by Charles Todd
He asked Rutledge to join him for tea, and they sat in the parlor on chairs Rutledge was certain the great Elizabeth would have recognized, with straight backs and seats hard as iron, discussing the Society’s aims and goals and record.
“And Walter Teller?”
“He was always reliable, a steady man who was able to find common ground with the local people and work with them in projects designed to better their lives. A school, for instance, or a new well, or a market that attracted commerce to the area. Very practical things, you might say, but through them, people could be persuaded to find worth in Christianity and turn their thoughts to conversion.”
“I understand,” Rutledge said, “that you’ve only recently written to Mr. Teller.”
“Yes. In fact, I have a copy there in my desk. I keep meticulous copies of all correspondence. My records are excellent.” He set aside his cup and went to the desk, where he found the folder he wanted and brought it back to his chair.
“Let me see.” He thumbed through several sheets before finding the one he was after. “Here it is. Mr. Teller has been some years out of the field—his book, of course, and then the war—and we are experiencing a little difficulty in finding good men to send to established missions, much less new ones.” He looked up at Rutledge. “Sadly, the world has changed now. Before the war, there was a fervor for service.
We’ve grown sadly bitter and tired these past two years. Our missionaries are older, on the point of retiring. We’d like to see Mr. Teller return to the field. Indeed, it is more than like—there is need.”
“And has he responded to your call for serving?”
“Not so far. But you told me earlier that he’d been ill. Perhaps that has been the reason?”
“Possibly,” Rutledge replied, evading a direct answer. “It’s Mr. Teller’s illness that has brought me here. The doctors are at a loss to explain it. He seems deeply troubled by something. The family can think of nothing that would have provoked a sudden and unusual attack of paralysis.”
Mr. Forester looked steadily at Rutledge. “And this has required the attention of Scotland Yard?”
Rutledge smiled. “In fact, Mr. Teller has had a miraculous recovery, and he disappeared from the clinic. I’ve been in charge of the search for him.”
Forester shook his head. “This is very odd. I’d have never thought of Walter Teller experiencing a collapse of any kind. I do know he is very attached to his son. An only child, as I recall.”
“That’s correct.”
“And nothing has happened to the boy?”
“He’s on the point of going to public school.”
“How the years fly. I remember when he was born, how proud Mr. Teller was of him, all the plans he spoke of. I have had the strongest suspicion that he didn’t return to the field because of the boy. I can appreciate that, having had a son of my own late in life. The wonder of watching him grow was precious beyond words.” Something in his voice as he spoke the last words alerted Rutledge.
“He was in the war?”
“Yes, how did you guess? He was lost on the Somme. I have long wanted to go to France to see his grave. But that’s not to be. I’m too old for such a journey now.” Clearing his throat, he said, “But to return to Walter Teller. I shan’t expect an answer any time soon. I’m grateful to know the circumstances. The Society has need of him. I hope his recovery will be complete.”
Rutledge thanked him and left.
On the drive back into London, Rutledge gave some thought to Walter Teller’s relationship to his son, and then stopped at Frances’s house.
David Trevor was in the garden, enjoying the late evening breezes before the sun went down, and looked up with a smile when he saw his godson walk through the French doors and across the terrace.
“Ian. You’ve had a long day. Frances told me you’d gone back to the Yard.”
Rutledge smiled, and took the chair across from Trevor’s. “How are you feeling?”
“I won’t lie to you, it was not the pleasantest experience. I have bruises and no recollection of how I got them. But we survived, and that’s what matters.” He held up his bandaged hand. “Frances saw to it. Not deep, but bruised as well. A small price to pay, considering what happened to so many. Is your friend all right?”
Rutledge was surprised that Trevor had remembered his brief absence going back to find Meredith Channing. “Yes, I have every reason to think so.” He paused, then said, “I need to bring up a painful subject. How you felt about having a son. When he was born—his first few years as a child?”
