Charles Todd

by Ian Rutledge 12 - The Red Door (v5)

  Rutledge was standing very close to where Peter Teller had been found at the foot of the stairs. He looked at the spot, remembering the sprawled body and the family in distress. It had seemed to be genuine distress.

  Amy, first to reach Peter, had said he had tried to speak her name.

  Mee . . .

  Rousing himself, Rutledge was about to walk back to the study when he heard another vehicle on the drive. It was the local police. Inspector Jessup said as Rutledge opened the door, “Dr. Fielding asked us to wait before coming. Who’s here now? I see the other motor.”

  “Miss Teller, Walter Teller’s sister.”

  Jessup nodded. “Was she here last night?”

  “I telephoned her earlier. She arrived not five minutes before you.”

  Rutledge led the way into the study. “It appears to be a straightforward case of accidental overdose.” He told Jessup what he had seen and about the spilled milk in the kitchen. “At this stage, I can’t see a case for suicide.”

  “Or murder?”

  “Not at this stage,” Rutledge repeated.

  Jessup said, “Sometimes people aren’t careful enough counting out their drops. Are you comfortable with accidental death?”

  “At the moment. I’ll listen to what other family members have to say.”

  “There seems to have been a rash of them in this house. I hope this is the last. Bad things come in threes.”

  “Teller and his sister are upstairs. To your right, second door. Or the master bedroom, farther along the passage.”

  “Any marks on the body?”

  “None that Fielding or I saw. He’ll know more later.”

  Jessup nodded and went up the stairs two at a time.

  Another motorcar came rapidly down the drive, and Rutledge opened the door to find a constable already standing there on duty, his cape wet with rain.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, constable. I think that’s the deceased’s sister just arriving. Let her come in.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Rutledge went back inside and into the study, leaving the door ajar. He could hear Mary Brittingham speaking to the constable, then hurrying up the stairs.

  A moment or two later, he heard a muffled cry as she must have reached her sister’s room.

  It was sometime later that Walter Teller came down the stairs alone.

  He walked into the study, nearly turned about as soon as he saw Rutledge there, then went to the window.

  “The women are doing women things. I can’t think about what she’s to wear. I can’t face putting her into the ground. Tomorrow it may be easier. Jessup seems to be satisfied. He’s in the kitchen questioning Mollie. Something about milk spilled in the night.”

  “Where did your wife keep her laudanum?”

  He sat down, took a deep breath, and said, “Oddly enough, on a shelf in the kitchen. She was terrified that Harry might find it. I told her he’d have better sense, but she wouldn’t hear of keeping it anywhere else.”

  “Did she take it often?”

  “She only took it once before. When she’d hurt her back and couldn’t sleep. I’m surprised it hadn’t dried up long since.”

  It made sense. Fumbling with the pan, spilling the milk, then miscounting her drops . . .

  Rutledge said after a moment, “Why did she need them last night?”

  “I expect it was Peter, the sound he made as he fell. She said she could still hear it. It was a shock for all of us. I don’t know how Amy held up. She watched him die.”

  Rutledge let another silence fall. Then he said, “Do you think your brother’s death might have been intentional? Rather than facing trial and the publicity that will come in its wake, affecting the whole family. He couldn’t have foreseen he’d have been exonerated.”

  “If Peter had wanted to escape anything, he would have gone somewhere quiet and private and shot himself. There are enough grounds here at Witch Hazel Farm for him to do that.”

  “A good point. Who was Florence Teller? In truth?”

  That brought Walter Teller out of his chair. “Now that Mary is here, we must break the news to my son. If you will excuse me?”

  And he was gone.

  Jessup came to say that he was ready for the body to be taken away. But Leticia Teller had asked him to wait until her brother and his wife arrived. Pulling out his pocket watch, he stood there considering time and distance. “Another hour, at best. I’ve told Dr. Fielding that he can leave.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Jessup said, “You’re sure there’s not something more I ought to know?”

