Hamish said, “She doesna’ ken what you’re asking.”
Rutledge asked, “Who are George and Annie?”
“George Darley is my sister Evelyn’s grandson. Susannah’s brother. Annie is his wife. Evelyn and I were twins. I still miss her terribly. They say that twins do.”
Another thread that went nowhere.
“When was Peter wounded?”
“The spring before the Armistice. I remember that well. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. The Germans must have chosen that. It’s very like them. They have quite orderly minds, you know. We still observe two minutes of silence on that date.”
“Does Peter have a namesake in the family?”
“Oh, no, dear. Walter’s son is named for his great-grandfather. My husband.”
Rutledge found himself at a loss.
“Of course, my husband’s grandfather was the black sheep in the family. He killed three men in duels and had to flee to the Continent for several years. My mother-in-law told me that it was feared he’d come home with an Italian wife, because he appeared to spend so much time in Venice. But in the end, he was sensible and married a girl from Dorset. Quite a good family too. Everyone was amazed that she’d accept the proposal of such a scoundrel.”
“Then the connection with Dorset was on your mother-in-law’s side, not the Tellers?”
“Didn’t I just tell you? You must pay attention, young man. My husband’s people were from Essex.”
“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Teller,” he said, rising. “I apologize again for disturbing you at this late hour.”
“But you haven’t had your tea, my boy. Surely you’ll stay for tea?” She reached for the small silver bell by her chair. “I like having someone call on me. Not many people do, these days. And Evelyn is dead, you know. I miss her so.”
The maid appeared at the door.
“Could we have tea, do you think?” Mrs. Teller asked, turning to speak to her.
“It’s late,” Rutledge said. “I was just on the point of leaving.”
The old woman’s face clouded. “Must you go? It’s lovely to have a guest for tea, and Rose was just on the point of bringing it in, weren’t you, my dear?”
She came forward and said to Mrs. Teller, “Of course I’ll bring it, but wouldn’t you prefer a nice warm bath first, and then your tea? There’s a flan left from your dinner.”
Rutledge forgotten, the old woman got to her feet and said, “That sounds quite nice. Thank you, dear.” She followed Rose to the door.
Rutledge said quietly to the maid, “I’ll see myself out.”
Suddenly aware of him again, Mrs. Teller turned and said, “You were asking about Peter, weren’t you? How odd. It was Walter who was missing, I’m sure of that. Peter went looking for Walter, you know. All of them did. They must have been out of their minds with worry. I can’t think what Walter might have done that was scandalous. He was a missionary, you know. My son was wrong, choosing professions for his sons. Peter was never right for the Army, and Edwin hated taking over the estate. He let Walter have the use of the house and spent his time in London. Walter protested, saying that his congregation in West Africa didn’t live so grandly. But Jenny loved it, and he gave in. Walter wasn’t suited to the church, he never had a true calling, if you ask me. I heard him say once that he’d seen such shocking things his very soul was scarred. A dreadful thing for a man of God to say, don’t you think? If Walter could have escaped from that life, I think he would have. But like his brothers, he was a dutiful son. I find that very sad. Of course Leticia never minded anyone. She went her own way from childhood. I never trusted her. I don’t know why. She had no smooth edges. Only sharp ones. I expect that’s why she’s never married. I’m rather tired now. Thank you for coming. We’ll visit again another day, I hope. It’s been very pleasant.”
And she walked out of the room with the maid and never looked back.
Chapter 20
An old woman on the verge of senility had told him more about the Teller family than she’d realized. Driving to his flat, Rutledge considered the small pieces of information she’d supplied.
That the family had connections to Dorset, though not in the Teller line. That there was no other member in the extended Teller family by the name of Peter. That her son—the father of three sons—had chosen their professions—and the school for his grandson as well.
These were echoes of what Rutledge had heard in Lancashire.
Florence’s husband had claimed his family was from Dorset. That his father had chosen his profession for him. He’d also claimed to be an only child—but that could have been the reason given for never taking his bride south to meet his family and never being visited in turn by anyone from Dorset.
Hamish said, “Captain Teller has a wife.”
“So he does. And he wasn’t always a captain. I’ll have a word with him in the morning.”
Undressing for bed, Rutledge stood by his window where a very faint breeze was stirring. The day had been hot, nearly breathlessly so.
Chief Superintendent Bowles was likely to have an apoplexy if he was presented with a possibility of bigamy in the Teller family.
It was nine o’clock when Rutledge reached Bolingbroke Street and knocked on the door of Peter Teller’s house.
The housemaid who had admitted him before took him this time to the study and left him to stare at the books lining the walls as hunting trophies stared back with glassy eyes. Even though it was a warm day, the doors into the garden were closed.
Peter Teller came in shortly afterward, and Rutledge noted that he was sober, although he looked very tired. And he was limping heavily, walking without crutches or cane. He regarded Rutledge with a mixture of surprise and apprehension but said only, “Don’t tell me my tiresome brother has gone missing again?”
