Charles Todd

by Ian Rutledge 12 - The Red Door (v5)

  “Thank you, Mrs. Teller. I’ll look into this matter. May I drive you home?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll just walk up to Trafalgar and find a cab.”

  But he accompanied her that far anyway and hailed the cab for her. As he was about to shut the door, she put her hand out to stop him and said, “You won’t tell Peter where you heard this? He’ll be very angry with me.”

  “Not,” he said, “unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Thank you.” She spoke to the driver, and the cab pulled away. The last sight he had of her was a handkerchief in her hand, pressed against her eyes when she thought he could no longer see her.

  Rutledge had asked the Yard for information on any other Peter Teller, and Gibson had answers for him, though from the sergeant’s terse manner, Rutledge knew that Jake had been troublesome.

  Gibson said, “As to that infernal bird, sir. We’ve a list of things he’s likely to eat. I’ve put that on your desk. Along with a box of samples to see you through until you can decide what to do with the creature.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Is there anything else?”

  “We’ve come up empty-handed in our search for one Peter Teller.”

  “You haven’t found one? In all of England?”

  “Oh, we’ve found them right enough. One lives in Gloucester, and he’s just on the point of celebrating his seventy-sixth birthday. The other is one of a pair of twins, Peter and Helen Mowbray Teller, who are seven. There was another Peter Teller in Ely, who died in 1910 of pneumonia. The constable there believes he was about thirteen at the time. The man outside New Castle on Tyne, lost both his legs in a mining accident in 1908. He was a supervisor, went down with his men to look at a troublesome face, and there was an explosion. The last one was the son of Peter and Susannah Teller, died age two of bleeding internally. The list is also on your desk.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll relieve you of the infernal bird. Meanwhile, if you will, I need to know more about one Lieutenant Thomas Burrows who didn’t survive the war.” Rutledge gave the particulars of his regiment and added, “Uncle is an MP. Or was. I believe his mother still lives somewhere outside Worcester.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir. And if I may make a suggestion, I’d take the bird out covered before the Chief Super learns he was here. We were able to blame one squawk on a baby whose mother had come in to complain of her neighbors.”

  Rutledge laughed, and went to recover Jake.

  Not knowing what else to do at this time of day—it was well past his dinnertime and possibly Jake’s as well—Rutledge took the bird home with him.

  It was silent as the tomb on the journey in the motorcar, but Jake took an instant dislike to a jackdaw outside the flat window where Rutledge set him at first, and the loud denunciation of Rutledge’s choice of accommodation was nearly deafening.

  Moving Jake’s cage to another window, he took note of that beak and the condition of the papers inside the cage, and wondered how to manage cleaning them without losing a finger or two in the process.

  As a last resort, Rutledge put a little food on the table across from the cage and left the door open while he went to change his clothes and find something cool to drink. When he came back, Jake didn’t appear to have budged. But the food Rutledge had left out for him was gone.

  He was tired and said to Jake, “We’ll deal with you tomorrow, my lad.” Shutting the cage door, he sat down across from the bird and considered the day’s events. But he found himself on the edge of sleep instead.

  Hamish said, “It wasna’ a verra’ profitable day.”

  “But a beginning,” Rutledge answered him drowsily. “The question now is how to put the pieces together. And what we’ll have, when we’ve done it.”

  And then he had a horrible thought.

  What if Jake could hear Hamish, and began to speak in his voice?

  That brought him wide awake. A solution eluded him, but he got up and flung a cloth over the birdcage and listened silently as Jake began his nightly ritual of saying good night to Peter.

  Chapter 21

  The parrot had finished its seeds and taken a bath in the water Rutledge had left in the cage.

  In the gray light of a misty morning Rutledge showed the fatigue of a long drive and a short night’s sleep. He looked down at the stained newspapers in the bottom of the cage. He’d just watched Jake crack a nut with ease, and he had no intention of testing that beak against bone. But something had to be done.