  Rutledge answered, “There was an inquiry in Lancashire. As it happened, Captain Teller was an unwitting witness. He called on someone there, and shortly afterward, she was murdered. The woman who killed her is now in custody. We shan’t have his evidence at the trial, but I don’t think we’ll have any worries about a conviction. Two policemen heard the murderer confess.”

  “I didn’t know he was recently in Lancashire.”

  “It was during the time when his brother was ill.”

  “I’m beginning to think there’s much I haven’t been told.” “Walter Teller’s disappearance was a London matter. The murder took place in Lancashire.”

  “And I’ve got two deaths here.”

  “So you have.”

  “Fielding said something about Teller’s illness worrying his wife as well as her husband’s disappearance. What was the nature of his illness? Was there any diagnosis?”

  “Worry,” Rutledge said succinctly. “His mission society would like to see him back in the field.”

  “I’m sure they would. Good publicity for them, with Walter Teller back in harness, perhaps another book in the offing. What does Teller think?”

  “You must ask him. He may be needed here now, with a motherless son.”

  “True enough. I’m not one for traveling in places where I’m not wanted. I’ve never seen the good in telling other people how to live and how to believe. Still, I admire those who can do such things.”

  Jessup was fishing, Rutledge thought, and knew his business.

  “His role in the Lancashire affair didn’t prey on Captain Teller’s mind, did it?”

  “It’s more likely that a bad leg and his refusal to use a cane killed him rather than events in Lancashire.”

  There was the sound of new arrivals outside the study. Rutledge said, “Edwin Teller and his wife.”

  Jessup stood. “Let’s be clear. Is this my inquiry or the Yard’s.”

  Rutledge smiled grimly. “At this stage it’s yours. I’ll give your people a statement. I was here just before the doctor came. So far, I’m a witness. But I know this family better than you do, and you’ll find me useful.”

  “As long as we understand each other.”

  They went out into the passage in time to see Edwin and Amy walk in and then climb the flight of stairs. Behind then was the elder Mrs. Teller. Gran’s face was drawn, as if it had aged too fast.

  “Who is that?” asked Jessup.

  Rutledge explained, adding, “She’s a little vague, but I wouldn’t discount her information, if I were you.”

  It was not long before Amy brought a weeping Gran down the stairs and took her into the dining room.

  “Don’t fuss, Amy,” she was saying when Rutledge walked in. “I’m quite able to put milk into my cup on my own.” Looking up, she said, “It’s that handsome young man who walked by my window. I didn’t know you were invited for the weekend as well?”

  He came to take her hand. “I’m sorry to meet you again in such sad circumstances.”

  “Yes, there’s Peter dying, and now Jenny. I don’t know what to make of it.” Her face puckered again. “Two funerals. I thought the next might be my own.”

  “You’ve many years ahead of you,” he assured her.

  Amy said quietly, “Go away. Let her drink her tea and cry a little, if that’s what she needs to do. Then I mi
ght persuade her to lie down for a bit.”

  He ignored her. To Gran, he said, “You must be prepared to work with Harry. He will need your support and your care.”

  “To be sure,” she told him impatiently. “What I don’t understand for the life of me is why Jenny took laudanum.”

  “Captain Teller’s death unsettled her.”

  “Oh, my dear, I could hardly bring myself to walk up those stairs. I can’t think what Jenny must have felt. But there are the arrangements for Peter. The flowers, the food, airing the beds. Who is to see to them now?” she demanded fretfully. “Why didn’t Susannah come with us? But I expect Leticia will know what to do.”

  “Why would Jenny not have taken laudanum to sleep?” he pursued. “It must have seemed to her the sensible thing to do, so that she’d be rested.”

  “But they gave her laudanum before,” Gran said, “and she didn’t like it. It made her so deathly ill.”

  Amy started to speak, but one look from Rutledge and she held her tongue.

  “When?”

  “When I was here, of course. She’d hurt her back, and I came to stay. She found it hard to wake up. She felt all muzzy. She didn’t like it because of the baby.”