“As far as I know, he’s in Essex and safe as houses. No, I’ve come to speak to you this time. About a murder in Lancashire.”
There was a sudden strain in Peter Teller’s face. “I don’t know why anything in Lancashire should concern me. Certainly not a murder.”
“The interesting thing is that the victim was married to a Peter Teller.”
Teller’s lips tightened. “I’m sure she was. But she was not married to me.”
“Are you aware of another Peter Teller in your family?”
“Are you aware of all the Rutledges in England who may or may not be related to you?” he countered.
“I have only to match the dates of your leaves with your namesake’s appearances in Hobson. It may take some time, but it can be done.”
“Then come back and talk to me when you’ve done that.”
Rutledge considered the man. Was it bluster, or was he speaking the truth? If he had to guess, it was a little of both. The question was, where did the truth end and the lies begin?
Hamish said in Rutledge’s ear, “And who in Lancashire will remember the exact dates?”
In truth, someone had removed the letters that might go a long way toward proving those dates.
Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of inheritance after all, but of a man’s handwriting.
But why kill Florence Teller now, when the secret had been kept safe all these years?
“Don’t stare at me like that,” Teller said irritably. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about. Pray, who is this woman I’m said to have married?”
“Florence Teller, née Marshall.”
“And she married a Peter Teller.”
“Lieutenant Peter Teller. A career Army officer who was posted all over the empire at various times. As, I believe, you were.”
“My grandfather—you have only to ask my grandmother—was a man who liked women. How do I know that your Lieutenant Peter Teller isn’t one of his bastards?”
“I did speak to your grandmother. Last night. It appears her side of the family came from Dorset, not the Tellers. They were an Essex family. As your brother is now.”
That shook Teller. “Indeed.” He strove to recover and said, “You had no business speaking to my grandmother without Edwin or I being in attendance. Her mind is slipping .”
“It was clear enough on the important issue, last night.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Rutledge.”
“I daresay we could compare the handwriting where that Peter Teller signed the church register to yours. There’s your desk, if you care to write a brief sample for me. And then I’ll take my leave.”
“I’m writing down nothing. I’ll speak to my solicitor about this business. We’ll see what he has to say. Because I’m innocent, you know. And I won’t be dragged into another man’s folly, just because I share a similar name.”
He gestured to the door. “I think you ought to leave now. I’ve made my position clear. There’s nothing more to discuss.”
Rutledge left. But as he was shutting the door, he glanced back into the study.
Peter Teller was dragging his bad leg in the direction of the whisky decanter on a tray by the desk.
If Peter Teller was at home, the chances were his brother Edwin had returned as well.
Rutledge left his motorcar outside the Captain’s house in Boling-broke Street and walked the short distance to Marlborough Street.
Amy Teller was at her door, just bidding a woman good-bye. She was on the point of shutting the door after her guest, when she happened to see Rutledge coming toward her down the pavement.
She froze, uncertain what to do, and finally as the motorcar with her guest inside drove away, she called to him, “I didn’t expect to see you again, Inspector. What have we done now?”
He smiled. He’d had time to do some thinking on his walk, and he said, “I hope, nothing. No, it’s information I’m after.” He’d reached the steps to the house door, and she moved aside to let him enter the cool hall.
“There’s been a murder,” he began and watched her eyes widen at the words. “No one you know, I shouldn’t think. But she happened to be married to a Peter Teller, who died in the war. We’re in search of any family he might have had, here in London or perhaps in Dorset.”
“Edwin has cousins in Dorset. On his mother’s side.” She hesitated. “Does—Was the murder in Dorset?”
“No. The dead woman’s name was Florence Teller. She lived in Lancashire.” He watched her face and then said, “There’s the matter of a will. We can’t seem to locate one, and it’s rather important that we do. We need to know her wishes in regard to her burial as well as the disposition of her property. That could lead us to her murderer.”
“You’d better come into the sitting room,” she told him and led the way to a small, very feminine parlor with a desk and several comfortable chairs. “You think her husband’s family might have killed her for her property?” she went on when they were seated.
“We won’t know, will we, until we find the will and contact them.”
“What about her own famiy?”
“Sadly she had none.”
“And—and there were no children to the marriage?”
“A son,” he said, and she bit her lip.
“Doesn’t he know where the will might be?”
“We have no way of asking him that.”
“He wasn’t—was he harmed when his mother was killed?”
“He wasn’t in the house at the time.”
She nodded. “Of course you would need to find her will. But I’m afraid I don’t know any other Peter Teller. Which doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Or half a dozen of them for that matter.”
“We wondered—forgive me, but the police must consider all possibilities—if perhaps this Peter Teller was not an—er—recognized member of the family.”
Amy stared at him. “Are you suggesting that my husband—or his brothers—might have a child out of wedlock? But you met Edwin, and he’s the eldest. It’s not possible that he could have had a child old enough to serve in the war.” She was deliberately misconstruing his words.
“It would have been his father, I should think,” he corrected her patiently.
