by Charles Todd
"I can prove I have not left this house since my wife and I returned from London. Now get out."
"It happened while you went missing from the clinic. Your brothers and your sister are unaccounted for as well. You may have been sleeping in churches or you may not have. They may have been searching in Cambridge and Cornwall and Portsmouth. Or they may not have. Unless I can find this Lieutenant Teller and prove beyond a doubt that he is no connection of yours, I have no choice but to consider you all as suspects in Mrs. Teller's murder."
Walter Teller crossed the room, took up the book from the table beside his chair, and in one motion, heaved it at Rutledge.
It missed his head by inches and clattered against the door before falling hard to the floorboards.
"I'll assume that was a reflection of your distress," Rutledge told him coldly. "But I'll advise you now never to try that again."
And he opened the door and left the study.
As he walked out of the house, shutting the outer door behind him as well, Hamish said to Rutledge, "He kens the lass."
"But did he kill her?"
Back in London, Rutledge was met with a message left at the Yard by Edwin Teller.
He drove to Marlborough Street and found Teller waiting for him in the study.
Teller said, without preamble, "I've sent for you because I need to know when this woman will be buried?"
"I've given permission for the body to be released," Rutledge said and watched Teller wince at the word body. "I should think services will be held in Hobson tomorrow or the next day."
"I should like to attend."
Teller saw the surprise on Rutledge's face and said, "She was married to a man by the name of Teller, is that not so?"
"As far as we know."
"And you haven't found his family, I take it."
"No."
"Then I feel honor bound, as the present head of the family, to be there when she is interred. As a gesture. You may discover that her husband has no connection to my family. It's what I expect. But I have a duty all the same."
"Then be there day after tomorrow. If you are serious about this."
"I've never been more so. But I shall also tell you in no uncertain terms that it is a duty on my part, entered into freely. And it has nothing to do with her life or her death. It is merely a show of respect."
"I understand," Rutledge said, and he thought he very likely did. But he thought there might be as well a measure of curiosity mixed in with that sense of duty.
And he wondered who else might decide to come to Hobson out of curiosity.
Rutledge was driving back to the Yard and was nearly there, when he saw a woman walking along the street and stopping at the next corner to cross over. She looked up at the same time, and he realized it was Susannah Teller.
Pulling over just beyond the crossing, he said, "Mrs. Teller?"
"Mr. Rutledge? I was just on my way to see you."
"Let me drive you the rest of the way," he said. "Or would you prefer to talk to me somewhere else?"
"Perhaps we could walk to the bridge. What I have to say is-rather private."
He took her to the Yard, left his motorcar there, and then accompanied her to the river, where a slight, cooling breeze moved across the water.
She paused to look at the river, and he realized she was not more than five feet from where Bynum had been murdered.
"Shall we?" he said, and gestured in the opposite direction.
It seemed that whatever she had to tell him was weighing on her mind, but she was not certain how to begin, or possibly where to begin. He kept in step with her and let her take her time.
Finally she said, "My husband-Peter has told me about this poor woman-in Lancashire, is it? The one who was murdered. And he told me as well that you can't seem to find her husband's family. He was from Dorset, I believe?"
"Apparently, yes. It's what we were told in Hobson."
"Yes, well, I may have an explanation for this mystery." She paused again and watched a small boat pulling upriver. "There was a young subaltern in my husband's regiment. Burrows was his name, and he was from a good family. He had connections to Dorset, but I believe his family lived outside Worcester."
She glanced up at him and looked away again.
"He was a very nice young man. We saw a good bit of him. And I'm afraid my husband and I made fun of him behind his back. It was unkind, but Thomas admired my husband no end. He had no older brothers, and I think he saw Peter as a role model, in a way. And he emulated Peter at every turn. When Peter showed an interest in golf, it became Thomas's enthusiasm. When Peter bought himself a pair of matched blacks to pull his carriage, the next month Thomas sported a pair that was almost identical. Peter grew a mustache, and Thomas must have one as well. Peter shaved his, and soon after, so did Thomas. It would have been very trying, except for the fact that we knew it was harmless."
"And what has this to do with the dead woman in Hobson?"
"I don't know anything at all about Hobson," Susannah Teller said. "But I should imagine it was a very small place, and that the dead woman-"
"Her name," he said, "was Florence."
"-Florence, then. That Florence was not from a wealthy, influential family, however nice she might have been?"
"If you are trying to say she wasn't of his class, she was a school-teacher and not an heiress, although she had property of her own."
"Oh." Her face flushed. "This is difficult enough for me, Inspector. I'm not trying to disparage this-Florence Teller. But I wonder if perhaps Thomas fell in love with her and married her under a false name. Or perhaps felt obligated to marry her, and knew his mother and father would not approve of the match. In fact, they might well have cut him off without a penny. I have no way of guessing his reasons. But he might have been desperate enough to marry her not as Thomas Burrows, the nephew of a member of Parliament and the grandson of a baronet, though the title went to his mother's brother, but as the man he most admired. Peter."
It was, Rutledge thought, as likely to be true as the possibility that her own husband was a bigamist. And possibly a murderer as well.
"I'll look into it. Where is Thomas Burrows now?"
"Lieutenant Burrows died in the war. He was shot leading his men across No Man's Land. Peter saw it happen. By the time Lieutenant Burrows could be brought in, he was dying and never reached an aid post."
"And he never told his family about his marriage? I find that difficult to believe."
"I don't know whether he did or not. But if he did, they surely disowned him. All I can tell you is that Thomas Burrows was a very different man when the war began. The brash young subaltern striving so hard to please ten years before was by that time a very good officer, but he had lost his illusions. About the Army and about himself. He seldom spoke of his family, nothing more was said about the Army as a stepping-stone to his uncle's seat in Parliament."
Her voice rang true, and yet he found it interesting that Susannah Teller had come to tell him this story, and not her husband. But sometimes women were more perceptive than men. They caught undertones and nuances that were lost to male ears, and drew conclusions that depended as much on intuition and instinct as on solid fact.
"Does your husband know that you've come to give me this information?"
She blinked. "You can ask him if you like. About Thomas Burrows. He'll tell you that Thomas did all those things, and perhaps more than even I can recall. But I think he will be less willing to accept the fact that Thomas could have married without his family's knowledge and consent. And yet Peter had to fight for me. I was his cousin on his mother's side, you see. The family was against it from the start. It was very likely that my children would have the same blood disorder that afflicts Edwin. They were right, actually. We lost two before we gave up. It might color his feelings about Thomas, you see. The fact that he never fought for that-for Florence."
And there he knew she was telling the truth. But how much of it?
/> "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 wor
ked. 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.