  Amy said, “But Harry was away last night.”

  Gran took another slice of cold toast. “Is there any of that nice jam left, dear? The one I like so much.”

  Amy brought her the pot of strawberry jam.

  “Thank you, my dear.” She spread it across half a slice of toast. “Has anyone told Susannah we’re here? I don’t understand why she didn’t come down with us.”

  “Mary is here. You’ve always liked Mary,” Amy pointed out.

  “No, I haven’t. Just because she’s Jenny’s sister, she thinks she’s invited everywhere. I much prefer Jenny.” Frowning she began to cry again. “It’s so sad, you know. First Peter, and now Jenny. It’s very trying.”

  Rutledge prepared to go. “Mrs. Teller?” he said to Amy. “I’d like to speak with you privately, if I may.”

  “If it’s about Jenny and the laudanum—”

  “No.”

  With a glance at Gran, happily spreading jam on another slice of toast, Amy rose. He led her out of the dining room, but Leticia was in the study, sitting at the desk, making a list, and at the top of the stairs, he could hear Walter speaking earnestly to Mary.

  As she answered him, Rutledge caught the words, “ . . . your fault, Walter. You must accept that.”

  Rutledge said, “Will you find your coat? There’s no privacy here.”

  “It’s raining, if you haven’t noticed it.”

  “Your coat.”

  She came back with it and said, “Edwin wants to know if I’ll be long.”

  “Nothing will happen while we’re gone.”

  Irritably, she handed him her coat to hold for her, and then together they walked out past the constable and into the rain. Rutledge opened the door of his motorcar for her, and then turned the crank. Reversing the vehicle, he drove past the rain-laden roses. Amy said, “I’ve just driven from London. Edwin wasn’t feeling well enough to take the wheel. I’m not in the mood for a tour of Essex.”

  They had reached the gate, just out of sight of the house. There Rutledge stopped.

  Without preamble, he said, “Florence Teller wasn’t married to Captain Teller, was she?”

  Amy opened her mouth, then closed it smartly.

  “What I need to know is why Walter used his brother’s name.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, looking at the trees that overhung the road.

  “Look. I’ve seen his will. That rose garden, the one we just passed, is to be a memorial to his wife’s memory. And interestingly enough the will doesn’t specify Jenny Teller. There’s been a conspiracy of silence from the start. You’ve known the truth all along, haven’t you? And helped to cover it up,” he accused her.

  She had turned to look at him again. “Jenny loved roses.”

  “No, she didn’t. But Florence Teller did. Do you remember the rose that Lawrence Cobb dropped into the grave?”

  “Was that his name? Yes, I remember. I remember that day very well.”

  “Peter didn’t kill her. Someone else did. Lawrence Cobb’s wife. But I rather think I’m to blame for Walter believing he did. And it’s possible that in revenge he killed his brother.”

  “You mean Peter’s fall—no, that’s ridiculous.”

  “What I don’t know is how much he loved his wife. Or if he cared anything for his dead son. And I need to know, or my judgment will be flawed.”

  “It’s pathetic,” she said angrily. “You hounded Peter to his death with threats of taking him into custody. And so he drank too much. That meant he wasn’t steady on his feet, and with that leg, it’s not surprising he fell. If there’s any blame in his death, it lies at your door. All you’re trying to do is shift it to Walter. Well, I won’t let you.”

  Rutledge had both hands on the wheel. Between them in the far distance, over the tops of trees, he could just see the tower of Repton’s church, floating like an island in the sweeping curtains of rain.

  Hamish was there too, the Scots voice loud in his ears.

  Rutledge turned to look at Amy Teller.

  “You aren’t protecting Walter. I don’t think you’re even fond of him. And you let Peter take the blame without compunction. Well, Jenny is dead. Nothing can hurt her now. It’s the boy. It’s young Harry. It was always Harry.” He turned to look at her. “As long as Peter shouldered the blame for marrying two women, Harry was safe. Even Susannah, his wife, was willing to say nothing, for Harry’s sake.”