She laughed outright. “You never met the man. I could believe Edwin had an affair before I could see his father with another woman.”
“You knew the man when he was older and had grown children. You can’t judge what he might or might not have done as a young man. These things happen in the best families.”
Amy shook her head. “He could have matched Prince Albert in rectitude,” she told him, and then suddenly seemed to realize that she had closed a door that the police were willing to walk through. Rutledge could almost read her thoughts as they flicked across her face. And he wasn’t surprised when after a moment she said, “Of course, you’re right. I can’t say with certainty.”
“Perhaps your grandmother might be in a position to know.”
“Gran?” she all but squeaked in her astonishment. “But she’s—I mean to say, you couldn’t possibly expect a woman of her age and her diminished mental capacity to remember something like that.”
She was right. But then, as if to prove her wrong after all, the sitting room door opened, and the elder Mrs. Teller stepped in, her face anxious.
“Amy, dear, has that awful woman gone—” She stopped, frowned, and then said, “Oh. It’s that handsome young man I was telling Edwin about. The one who came to call last evening.” Crossing the room with the aplomb of a duchess, she held out her hand. “How nice of you to come again.”
Amy said, “Gran . . .”
But Mrs. Teller was seating herself in the chair next to Rutledge and saying, “Are you staying for luncheon, Mr. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes were suddenly filled with tears. “I am so sorry. I can’t recall your name. I have troubles with names sometimes. It’s a terrible affliction, getting old.”
“Rutledge, Ian Rutledge,” he told her, omitting his title.
“Ah yes, Mr. Rutledge.” She smiled, the tears vanishing. “It’s so nice to see you again,” she repeated. “You’ve met Amy, I see. She’s my favorite granddaughter. Of course, I love Jenny as well. Everyone loves Jenny. Have you met Jenny? She’s Walter’s wife.”
“Do you have a granddaughter by the name of Florence? She was married to the man I was looking to find last night.” Amy was about to protest, but he glanced at her, warning her not to interfere. “The other Peter Teller.”
“There’s only one Peter, dear,” she told him. “Our Peter. A very brave man during the war, you know. Decorated and all that. But his leg is bad, he walks with a cane.”
“I was thinking perhaps that your son—Peter’s father—might have had a child. By someone else. And that son was also called Peter.”
“Peter’s father? Oh, no, dear, that’s not likely. The Teller men are extraordinarily faithful. It’s part of their charm. They love only once. Besides,” she said as she glanced at Amy’s stricken face, “it would be bad form to name a child on the wrong side of the blanket for one of your own. It brings bad luck, you see. Like a curse, you know. One of them will surely die.”
Rutledge’s eyes met Amy’s. “One of them has,” he said. “In the war.”
He stood up, adding, “I’ve taken enough of your time. I’d like to speak to Mr. Edwin Teller, if I may. And then I must go.”
Amy was on the point of saying that her husband was resting, when Mrs. Teller said brightly, “I saw him stepping into the study as I was coming here. Shall I take you to him?”
He accepted her offer and said a formal good-bye to Amy Teller, preventing her from following him to the study. “If there’s anything more you can think of that would be helpful, you know where to reach me.”
She glared at him. Why had he thought she was less involved?
Gran conducted him into the passage and, without knocking, opened the door to the study and walked straight in. This had been her house as a wife and then as the dowager of the family, and she stood on no ceremony. Her appearance caught Edwin Teller by surprise, and
when he saw who was just behind her in the passage, his smile of welcome turned grim.
“Hullo, Gran,” he said. “Thank you for bringing Mr. Rutledge to me. If you’ll excuse us, we have some business to conduct, I’m afraid.”
She looked at her grandson, disappointment clouding her face. “He was staying for luncheon . . .”
Rutledge took her hand and said gently, “I’m afraid it must be another day,” he told her. “After your grandson and I have conducted our business, I must return to the Yard.”
“Yes, of course,” she said smiling and shaking Rutledge’s hand. “I shall look forward to it.”
And she took her leave, with the dignity of a woman who had all her life been accustomed to the niceties of social interaction. Business was business, and women were not a part of that world.
As the door shut behind her, Edwin said through clenched teeth, “What the bloody hell do you mean, coming here and interrogating my grandmother when I’m not present?”
Rutledge said, “Your wife was present during today’s interview.”
“But not last night’s. Walter is in Essex, where he is supposed to be. The search for him is over. He did nothing during the period when he was missing that would interest Scotland Yard. You have no business here. I’ll take this up with your superior, if you continue to harass my family.”
“Hardly harassment. I’ve come to ask if you could help me locate one Peter Teller.”
“You’ve met my brother,” Edwin said shortly. “As far as I know, he’s in Bolingbroke Street, where he lives.”
“This Peter Teller,” Rutledge said, “is being sought because we can’t find the last will and testament of one Florence Marshall Teller, his wife. Or I should say, his late wife. She was murdered several days ago.”
Edwin opened his mouth and shut it again. After a moment he asked in a very different tone of voice, “Where was she murdered? Here in London?”
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