by Charles Todd
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?"
"In Lancashire. Where she had lived almost all of her life."
Teller was making quick calculations. He said, "The day Walter returned to the clinic?"
"Two days before that. Someone came to her door and, when she answered it, struck her down and left her lying there. A passerby finally saw her lying there, and summoned the police."
Edwin Teller said, before he could stop himself, "My God." And then he continued quickly, "I don't see why any of us should know anything about this murder. Walter was missing. The rest of us were searching for him."
"I wasn't suggesting that you might know anything that would help the police," Rutledge responded mildly. "Lieutenant Teller wasn't from Lancashire. He came from Dorset, or so he said. We're trying to trace his family. We've been unable to find Mrs. Teller's will. The police are always interested in who inherits property. Greed can be a powerful impetus to murder."
"A pity we can't help you. My brother is the only person in the family whose Christian name is Peter." Edwin was doing his best in a rearguard action, but he was not the strongest of the three brothers.
"We aren't sure that the murderer knew Mrs. Teller was dead," Rutledge persisted. "But it appears that all her husband's letters-which she kept in a box in her sitting room-were taken at the same time. He stepped over her once, walked into the house, and stepped over her again, on his way out. It suggests a rather cold-blooded person, in the view of the Yard."
Teller cleared his throat. "What-do you know what sort of weapon was used in the murder?"
Rutledge said, "We aren't releasing that information at the moment." Then, changing his line of questioning without warning, Rutledge asked, "When was your brother promoted to captain?"
"I-as far as I remember, it was shortly before war was declared. They were bringing the regiment up to strength in the event the Kaiser caused any trouble over the situation in the Balkans. You said that Mrs. Teller's husband was in the war?"
"He never came home from France. So I've been led to believe. Which is why we must find his family. His wife's will could very well be among his papers or in the hands of his solicitor."
"We would have no way of knowing who that might be," Teller said shortly. "A pity we can't help you," he added a second time, as an afterthought.
"Which is why I was speaking to your grandmother, in the event she might know more about other branches of the Teller family."
"You didn't tell her of the murder, did you? Damn it, she's nearly eighty years old."
"There was no need to tell her about the murder. She understood that we were looking for information on the other Peter Teller, who is believed to have come from Dorset."
"Make certain you leave it that way." Edwin got up from his desk and came around it, standing face-to-face with Rutledge. "Now if you will show yourself to the door, I have other matters to attend to."
Rutledge crossed to the door and, with his hand on the knob, he said, "I understand that before the war you were often in Scotland building private boats. I wonder if in your comings and goings you might have stopped off in Lancashire or walked in that vicinity. It's said to be a very popular spot for walking."
Edwin, alarmed, said, "I have never been to Hobson in my life. In the first place I was too busy, and the second, because of my health, I always traveled by private rail carriage."
Rutledge thanked him and went out, closing the door behind him.
Hamish was battering at the back of his mind, and as Rutledge cranked his motorcar to continue his rounds, he said, "Ye never telt him yon woman lived in Hobson."
Rutledge pulled the crank, listened to the motor turn over softly, and came around to the driver's side to open his door.
"Interesting, isn't it? That family knows about Florence Teller-I'll give you any odds you like. And who her husband is. But which of the brothers married her? And which of them killed her?"
Leaving London, Rutledge drove to Essex. The telephone could outpace him, but there was still the possibility that whatever the rest of the family knew-or thought they knew-about Florence Teller, their brother Walter had not been a party to it.
Hamish said, "His brothers were fashed wi' him, when he came back."
That was true. They had been very angry. For vanishing, instead of playing his part in whatever was happening during those crucial days?
"Ye ken," Hamish pointed out, "yon doctors believed he'd had a great shock after leaving the bank."
Was that it? Had he been drawn into something that he couldn't face?
But why now? Why had Florence Teller suddenly become a problem, if any of this speculation was true? She had not seen her husband since the war. She thought he was dead. She had lived for years, as far as anyone in Hobson could testify, perfectly quietly in Sunrise Cottage, making no demands on anyone. Who then had felt threatened by her?
