The Red Door (9 page)

“Who helped him dress?” she asked sharply. “We—my brothers and I—were in Edwin’s house when the news came of his disappearance. Who was there to help?”

“That’s what we would like very much to know.” He turned to Mary Brittingham. “You were not in London at the time?”

“No, I went to Monmouthshire to fetch Harry and brought him back to stay with me while Jenny was at the clinic with Walter. He’s been with me ever since.” She took a deep breath. “He believes his parents are visiting friends. I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.”

“If Walter Teller dressed himself and left the clinic knowingly, where would he be likely to go?” Rutledge asked them.

Mary said, “It’s possible, you know, that he left the clothing by the river himself. To buy himself a little time to think. That’s probably why he left the clinic in the first place.”

Leticia Teller regarded her with distaste. “Are you saying that my brother is aware of what he’s doing?”

“I think it’s likely that he hasn’t found a solution to whatever caused him to be ill in the first place. Did you know he’d heard from his bishop? They want him back. He wrote to tell me he didn’t know how to answer them.”

“No, I hadn’t heard that,” Leticia said slowly. “He said nothing to us about it. Or to Jenny.”

“He felt Jenny was distressed enough over Harry. I don’t think Walter wants to go back into the field. I’m of two minds myself. I know they need good men, experienced men. But I don’t think Walter is emotionally prepared to resume his work. He told Jenny before the war that he’d spent too much of his life in places where he felt he’d done very little good.”

“He was praised for his honesty,” Leticia said. “After the book came out, you know how people admired it. He gave the proceeds to his mission society, for good works.”

“I imagine, in lieu of his physical presence in the field. You saw his book as a triumph. I saw it as an exorcism.”

“That’s an odd choice of words,” Rutledge put in.

Mary said, “I’ve always believed in the importance of mission work. I think a great deal of good can be done by setting an example. And the Alcock Society has been especially fortunate in the people they’ve sent into the field. But Walter was a missionary by default. Because his father gave him to the church, and because he was unsuited to parish work. I know,” she said, turning to Leticia, “that this is hard for you to hear. But if Walter comes through his present crisis alive and whole, it would be a travesty to send him back to Africa. Or China. You must see that.”

Leticia replied, “I believe this is Walter’s decision to make.”

“And he’s made it. By falling ill, he’s made it. What other reason can there be for him to vanish as he’s done? I tried to explain this to Jenny when I was in London. She doesn’t want him to go abroad again, of course she doesn’t, but I think she has this rather naïve belief that he’s a saint and she mustn’t stand in his way. He isn’t a saint. He’s bitter.”

“I don’t think his calling has anything to do with his illness.” Leticia was adamant.

“Then how else would you explain it? Coming on the heels of his letter from the Society?” Mary regarded her with exasperation.

Rutledge, listening, could see that the two women had very little in common. Their relationship by marriage was their only connection. And even that was tenuous.

Interrupting again, he said, “Do either of you have any idea where he may be?”

But they didn’t. And he could see that both women were far more worried than either of them was willing to admit to the other.

“I just want to see Jenny happy,” Mary said, as if she’d read his thoughts. “She tries hard and she loves Walter without question. And that could lead her to heartbreak.”

Leticia said grudgingly, “I must admit you’re right, there. Walter is not like his brothers. He lost something out there in Africa and China. Part of himself.”

“He lost it when he failed in his first living. It was the wrong church for him to be sent to, and the congregation was not prepared for an intellectual priest. They wanted someone more like themselves. A local man who understood them.”

Leticia said, “You didn’t even know him then. How can you judge that?”

Mary turned to Rutledge. “I met Walter when he spoke at a meeting I was attending. About his work in China. In fact, it was I who introduced him to Jenny.”

The tension between the two women was interesting. Rutledge thought perhaps the root cause of it was familial. Mary was bound to protect her sister, and Leticia’s loyalty was to her brother.

He said, interjecting a new question before hard feelings arose on either side, “Have you heard Mr. Teller mention anyone by the name of Charlie Hood?”

They stared at him, the question completely unexpected. It was clear that the name meant nothing at all to either of the women.

And possibly he had made too much of it as well. But there had been something in the man’s face that he couldn’t identify, something he felt he ought to recognize.

Harry came racing back, gleefully informing his aunts that there had indeed been lemonade.