  He was collecting fresh newspaper when there was a knock at the door of his flat, and Frances came in, calling, “Ian? Are you here? I saw your motorcar. Shouldn’t you be at the Yard?”

  “I’m in here,” he told her, and she walked through to his bedroom, where the bird was ensconced on a table by the double windows.

  “What possessed you to buy a parrot?” she asked, stopping in astonishment. “But what a pretty creature. Does it have a name? Surely you don’t have the time to care for it properly.”

  Rutledge straightened and gazed fondly at his sister.

  “Frances, this is Jake. The bird is presently a ward of the court. Sergeant Gibson has already cursed my offspring, my hope of promotion, and my mental capacity. And so it’s here. But you’re right, I don’t have time to care for it properly. You do. Would you like to be its guardian for the next several days?”

  “Ian, you must be out of your mind. What am I to do with a bird?”

  “That’s exactly what Sergeant Gibson said to me. Although he called me Inspector Rutledge. You have a lovely window looking out onto the gardens. It would be very happy there. And all you have to do is feed it, water it, and—er—keep the newspapers at the bottom of the cage fresh.”

  She had come over to the cage. The bird was sitting on a swing, regarding her with a fixed gaze, then it blinked and ducked its head down in a shy motion.

  “I think it’s flirting with me,” she told her brother, laughing. “Look.”

  Rutledge had wisely stepped aside. “Yes, I think it actually is.”

  The bird ducked its head down again, and Frances touched the wires of the cage with her fingers. “Does it talk?”

  “I’ve heard it say good night. That’s all. So far.”

  “Pretty birdie,” she said lightly, and then, “Good morning, Jake.”

  To her surprise, Jake sidled over to her fingers and tucked his head down close to them. “I think he wants to be petted.” She moved her fingers through the wire and touched his feathers, first on his shoulder and then his bent head. “He likes it.” She was smiling with that fondness women reserve for small children and baby animals. “Oh, you are a sweet boy.”

  Rutledge had been on the point of warning her to watch the bird’s beak but stopped just in time.

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, it belonged to a woman.”

  Jake was leaning into Frances’s fingers, clearly enjoying the personal contact. Then it shook itself and flew to the door of the cage.

  “He wants to come out.”

  “Not on your life,” Rutledge told her.

  “But, Ian . . .” She was already unclasping the cage latch, and she put her hand in. The bird hopped on her fingers like a hawk perching on a falconer’s glove. Frances lifted her hand out of the cage, then held it in the air, looking at Jake. They stared at each other, and then he flew to her shoulder, moving back and forth across it in a bobbing motion.

  “If men were as malleable as this,” she said, smiling at her brother, “women would be happy as larks.”

  “Frances,” he began.

  “No. I can’t imagine having to mind it all day. No.”

  “It likes you. Look at the feathers in the bottom of his cage. He’s been plucking them out. I think in mourning. His owner is dead. But he likes you. And he may be a witness. Who knows? I need to see to it that he’s safe and comfortable.”

  “Do you think he saw a murder? Is that it?”

  “I doubt if he did. But it’s possible that someone might
confess, if the killer thought Jake knew something.”

  She held up two fingers, and Jake stepped passively on them.

  “No, don’t put him back. Not until I’ve cleaned out those newspapers.”

  Frances talked quietly to the bird as her brother worked. Jake cocked his head, as if trying to understand, then ducked it for more petting.

  “Was his owner a woman?”

  “Yes. He lived with her for quite a few years. They must have grown close.” He thought of that touching good night that Jake must have heard week in and week out.

  “I believe he understands that I’m not his mistress, but he knows I’m a woman.”

  “The woman who had temporary care of him threatened to wring his neck. He was screeching like a wild thing.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Will you take him? If only for a few days?”

  Frances took a deep breath. “I will not keep him, Ian. Are we clear on that? But I’ll take him for your few days.”

  “Wonderful. Er—why was it you stopped by?”

