The Red Door

“I’m glad to hear it.” And he was off, moving briskly through the late afternoon crowds, then crossing the street and disappearing into a shop.

Rutledge watched him go. “I’ll have you yet, my friend,” he said under his breath, then turned back toward the Yard.

Instead he went to Bolingbroke Street and asked to speak to Susannah Teller.

To his surprise, she agreed to see him. The shades were drawn in the sitting room, but even in the dim light Rutledge could see that her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep. Yet he thought she seemed to have found some inner strength to carry her through.

Hamish said, unexpectedly, “Anger.”

Rutledge thought that was very true. For she kept him standing, like a servant.

“I wanted you to know that we’ve released your husband’s body.”

“Thank you. I had a call from Inspector Jessup. I have arranged for the service to be held tomorrow afternoon.”

That was very quick, but he said only, “He didn’t kill anyone, Mrs. Teller. He’s been completely absolved.”

“How nice to know that the rector needn’t mention in his eulogy that Peter was nearly arrested for murder,” she said sardonically.

“If I’d had the whole truth from the start,” he told her, “it might have been different.”

“All I know is, you made his last days a hell on earth. I hope this knowledge will give you nights as sleepless as his were.”

“I expect there are worse burdens on my conscience than this one.”

“Who did kill that woman in Lancashire?” she asked him, unable to stop herself.

He told her, and she said, “Jealousy is a powerful thing.”

“But you weren’t jealous of Florence Teller. After all, there was no need. She wasn’t Peter’s wife.”

“It never troubled me,” she said, still keeping up the lie, “from the time I found out. We had a happy marriage, Peter and I. Whether you believe that or not.”

“Have you asked your solicitor what your rights are, if you persist in this charade? Whether you are in fact the legitimately surviving spouse? Mrs. Teller is dead. Of course, the Captain must have made proper provisions for you in his will.”

That visibly shook her. But she said, “Our solicitors will sort it out.”

“Or perhaps they weren’t informed of the necessity for provisions. Unless your husband changed his will in the last ten days.”

“You’re unbelievably cruel, Inspector. My husband is dead, and so is the woman in Hobson. He can’t be prosecuted for bigamy, and you will only bring public shame on me if you pursue this.”

“Shaming you isn’t my intent, Mrs. Teller. But when people break the law—and there is a law against bigamy, I remind you—there are often repercussions that hurt the innocent. Your husband, for instance, whose name was used by Walter Teller. And Jenny Teller, who—if the truth had come to light—was about to discover that she was no one’s wife and her child illegitimate. It was convenient for both of them to die when they did. Accidentally? Very likely. But if not, I want you to realize that you may also stand in some danger. You’re very angry just now about your husband’s death. Understandably. He bore the brunt of his brother’s misdeeds. And he kept his head and fought me every step of the way. I recognize why, now. All of you are very fond of Harry. And you’re protecting him, not his father. But when you find yourself being denied your rights as the Captain’s widow, you might well see matters very differently. And if you are forced to tell the truth to protect yourself, you will break this wall of silence.”

He could see she hadn’t thought that far ahead, she hadn’t considered the legal repercussions or the danger she might stand in. She replied slowly, as if still thinking through what he’d said, “But you’ve just told me that Peter’s death and Jenny’s were accidents.”

“At this stage, we have to consider them accidental. We haven’t been able to find any proof to the contrary. But they were—providential. You must see that.”

She shook her head. “My murder would bring to light everything that the family has fought so hard to protect.”

He let it go and told her instead, “As for the voices your husband heard in the cottage when he was speaking to Florence Teller, it might well have been the parrot, Jake, that her husband brought her. It speaks sometimes. Mimics may be a better word.”

“I—parrot?”

“Yes. He’s here in London. You can see him for yourself.”

“No. You’re saying I have no grounds to believe Walter or Edwin were already there in the house? Peter was so sure.”

“I think Edwin can prove he was in Cambridge. And Walter was aware you’d discovered his secret. He never left London.”

“Or is this a trick to see to it I withdraw my charge of murder?” she asked suspiciously. “I don’t trust you, either.”

Rutledge smiled. “I don’t ask you to trust me. Just consider what I’ve said.”

He turned to go.

As he reached the door, she stopped him. “What you’re telling me is that you aren’t finished with Walter. And you want me to leave him to you.”