“Is this to do with a case?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“I don’t mind talking about those years. It was a miracle, finding myself a father. I can’t tell you. He was so small, and yet so real. He moved, he made sounds, he opened his eyes and stared into my face. His hands clutched at my fingers. It was unexpected, the depth of my feelings for him even then. I’d have done anything for him. Died for him if need be. Nothing I’d ever done to that point in my life seemed half so important.” He smiled wryly, the late sun just touching his face and lighting his eyes. “It seems absurd, doesn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that before. I was embarrassed, you see, I didn’t know for the longest time that what I felt was natural.”
His words touched Rutledge, and he said quietly, “Thank you.”
“I hope one day you’ll know for yourself what having a child means.”
Frances came out just then, bringing a pitcher of cold water, and Rutledge stayed a little while longer before rising to take his leave.
He spent a restless night. Hamish, ever ready to bring up memories that Rutledge could sometimes bury during the daylight hours, pressed him hard, and it was nearly four in the morning when he finally fell into a deep sleep, only to wake up an hour later, calling out to the men under his command, warning them to take cover.
He rose and dressed, grateful to be alone in the flat, and was in his office at the Yard long before anyone else had come in.
None of the reports from the night staff dealt with Walter Teller, although there was information on Bynum’s murderer.
The knife used in the attack on Rutledge was too ordinary to be traced. But postmortem evidence indicated it was very likely the same kind of knife that killed Bynum. The coat button was of doubtful provenance. The address on the scrap of paper proved to be a lodging house. The woman who ran it reported that a male who appeared to be around nineteen years old, fair and with freckles, had come to ask if there was a room available in the house.
The woman told the police that although he had claimed he could pay for the room, she had her doubts that he would fit in with her other lodgers, two older men and an elderly woman.
“Restless, he was,” the constable quoted from his notebook, “couldn’t sit still a minute.”
The man had argued with her, and then left, the report concluded, and she had no idea where he had come from or where he went after leaving her.
It was Mickelson’s case now. Rutledge was a witness, nothing more. But he had taken a personal interest in Billy, and with each new victim, his own sense of responsibility grew.
He set aside the night’s reports and considered his next step in the case that was his. He couldn’t put a finger on what bothered him most about the disappearance of Walter Teller.
There were strong reasons why Teller might be experiencing bouts of depression and despair. His son’s future, his own obligation to his calling.
But these couldn’t altogether explain his disappearance.
Or why he had been paralyzed by indecision? If that was what it was.
Even the Teller family wasn’t in agreement about the reasons behind what had happened. Although Rutledge had a feeling that they knew more than they were telling.
It was useless to speculate. No one was likely to solve the mystery of what lay so heavily on Walter Teller’s soul until the man himself could answer the question.
A
nd Rutledge had a feeling that that was not likely to be very soon.
How long would the Yard continue to search? When would the decision be made to call it off? It had gone on longer than the average missing persons case because Walter Teller was Walter Teller. Manpower was becoming a crucial issue in the hunt for Bynum’s killer.
He was on the point of leaving his office to speak to Chief Superintendent Bowles when Sergeant Gibson stopped him. “There’s a constable downstairs with a message. You’d best speak to him yourself.”
Rutledge went down to the lobby to find one of Sergeant Biggin’s men standing there, breathless from his bicycle ride across London.
“It’s urgent, sir. Sergeant Biggin asks if you can come to the clinic at once?”
Stowing the bicycle in the boot of his motorcar, Rutledge said to the constable, “What’s happened?”
“As to that, sir, you’d best wait and ask him.”
They were halfway to the Belvedere Clinic when Rutledge thought he glimpsed Charlie Hood walking the other way. He swore as he lost sight of the man, but traffic was heavy, and he had to keep his attention on the motorcars, lorries, and drays that filled the street.
“Did you see that man? With the unkempt hair, and a dark brown coat?” he demanded of the constable in the seat beside him. “We just passed him. On your right.”