  “For one thing, David and little Ian arrived home safely. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “And,” she went on, “I must admit, I miss the company. I came to see if you could arrange a few days of leave. We might go down to Cornwall or somewhere for a bit. Just to get away. And now I’m saddled with a parrot.” But she smiled wryly.

  Rutledge had cleaned the bottom of the cage and put in fresh newspaper. Washing his hands, he said, “It won’t be for long. I promise you. As for leave, it’s just not possible at the moment. In fact, I’m driving north again this morning. I can’t say with any certainty when I’ll come back.”

  He followed her back to her house and settled Jake in the breakfast room, where sunlight, breaking through the clouds, promised a better day. Through an open window, the scent of roses came wafting by on the light breeze.

  Jake bobbed as he gazed with interest out the open window.

  “Roses,” he said, quite clearly.

  “His owner,” Rutledge told Frances, “had a garden outside the kitchen windows. This must remind him of his home.”

  “It was a verra’ clever thing to do, bringing him here,” Hamish said.

  Rutledge left his sister coaxing Jake to speak to her, crooning softly and letting her fingers brush the bird’s feathers.

  He was very grateful to make his escape before she changed her mind.

  At the station, he spoke to Gibson, who had no news of Thomas Burrows, and then went to see the Chief Superintendent.

  He filled Bowles in on the direction he felt the case was taking, and got in return a tongue-lashing for disturbing the Teller family without permission.

  “You’re mad if you believe they have had any hand in this business. I’ll be hearing complaints next, and what am I to say? That you’ve taken leave of your senses? And why aren’t you in the north? It makes no sense to be frittering your time away in London. She wasn’t murdered here, this Teller woman, and there must be a dozen Peter Tellers out there. Find him.”

  “Gibson has given me a list of those he found. Not one of them is of the same age as we believe Teller would have been now.”

  “Then tell Sergeant Gibson to look again.”

  Rutledge went in search of Gibson.

  The sergeant said in resignation, “I’ll be bound I found every one there is. But I’ll look again.”

  Rutledge left him muttering to himself about time wasted.

  He headed north, picking up rain showers halfway. And then it cleared as he turned toward Thielwald and Hobson.

  Constable Satterthwaite had nothing to report when Rutledge walked into the station and greeted him.

  “But I’m that glad to see you again. Any luck in the south?”

  “The Yard is still searching for Lieutenant Peter Teller’s family. I’m beginning to think we have already found it. The Chief Superintendent disagrees. Here are the facts. There’s a Teller family in London. Three brothers, one of them presently a captain in the Army. There’s no reason they should even know Florence Teller’s name, but her death came as a shock to them. I’m beginning to wonder if her killer realized she was dead.”

  “He made no effort to find it out,” Satterthwaite responded angrily. “Which in my book is still murder. What brought him here?”

  Rutledge said, “That’s why I’ve come back. That and the funeral. Do you think Mrs. Greeley will have a room for me again?”

  “Indeed, sir. She was asking just yesterday if I was expecting to see you.”

  “No sign of the murder weapon?”

  “As to that, he must have taken it with him.”

  “The services for Florence Teller?”

  “They’re tomorrow,” Satterthwaite told him. “I’m glad you’ll be here for them.”

  “So am I,” Rutledge said, and went to find Mrs. Greeley.

  To his surprise, the next morning Edwin and Amy Teller arrived in good time for the service.

  They found Rutledge just coming out of the police station and asked if he could give them directions to the house where Florence Teller had lived.

  “You can’t go inside,” he warned them. “This is still an active murder inquiry.” What he wanted to say was that it wasn’t a spectacle for the Teller family. How Florence Teller had lived and died was now police business.

  “I understand,” Edwin said. And Rutledge was surprised to realize that the man did. “It just seemed—the right thing to do.”

  “Then I’ll go with you.”

  He could tell it wasn’t what they wanted, but he got into the motorcar and told Edwin to follow the High Street out of Hobson.

  As they went, Amy commented on how empty the landscape was, and how lonely. Rutledge thought it was a reflection of someone brought up in the south, where the roads seldom lacked some form of habitation for very long.