Rutledge, watching him, could see in him the boy that Ian Trevor would be at the same age. It was an unexpected insight, and it touched him.

He took his leave, refusing Miss Teller’s lukewarm invitation to stay for tea. He thought it had been in a way a suggestion that Mary Brittingham should also refuse it in her turn. That she had also out-stayed her welcome.

Miss Teller walked with him through the hedge and around to where he’d left his motorcar, saying as they went, “Will he come back, do you think?”

“Your brother? When he’s ready to be found. If whatever reason he left the clinic is resolved for him, in a fashion he can live with. The problem is, how lucid is he? Is he thinking clearly or still in the throes of his illness, even though the paralysis has apparently disappeared.”

She nodded thoughtfully, and then stood there as he cranked the motorcar. He was on the point of driving away when she came to his side of the vehicle and put her hand on the door.

“Even as a child, Walter would take to something new with almost ferocious enthusiasm. And then he would tire of it and lose interest. Domestic life may have—palled.”

“Are you telling me he’s bored with his marriage?”

“No. That he may have decided to do good works among London’s poor to salve his conscience. Rather than converting the heathen. If he doesn’t come back, this may be of some comfort to Jenny.”

“When you went to Portsmouth, you didn’t actually believe that your brother would take ship without a word to anyone? Such a journey requires an enormous amount of preparation, I should think,” he asked her.

Leticia Teller shrugged eloquently. “In the first shock of his disappearance, anything seemed possible. It was a chance I didn’t feel I could take. And my brothers agreed, even while they disagreed.”

Hamish said, “She’s lying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind as well,” he told her, and let in the clutch. She stepped back and let him go. Over her shoulder, he could see Mary Brittingham standing at the opening in the hedge, watching them.

But then Mary smiled and waved when she saw him looking in her direction.

“Twa women, ye ken, with a child holding them together,” Hamish said as the boy ran up to Mary and clung to her hand. And then he darted forward, to take Leticia’s hand as well and wave good-bye to the man from London who had come unexpectedly.

It was late when Rutledge reached London. He stopped by the Yard to see if there were any developments in the search for the boy he called Billy, or if Hood had been located. But like many of their ilk, they had disappeared into the dark corners of a city that knew how to keep secrets.

T
he journey to Kent had been successful, and both Frances and David Trevor were in high spirits, carrying Melinda Crawford’s greeting and best love to Rutledge and telling him about the great pheasant hunt that had left them all exhausted and hurting from laughter.

A stray pheasant had wandered into Melinda’s garden, and the boy had been very taken with it. He had persuaded his grandfather to let him carry it back to Scotland if he could capture it.

That had led to an afternoon of merriment as every scheme they had tried saw the pheasant still at large and mocking them from a safe distance.

In the end it was Ian who had tired first, and after one last glorious chase through the kitchen gardens had ended with the promise of cake for tea, the pheasant had been forgotten.

Listening to them, Rutledge was reminded of another child bribed by the promise of lemonade, unaware that his father was missing and possibly no longer the familiar figure the boy remembered.

He joined in the laughter, despite the day’s frustrations, unwilling to spoil their high spirits, and found the tension in his mind slowly relaxing.

It wasn’t until they were saying good night that Rutledge remembered that his godfather would be leaving on the morrow. The time had gone too quickly, and he’d got his wish—to be too busy to spend much of the day with Trevor and the child.

He regretted that now as he drove back to his flat, but there had been no way to change it. Even if he’d recognized the need in time.

The next morning as Rutledge collected his godfather’s cases and stowed them in the boot, he wished he could find the words to ask Trevor to stay longer. But Hamish, in the back of his mind, had been a source of stressful emotions while David Trevor talked of Scotland and the war and his son Ross. Of the boy’s young governess, who was being courted by a solicitor in Edinburgh. Of things best forgotten, of people left unnamed. Consequently, fatigue had racked him, and Rutledge had spent sleepless nights walking the streets in the cool summer darkness until he was too tired to stay awake.

And still Hamish reminded him over and over again of what he, a dead man lying in a French grave, had lost.

There was nothing left now except their good-byes.

Coming to the door of the house, Rutledge said to his godfather, “I think that’s everything.”

Frances, kissing first David and then the boy good-bye, wished them a safe journey, and sent her love to Morag, along with the gaily wrapped shawl that Rutledge had purchased for this woman who had served the Trevor household as long as he could remember. He had wanted to buy one in Tartan plaid, but Frances had told him that the sea-green Irish woolen one was a better choice. He hoped she was right.