“No, sir, I didn’t,” the man answered him, craning his neck to look back the way they had come. A brewery lorry was pulling in just behind them, blocking Rutledge’s view as well.
It would do no good to set the constable down to follow Hood; he hadn’t seen the man.
Rutledge took a deep breath and said, “Never mind.”
They reached the clinic, and the constable took up his stance by the door.
Passing through the outer lobby, Rutledge nodded to the porter on duty, then walked through to Matron’s sitting room.
There he was almost swept into an embrace by a joyful Jenny Teller, her face blindingly bright with happiness. Over her shoulder he saw a man stand and step away from his chair, a tentative expression on his face.
“Oh!” Jenny exclaimed. “I thought it was Edwin. Do come in, Inspector Rutledge. I want to show you that I was right all along. Here is my husband. Walter, this is the Scotland Yard inspector I’ve told you about.”
And Walter Teller had the grace to stare sheepishly at Rutledge. He had changed from the younger man in the photograph that his wife had let Rutledge borrow. There were deeper lines on his face, fatigue mostly, and an uncertainty, Rutledge thought, about his reception.
He needn’t have worried. Despite his shabby appearance, hair that looked as if he’d combed it with his fingers, and the beginnings of a beard, Walter Teller was the most wonderful sight in the world to his wife’s eyes.
Then who was Charlie Hood?
As Rutledge crossed the room, he caught the distinct odor of incense with a soupçon of cabbage on Teller’s clothing. He found himself remembering what Leticia Teller had said, that her brother would salve his conscience in serving the poor of London.
“I’ve sent for Edwin and Peter, but the doctors want to take Walter away and examine him,” Jenny was saying.
Rutledge felt an odd mixture of relief that the man was alive and a strong sense of anger at what he had put his family through.
“Mr. Teller,” he said, his voice cold.
“I know,” Teller admitted. “I’ve done a terrible thing. But I can’t tell you why or even tell you where I’ve been. I came to my senses outside a greengrocer’s shop this morning, watching as he put trays of vegetables in his window. I went inside and asked him what day it was, and where his shop was. He told me I was drunk and to get out. I’d never been spoken to like that before. On the street, I passed a milliner’s shop with a mirror in the window, and I saw myself then. Small wonder the man thought I was drunk or mad.
Jenny, tears in her eyes, said, “You mustn’t think about it. You’re safe now, you’re here.”
Teller’s gaze was on Rutledge, wanting him to believe, wanting him to accept what he was saying.
Rutledge was saved from answering by the appearance of one of the doctors, urging Teller to come and let them examine him, but Jenny said, “No. His brothers are on the way. Please, we’ve been so worried. Let them see he’s safe now. Then you can have him.”
But Rutledge thought it was Jenny herself who couldn’t let her husband out of her sight just yet. She clung to his arm, as if still not sure this miracle was real, or if she had dreamed it.
Dr. Sheldon said, “Half an hour, and then we really must insist.” He left, shutting the door behind him.
Teller said, “Jenny. Do you think Matron might arrange a cup of tea? I’m dry as a desert.”
She was of two minds about leaving him. Rutledge said, “I’ll be here,” and finally she walked out the door, looking back at her husband, as if she expected him to vanish before her eyes.
Teller said quietly, as soon as she was out of earshot, “I left here with every intention of drowning myself. But when I got to the river, the water was filthy. Oily and with things floating in it. Paper and feathers and the odd tin. I even saw a dead seagull some twenty yards away, feathers a dirty gray, and I thought I couldn’t let them find me like that. So I began walking. My God, I don’t know how far I walked. Halfway to France, it seemed. At night I slept in churches. I know churches, I felt safe there. I’d wait until nearly dark, and then slip inside. There are places in the organ loft where it’s not as cold, and I’m used to sleeping on the ground when I have to. I managed. Never the same church twice, for fear I’d be seen. I had money with me. I could buy enough food to keep up my strength.” He smiled ruefully. “Once a constable nearly took me into custody. I’d offered to pay for my meal with a five-pound note. He thought I’d stolen it, that I was a pickpocket. I had to convince him I was down on my luck and living on the kindness of strangers. I’d bought workmen’s clothes.”