  Edwin was silent, concentrating on driving. When at last they began to crest the rise before the house, Rutledge said, “Ahead you’ll see a hedge. Stop at the gate.”

  He could feel the tension in the two people in the front seat. And he thought, Is this how Hamish knows what’s on my mind?

  But there was no time to consider that as Edwin came to a halt in front of the house.

  “Sunrise Cottage,” Amy read, then looking up the path to the house, she said, “A red door. Once.”

  Rutledge said, “Mrs. Teller painted it to celebrate her husband’s homecoming. Only he never returned. She left it, perhaps in the hope that someday he would. Or because she couldn’t bear to give up all hope.”

  Edwin sat there, looking up at the house. “It’s not a very pleasing house, is it?” he mused aloud. “Small and plain and isolated. She lived here alone? That’s sad. He could have done better by her.”

  “Perhaps it was what she wanted,” Amy said after a moment. “What she was used to. She took pride in it—you can see that.”

  “Still . . .”

  The silence lengthened. Finally Edwin let in the clutch and said, “I must find somewhere to turn around.”

  “There’s a farmyard just down the road,” Rutledge told them.

  Edwin found it and was soon headed back into Hobson.

  When they reached the police station, Rutledge said, “Mrs. Greeley’s house is just there. I’m sure she will let you have a room to freshen up. She needs the money.”

  Edwin thanked him and drove on.

  Rutledge could see them speaking together, but not even Hamish’s sharp hearing could discern what was being said.

  Satterthwaite had come out and was looking after them. “And who might they be, when they’re at home?”

  “Edwin Teller and his wife, from London. He considers himself the head of the Essex branch of the family. He felt it was his duty to be here, to represent the family that we haven’t found. His brother is Captain Peter Teller.”

  “Kind of him,” Satterthwaite said shortly. “Where�
��s his brother, then?”

  “Does he resemble Peter Teller, do you think?”

  Satterthwaite considered the question. “In a vague way. Hard to judge with yon beard. Remember, I’ve not seen the man for years. I don’t know how the war changed him.” After a moment, he said, “Does the wife know about Florence?”

  “Amy? Yes. She must.” Rutledge, looking back to his first meeting with her, nodded. “But it’s Peter’s wife who has taken the news the hardest.”

  St. Bartholomew’s bell, rather more tinny than deep throated, had begun tolling the age of the departed.

  Satterthwaite nodded. “It’s time.”

  They walked down the High Street, turning up Church Lane at the war memorial. Rutledge saw Cobb pausing there for his morning greeting to his sons, then move on, his cane supporting him over the uneven ruts of the lane.

  Watching him, Rutledge said thoughtfully, “Edwin Teller’s brother was badly wounded in the war. He’s in need of a cane as well. But he doesn’t always have it to hand.”

  “I’m told Mr. Cobb sleeps with his on the bed, on his wife’s side.”

  “You’ve looked into his nephew Lawrence? Anything more on that front, since I left?”

  “I’ve kept my eye on him. But there’s nothing there.”

  “I saw him wielding a hammer in anger.”

  “We’ll see, shall we, if there’s any guilt shown today.”

  “Fair enough.”

  People from the village were also walking up the lane, and among them Rutledge saw the Tellers in mourning black that was stylishly cut and out of place here among the rusty black of ordinary clothes that hung unused from Monday to Saturday.

  St. Bart’s was as plain inside as it was on the outside. Built for sturdiness, built to last, built to worship and not adore. Rutledge had the fleeting thought that Cromwell would have approved. But the people of Hobson had probably not approved of Cromwell or King Charles. Their independence came from the land they farmed, not from London, and it was a hard life, short as well.

  The service was brief and as plain as the surroundings in which it was held. The curate spoke simply about our dear departed sister, listing the major events of her life and commenting only once about her death, as an undeserved tragedy. He read several Psalms, and the choir led the mourners in three hymns, including “Rock of Ages.”