Charles Todd

by Ian Rutledge 12 - The Red Door (v5)

  And Rutledge would have agreed with him, if it weren’t for the other case in Lancashire. A fall down the stairs was easier to face than the hangman, and Teller had been drinking enough of late to indicate something was troubling him.

  “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Susannah Teller in the study. Do you think that could be arranged? I’d like to know why she sent for me.”

  Inspector Jessup said, “I’d like to be present.”

  “Not immediately, if you don’t mind,” Rutledge said, keeping to the formalities of refusal. “She may speak more freely to me.”

  He stood there looking down at Teller’s body, thinking that Constable Satterthwaite would be disappointed, and Lawrence Cobb jubilant. Then he nodded to Jessup. The body could be taken away.

  Jessup went outside to find his men, and Rutledge waited until the door had closed behind him. Then he squatted by the body and lifted the legs of Teller’s trousers. But there was no mark that he could see to indicate that Teller had been tripped. And so, accident—or suicide.

  Just as Rutledge was stepping back, Fielding came in, preparatory to the removal. He said, looking at Teller as Rutledge had done, “A tragedy, this. The leg he fought so hard to save betrayed him in the end. He might have been better off if he’d allowed them to take it.”

  Rutledge said, “In a way you’re right. But I think, knowing Captain Teller as I did, I’d venture to say he’d have wanted it that way, even so.”

  As a blanket was spread over the body before lifting it onto the stretcher, Fielding said, “Unless I find evidence to the contrary, gentlemen, I’ll consider this an accidental death.”

  Jessup said, “I’d agree with that finding.”

  And then Peter Teller was carried out into the gray morning, leaving only a small spot of blood to mark his passage. Rutledge, thinking about Monday morning’s expected arrest, was of two minds. When he closed this case, there would be very little justice for Florence Teller now.

  In some fashion, it might be for the best. It would save the Teller family endless publicity and sorrow. Chief Superintendent Bowles would be pleased about that.

  When the house door closed behind the dead man, Rutledge walked down the passage and into the study where once he’d spoken to Walter Teller about his brother.

  Five minutes later, the study door opened and Susannah Teller was ushered in, her face pale with shock and grief, her eyes red from crying. She had tried very hard to protect her husband. Even knowing what he had done.

  She looked Rutledge straight in the face and said as the door swung shut behind her, “You’re to treat this as a murder investigation, do you hear me? They killed him. With their unspoken accusations, their finger-pointing when Jenny wasn’t in the room, their snubs. He told them he hadn’t killed Florence Teller. He tried to explain. But the evidence was against him, and he drank himself into oblivion Friday night and last night. I told him we shouldn’t have come. But he said he must do it for Jenny’s sake. It’s always for Jenny’s sake, isn’t it? The innocent victim, Jenny Teller. Well, I’m having them pay for my losing Peter, do you understand me?” she ended fiercely.

  “Mrs. Teller—”

  “No, don’t tell me it was just a horrible accident because he’d been drinking and couldn’t find his cane. And don’t try to tell me he killed himself out of a guilty conscience. He didn’t murder that woman in Lancashire. If you want to know the truth, it was either Walter or Edwin. Take your pick. Because when Peter was there, when Peter just wanted to speak to her, he could hear Walter in the house somewhere out of sight. Or Edwin. I don’t know. I don’t care. They both sound very much alike. Have you noticed? One of them was there, and after Peter left, whichever one it was seized the opportunity to kill her and let Peter take the blame.”

  She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. But she didn’t go up the stairs. He heard the front door slam as well, and when he went to look out the window, she was running across the lawn to the rose garden, as if trying to flee her own thoughts.

  Susannah Teller had tried to throw him off the scent once before.

  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?”

  Chapter 26

  It 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.”