  She refused to answer him.

  “Why did Walter Teller use his brother’s name, instead of his own? Neither of them had married in 1903.”

  And still she sat stubbornly silent. But Rutledge could see tears bright in her eyes, tears of anger, frustration, and helplessness.

  “How long have you known? At a guess, not very long. Was it during Walter’s illness? Did something happen then?”

  He waited, giving her a chance.

  Finally he said, “Peter Teller died trying to preserve that lie. When you got to him, he said, ‘It was me.’ And instead, so that it wouldn’t arouse any suspicion, you told everyone that he had spoken your name.”

  He thought for a moment she would fling open the motorcar’s door and run down the drive in the rain to get away from him.

  “And Leticia, you and your husband, along with Mary, tried to pry the truth from Walter on Sunday after I’d gone north. Did Jenny overhear you? Is that why she took an overdose of laudanum?”

  She broke down then, her face in her hands.

  It had mostly been conjecture on his part, putting together what he knew with what he suspected, and holding the two together with a tissue of guessing.

  He added as he prepared to let in the clutch and start down the drive, “Peter didn’t kill Florence Teller—but I tell you again it’s possible Walter thought he had, and killed him. That’s why I need to know how he felt about Florence Teller, and if he would avenge her when the chance presented itself.” He handed Amy Teller his handkerchief, adding, “I think you can see my dilemma. Inspector Jessup is already suspicious. If I walk away, and don’t do my duty, someone else will. And it will be worse. I’ll do my best to protect Harry. But I will need help.”

  Chapter 30

  Amy was out of the motorcar almost before Rutledge had come to a stop. He watched her dash through the rain into the house as the constable opened the door for her.

  He sat where he was, feeling distaste for what he had just done. But Amy Teller was the only one he thought might eventually tell him the whole truth.

  “Ye may be wrong,” Hamish warned him.

  The study door was shut, and Rutledge opened it, expecting to find most of the family gathered there. But Walter Teller was sitting alone.

  “If you’re looking for the others, they’re in the drawing roo
m. I don’t know whether they’re leaving me alone to grieve or if they can’t bear my company.”

  His voice was dispassionate, as if he had shut off his own feelings.

  Rutledge said, “They’re still trying to come to terms with your brother’s death. And now this—”

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Teller said, “Tell them I’m not seeing anyone.”

  But it was the rector, Mr. Stedley, who stuck his head around the door. “Walter? They told me you were in here.” He was tall and robust, with a deep voice. “I thought I should come. Mary is with Harry. There’s nothing I can do in that quarter at the moment.”

  Walter, rising, said, “Ah, Stedley. Thank you for your care of Harry. It’s very kind of you and Mrs. Stedley to take him in. It’s been very difficult for all of us. And it will be hardest for him.”

  “The question is, what can I do for you? Would you like me to go to Jenny and say a prayer?”

  “I—yes, if you would. I’m sure she would have wanted that. She’s in the room where Harry was born.”

  As the rector went up the stairs, Walter said, “It’s beginning. The flood of mourners. And each time I speak to them, her death becomes a little more real.”

  “You must have seen death many times in your work abroad.”

  Walter laughed without humor. “My first posting, I buried twelve people on my first day. A cholera epidemic. It was only the beginning. I should be accustomed to death. And then the war. I lost count of the number of men who died in my arms inside and outside the medical tents. Sometimes kneeling in the mud, sometimes watching shells scream over my head. Sometimes by a cot with bloody sheets, or in an ambulance, before the stretcher could even be lifted out. I was quite good at giving a dying man the comfort necessary to make the end easier. And all the while, I knew I was lying to them and to myself. I will say one thing for the King James version of the Bible, the words are sonorous and speak for themselves. All I had to do was remember my lines.”

  Rutledge thought about the curate reading from the Psalms for Florence Teller’s service. He had seemed to speak from the heart.

  “If those men were comforted, then it didn’t matter what you felt.”