The boy scooped up his box of toy soldiers, hugged Frances again, and ran out to the motorcar, excited to travel by train once more. He had already asked over and over whether he could come back again to London.

They reached the station in no time at all, and Rutledge had been silent most of the drive, fighting with himself and with Hamish over how to prolong the visit.

Then they were in the station, the train was coming in amidst clouds of white steam that set the boy dancing with glee, and it was time to board.

Rutledge said, hurriedly, before it was too late, “I’m glad you came.”

Trevor smiled. “I’m glad I came as well. And I’ll do it again, if you fail to come north to us.”

Rutledge said tightly, “I can’t—not yet.” Not ever. “The men you commanded and sent to their deaths have forgiven you long ago, Ian. When will you forgive yourself?”

Trevor’s words were too close to the mark.

Rutledge could only answer, “Time. . .” That was as far as he could trust his voice.

“Time has a way of slipping through our fingers.”

Then they were embracing, the carriage door was closing, and Rutledge could hear a whistle somewhere down the line as the engine gathered steam.

The train began to move. Trevor had dropped his window and called back to his godson, “Christmas, Ian. Come for Christmas!”

Rutledge stood there, knowing it was too late, far too late, and waved the train out of sight.

From the station, he drove to the Belvedere Clinic to inform Jenny Teller that there was no word still on her husband’s whereabouts.

But when he got there, he was told that Mrs. Teller had stepped out with her sister-in-law for a cup of tea.

Matron said, “Mrs. Teller is quickly losing heart. It took some persuasion to convince her that it was all right to leave for a little while.”

“Will you tell her for me that there has been no news?”

“You could probably catch them—they’ve only just left.”

He was restless, not in the mood to sit in a tea shop and tell a wife that her husband was still missing and that the Yard couldn’t find him despite all its trained personnel and experience.

“No. Let her have her brief respite. I’ll only remind her of what she’s trying to put out of her mind.”

Matron said, “That’s very generous of you. I’ll see that she gets your message.”

He went instead to Marlborough Street, to ask Edwin Teller if he possessed a later photograph of his brother, only to be told that Mr. Edwin Teller was resting and left orders not to be disturbed. Nor was Amy Teller available.

At the Yard, in the passage on the way to his own office, he encountered Chief Superintendent Bowles, who said in passing, “Still no trace of Teller. And that witness you wanted from Bynum’s knifing hasn’t been found either. Are you certain he’s not the man we’re after?”

“He’s a witness. Nothing more. I just wanted to ask him other questions. I saw Billy, remember. More clearly even than Hood, who called him dark.”

“Your priority is the Teller case. I’ll put Mickelson on to finding Bynum’s killer.” He cleared his throat. “Are you quite certain Teller is still alive? We can’t give more manpower to the search for him, with this murder case hanging over us. But I wouldn’t wish the family to feel we aren’t doing all we can. At least thank God there has been no plague.”

“There’s something wrong with this inquiry,” Rutledge told him. “I sometimes feel I’m chasing a ghost.”

“Nevertheless, if you know what’s best, you’ll find him—or what’s become of him—as soon as may be. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you taken the time to read Teller’s book? It might be useful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rutledge moved on, pausing to speak briefly to Sergeant Gibson just as Constable Turner came up the stairs two at a time.

Gibson, frowning, said, “That one’s in a tearing rush.”

Turner reached Chief Superintendent Bowles and saluted smartly. “Sir. There’s a train off the tracks up the line. Word just came in.”

Rutledge called to him, “Which train?”

“The northbound to Edinburgh,” Turner answered over his shoulder.

Rutledge said quickly, “Where, man, where did it derail?”

“Just to the north of a village called Waddington. Not that far—”

But Rutledge was already racing for the stairs, his mind filled with his godfather’s last words:
Time has a way of slipping through our fingers.

If he’d asked Trevor to stay, if he’d come out with the words in time, they wouldn’t have been on that train—

He ran to where he’d left his motorcar. Out of breath and damning himself for not speaking up when he’d had the chance, Rutledge drove out of London at the best speed he could make, cursing the motorcars and lorries and pedestrians that held him up.

As soon as the outskirts of the city lay behind him, he gunned the motor and prayed he would be in time.