truth ourselves.”

“Was it suicide?” Edwin Teller asked. “Do you believe he killed himself?”

“There’s not sufficient evidence either way,” Rutledge said. “It will depend on what the police and the inquest have to say about his state of mind. There will be an inquest. Make no mistake about that.”

“Dear God,” Edwin said under his breath. “Will it have to come out that my brother was suspected of murder?”

“All the essential facts will have to be presented.”

“It was a fall,” Leticia said. “I know my brother. He would no more kill himself than Walter here would have done. It’s not in the nature of our family to run away from anything.”

“Oh, do shut up, Leticia,” Edwin said. “This is not the time to be pompous. Of course Peter didn’t kill himself. Walter?”

“No.”

“Then there you are, Inspector. The family, who knew Peter Teller better than anyone else, have given you their considered opinion. There was nothing on his conscience. Your so-called evidence was entirely circumstantial. Your witness can hardly identify a dead man. There is no case. There never was.”

“There’s still a dead woman in Lancashire. What about her?”

“I have no idea. I leave such matters to the police.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come,” Rutledge said, expecting to see Inspector Jessup walk into the room.

But it was Mollie.

She said, “Beg pardon, sir. Scotland Yard is on the telephone. They want to speak with you. It’s urgent. They said.”

“Thank you. Tell the Yard I’ll be there directly,” Rutledge told her.

He looked around the room, seeing relief in the eyes of his captive audience.

“You will all remain here at the farm until further notice while your brother’s death is being investigated. When Inspector Jessup is willing to release the body, you may proceed with burial arrangements. I’ll arrange for the inquest as soon as possible. You won’t find it pleasant, enduring one another’s company for a few more days, but there it is.”

“There’s Gran,” Edwin said. “We need to go to London.”

“And what about Harry?” Walter said. “What are we to tell him?”

“The truth,” Leticia said. “That his uncle met with a terrible accident, and we must all grieve for him.”

Rutledge said, “I’m sorry. I must go. There’s another case in London that is demanding my attention.”

He turned and walked out of the room.

Mollie was waiting in the passage and took him to the room where the telephone had been put in.

Rutledge had expected to hear Sergeant Gibson’s voice on the telephone. He had expected a summons to London to carry out Inspector Mickelson’s plan. Once the Chief Superintendent was set upon a course of action, there was really no good way to deflect him.

He thanked Mollie, picked up the receiver, and waited until she was out of earshot. Then he said, “Rutledge,” and waited for Gibson to speak.

The voice traveling down the line was Gibson’s. He said, without preamble, “It’s Lancashire, sir. You’re to go there at once. If you need someone in Essex to deal with the situation there, the Chief Superintendent will send someone else from the Yard.”

“It’s stable at the moment,” Rutledge answered, unwilling to turn the inquiry into Peter Teller’s death over to anyone else at this stage. There were secrets here that he would have to get to the bottom of before the final verdict on Peter Teller’s fall was handed down. And he wasn’t prepared for anyone else to muddy the waters.

“That’s good news, sir. You’ll be leaving from there?”

“As soon as I speak to Inspector Jessup, the local man.”

“To be sure,” Gibson agreed. “A very wise decision, if I may say so, sir.”

Rutledge swiftly translated that to mean that avoiding London at the moment was a good thing.

“And Mr. Rutledge, sir?” Gibson was saying, his voice lowered and barely audible.

“Yes? What is it, Gibson?”

“Inspector Mickelson has just informed the Chief Superintendent that he feels the trap cannot be sprung by anyone else. Just a friendly warning, sir.”

S
unday evening had been nearly insupportable. Leticia, complaining of a headache, had excused herself early and gone up to bed. But not to sleep.

She lay awake, her windows open, the cries of an owl in the distance loud in her ears. She had always disliked owls. Their haunting calls spoke to her of grief and sadness and something to be feared. As a child, she’d run to her nanny’s bed and flung herself under the covers, to shut out the sound.

Her mother had always maintained that Leticia must have overheard one of the servants claiming that owls were omens of ill fortune. Leticia herself didn’t know if it was true or not. She just knew she had always felt that way.

And, of course, with Peter only newly dead, the cries of the owl were particularly appropriate. She got up once to close the windows, but the room still held the heavy closeness of the day and she could hardly breathe in the resulting stuffiness.

She couldn’t stop herself from thinking about her brothers. They had always been a close family. Edwin’s illness had brought them all together in a pact to keep him safe. When their parents died, it had fallen to her lot to watch over Edwin while Peter went off to the Army and Walter had gone into the mission field.

Now Peter was accused of cold-blooded murder, Walter had been different ever since his mysterious disappearance, never satisfactorily explaining it to anyone except perhaps to Jenny. And Edwin was withdrawing even from her.

She turned to one side, trying to shut out the sounds from the wood in the distance.

It was odd that now there was still a conspiracy to protect Jenny. The mother of the heir. The youngest of them. They hadn’t told her about Florence Teller. It had seemed the right thing to do. But it would all come out at the inquest anyway. Someone would have to tell her before the questions of the police aroused her suspicions, before she found herself hearing in public what Peter had been accused of and why.

And there was Susannah as well. Something would have to be done about her. Her distress and anger were understandable—natural. But she couldn’t be allowed to upset everyone by involving the Yard and trying to clear Peter’s name. She’d stood by him, even when Leticia had told her what the man from London had said about the evidence. All the same, Leticia had had the sneaking suspicion that Susannah was already worried about Peter. Something in her eyes . . .

She sighed, and turned over again, and finally got up to walk to the window, defying the owls.

She was the eldest. It was up to her to straighten out this tangle. Damn Edwin for going to the funeral. Damn Peter for losing his head. Damn Susannah for not keeping her mouth shut so that all this could be smoothed away. And damn Jenny, for being naïve and for walking into rooms at just the wrong moment, never mind that it was her house. Every time the rest of them had tried to confront Peter, he was either drunk or he was protected, unwittingly, by Jenny’s presence.

She had another thought. If it hadn’t been for Jenny, Peter might not have died. They could have cleared the air, got through to whatever it was that was tormenting him, and come up with a solution.

Her hands over her face, she pressed cold fingers against her closed eyelids.

What could she do? What should she do? What would her father, who was never at a loss about anything, have done about an accusation of murder against one of his sons?

She could almost hear her father’s answer.

Protect Harry. Keep the family intact. Preserve the Teller name. At any price.

She took a deep breath, pulling in the cooler night air until her lungs hurt.

It was too bad Susannah hadn’t fallen down the stairs instead of Peter. It would have made her task easier. But there it was.

And if Jenny’s innocence had to be sacrificed, so be it. Walter would just have to live with her decision.

After a while she went back to bed. The owls had stopped. But she still couldn’t sleep.