“Is any of this true?” Rutledge asked him.
“It’s true. But I don’t want to tell these things to my wife. So I’m asking you to let her believe I was dazed or ill. It will hurt her to know I was in my right mind and still let her believe the worst.”
“She never accepted the possibility that you were dead.”
He flinched.
“Why did you leave here?”
“I told you. I wanted to die.”
“There’s usually a reason for suicide. What happened on the road between London and Essex?”
“You might as well ask me what happened on the road to Damascus. I don’t know. At first I thought I was dying. And then I feared for Harry. Dr. Fielding couldn’t find anything wrong, and I thought he was lying.”
Rutledge, judging him, could believe that, as far as it went.
Teller, seeing that Rutledge wasn’t fully convinced, shrugged. “I know. I have much to live for. A fine wife, a fine son, a home I love. I have no worries about money or my health. What right have I to feel the weight of depression? But I don’t think depression is measured by what you have—”
He broke off with a warning glance to Rutledge as the door opened. But it wasn’t Jenny with their tea; it was Edwin Teller and his wife who came into the room and stopped stock-still, staring at the apparition before them.
“My God,” Edwin said, moving as if to embrace his brother. And then he stopped. “Where the hell have you been? Do you know what you have put Jenny—all of us—through? If Father were alive now, he’d horsewhip you!”
Amy put her hand on her husband’s arm. “No, don’t, Edwin. Please—”
Walter said, “I have no excuses. No explanation. I’m sorry. More sorry than you know. More sorry than you will ever know.”
Peter Teller and his wife came in just then, and Peter, recognizing his brother, glowered at him. “I hope you can explain yourself,” he said through clenched teeth. “I hope there was a damned good reason for what you’ve done.”
Susannah, her face
flushed, said, “Where’s Jenny?”
“I asked her to bring me a little tea. I couldn’t bear her relief any longer.”
“Someone should telephone Leticia. And Mary,” Susannah said. And then in a burst of anger she said accusingly, “It’s been a terrible week. We’ve driven miles, we’ve tried to console Jenny, we’ve tried to think where you might be, and then your clothes were found by the river—” She turned away, brushing angrily at the tears in her eyes.
Rutledge recalled that Peter had been drinking heavily. It explained, a little, his wife’s distress.
“I know. I say again, I’m sorry. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can do.”
The door opened, and Jenny held it wide for one of the sisters to bring in Matron’s tea tray. She carried it to the table, and then turned to Walter.
“We’re very happy to see you’ve returned safely,” she said. “And Matron would appreciate a word, when you’ve seen the doctors.”
Teller looked overwhelmed, but he said, “Yes, of course.”
Jenny was saying triumphantly to his brothers, “I told you he wasn’t dead. But when they brought him in to me, I couldn’t believe my eyes.” She laughed, trying hard to ignore the tension in the room.
Amy went to the tray and began to pour tea into cups. The practical one, Rutledge realized. Or—less involved? She carried one to Walter without a word, and then gave one to Jenny. Peter refused his, but Edwin accepted one as well, as if needing to keep his hands busy.
Matron came in, saying, “I’m so sorry to interrupt your celebration, but I’m afraid we must borrow Mr. Teller for a bit.”
He followed her, almost as if he was glad of escape. Jenny started after him, then stopped at a glance from Matron.
Edwin said, when he’d gone, “I’m sorry. It’s been a very difficult time for us. For Walter as well. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
Smoothing what oil she could over troubled waters, Amy said, “Jenny, you must be so happy. He looks well, doesn’t he? A little tired, perhaps.”