"But ye havena' asked the person in the post office if there were ither letters."
He hadn't. It was an important oversight. The only excuse was, at that early stage of the inquiry, he hadn't been sure who Peter Teller really was. A member of the family that Chief Superintendent Bowles had demanded that he treat with circumspection and courtesy, or an outsider who happened in a bizarre twist of fate to be christened with the name of Peter.
That rosewood box-what had it contained besides letters from a soldier on the other side of the world to a lonely wife waiting for him to be given another leave? A will? An exchange of correspondence of a different sort that had gone unnoticed in a tiny village like Hobson where the business of everyone was everyone's business? Hardly likely.
"There's the ither town…"
And Hamish was right, there was Thielwald. But how would Florence Teller have got there and back, to fetch her mail? It was too far to walk.
Still, the farmer with the sick ram might occasionally have given her a lift.
Rutledge couldn't accept that the woman he'd seen lying dead on a table in Dr. Blake's office was a blackmailer.
"Or ye do na' wish to believe."
The main road forked, and Rutledge followed the sign to Repton. Not five miles on, he came to the turning into Witch Hazel Farm.
As the drive meandered toward the house, it passed a bed of handsome roses just now in their prime that gave off a sweet perfume in the warm air and filled the car with their spicy scent all the way to the door of the house.
He lifted the knocker and let it fall. After a moment or two Mollie, the housekeeper, answered the door.
"Mr. Teller, please. Inspector Rutledge to see him."
"Inspector." She repeated the word cautiously. "I'll see if he's in," she said finally and disappeared, leaving him to admire the white roses in stone tubs by the door. They hadn't been here when last he called, he thought.
Mollie had come back, and she led him to the study, whose windows looked out toward the drive. Teller had seen him coming, Rutledge suspected.
Walter Teller was sitting in a chair, an open book in his lap, and he said as Rutledge came in, "One of my brothers has disappeared?"
It was dark humor, not intended as a jest.
He offered Rutledge a chair and then went on, "Do people always suspect the worst when a policema
n knocks at their door? Or do you sometimes bring joy in your wake?"
"We seldom have the opportunity to bring joy. But yes, sometimes."
"Did you come from London? May I offer you some refreshment?"
"Yes, I drove here from London. And no thank you."
Teller marked his place, closed his book, and set it to one side, as if preparing himself.
Rutledge said, "There's been a murder, and I'm trying to find the family of a man who died in the war. They may be able to cast some light on the last wishes of the victim and who is to inherit."
Teller frowned. "A death in Repton? Why wasn't I told?" He got to his feet. "I'll come at once."
Rutledge said, "Not here in Repton, no. The man I'm after is Lieutenant Peter Teller-"
Walter Teller had turned at his words and walked to the window.
"The only Peter Teller I'm aware of is my brother. And he survived the war." There was a silence, and when Rutledge didn't carry on, Teller said tensely, "Who was murdered? Surely you can tell me that."
"A woman in Lancashire, by the name of Florence Teller."
"Flor-" He broke off. And then, as if the words were torn from him, he said, "I don't know anyone by that name, I'm sorry."
"But I think you do," Rutledge said. "Your brothers know who she was."
Teller wheeled. "Don't lie to me. Ask me what you want to ask, and get out of here. But don't lie." His face was ravaged, aged.
"I'm not lying. I've just come from asking them the same questions. And while they deny all knowledge of this woman or the Peter Teller who married her, there's something they're both concealing, and Edwin Teller's wife, Amy, as well."
"I don't believe you. It's a ruse, and I'm not stupid, Rutledge. Get out of here. I won't hear any more of this."
"You aren't even curious about how Florence Teller died?"
Rutledge could see that he was torn between asking and giving himself away.
Finally he said, "I don't know her. I'm sorry to hear that she has died, but I can do nothing about it. I hope you find the husband you're looking for."
Standing his ground, Rutledge said, "She was struck over the head and left lying in her own doorway for two days until someone passing by the house happened to see her there and called the police. It's a murder inquiry, Mr. Teller, and you'd be wise to tell me what you know."
