The Red Door

A woman’s low voice said, “The police said you weren’t here. But I knew you were. Do you think you can make amends to her? Or is this sackcloth and ashes too late?”

Rutledge strained his ears. Was it Susannah? Hamish disagreed.

“Sanctuary. Of a sort. That’s all.”

“Men like Rutledge don’t walk away. He’ll find you here.”

“Well. I’ll think of somewhere else to go. I’ve lived rougher than this. At least the roof is sound, and I have a bed. Though I couldn’t sleep in it. I made myself a pallet on the floor, next to Timmy’s bed. I slept there many a night when he had croup or a heavy cold. It was familiar.”

“Did you love him more than Harry?”

“I didn’t know Harry. Even though I was there with him as he grew. Timmy kept getting in my way. I’d see his smile in the way Harry’s lips quirked. The shrug of a shoulder—the way he’d kick a football. Even the way he sometimes talked with his mouth full and the way a lick of hair stood up straight after a nap. God, how I tried.”

“And Jenny? Did you love her as much as you loved Florence? Or are you unable to love anyone but yourself?”

“What difference does it make to you? Yes, I thought I was in love with Florence—I was young, I wanted the world, and she thought I was everything I wanted to be. I could see myself in her eyes. Better than my father’s, surely.”

There was a silence, and he said, “Jenny knew nothing about Timmy. It was a relief to talk to her—to pretend this part of my past didn’t exist. And then I couldn’t bear not to come here and remember. You saw through me. You always have known the kind of man I was. It was like looking into my mirror, when I was with you.”

“Yes. Well. It all came crashing down. You brought it down, you know. Wittingly or unwittingly.”

“You haven’t told me. Why did you come?” he asked.

“I brought you something.”

“That’s Peter’s revolver.”

“I thought you might like to die as Peter Teller. This Peter Teller.”

“I won’t hang, and I won’t shoot myself. I disappeared before, and I can do it again. You heard Gran—what she said will still be enough to hang me about the laudanum.”

“I was angry enough with you to want to see you hang,” she said. “I could have told them it was nonsense about the laudanum. She could tolerate it perfectly well, mixed with warmed milk. I don’t know why she was ill that other time. She might have had a miscarriage for all I knew.”

“Why the hell didn’t you speak up and tell Jessup what you knew?”

“Why should I make life easier for you? It would be best, really, if you just went away, but the police will find you in the end. Harry will do very well with Amy and Edwin to care for him. Put the barrel in your mouth and simply pull the trigger. Like this.”

“You’re wrong about me. I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Of course you didn’t. I did it for you.”

Even from where he was standing, Rutledge could hear the hiss of Walter Teller’s indrawn breath.

“It sorted out everything very nicely. Jenny died knowing she was safe and loved. Peter was the last connection with Lancashire. You of all people should appreciate the logic of that. After all, everything pointed to him. And it left Harry as the Teller heir, and that was all everyone cared about. If you’re honest, you’ll agree with me.”

“Were you that jealous? I wasn’t aware of it.”

“That’s because you’re selfish and self-absorbed. So do the decent thing and get it over with. I loved you once—single-mindedly, blindly—but I was misled like everyone else. And now I’ve come to my senses.”

“No. I won’t touch that gun. In the morning, I’m going back to Essex. There’s nothing left for me here.”

“Are you so afraid to die?” she asked pityingly. “Well, then. I’ll take care of that for you as well. My last gift.”

And before Rutledge could move, the revolver fired. Through the echo, Rutledge heard a slight cough, then the sound of a body hitting the floor.

He reached the dining room in time to see Mary Brittingham standing over Walter Teller, the revolver down by her side, tears on her face shining in the light of the candle.

“Put down the weapon and step away from him,” Rutledge said, his voice sharp.

She looked up, startled, so intent on the man lying at her feet that she hadn’t heard Rutledge coming toward her.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “I’d have left him for them to find. They’d never have realized he hadn’t killed himself.”

Reaching Teller, he went down on one knee, feeling for a pulse. It was faint, fluttering. Rutledge swore silently. He shoved his handkerchief into the wound in Teller’s chest, pressing against the warm flow of blood, willing it to stop. As the handkerchief was soaked, he flung out his other hand, trying to find something else to add to it. And Mary reached for the table’s cloth and was down beside him, frantically adding the pressure of her hands to his.

They worked for several minutes, but Walter Teller’s breathing slowed, caught, then stopped altogether.

Rutledge rocked back on his heels, easing his shoulders.

“No—don’t stop,” Mary cried.