The Red Door

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.