The Red Door

Aylesford, with its handsome narrow bridge and narrower twisting streets, was a pretty little town on the Medway. The house Rutledge was seeking was within sight of the church. It was a Tudor building almost as narrow as it was tall.

He knocked at the door and was received by an elderly man in rusty black, his long face wrinkled with age and exposure to the sun.

Rutledge identified himself and explained his errand.

Mr. Forester, it seemed, was the secretary of the Society and handled all correspondence for it. The Alcock, he informed Rutledge, had been founded in the early part of the nineteenth century, and since that time had been very well supported by patrons who believed in the Society’s work and its attempt to bring enlightenment to the forgotten parts of the world. Victoria herself had visited the tiny headquarters before she had succeeded to the throne, and above the hearth there was a small painting of the event done by Forester’s predecessor. He pointed it out proudly and invited Rutledge to admire it.

He asked Rutledge to join him for tea, and they sat in the parlor on chairs Rutledge was certain the great Elizabeth would have recognized, with straight backs and seats hard as iron, discussing the Society’s aims and goals and record.

“And Walter Teller?”

“He was always reliable, a steady man who was able to find common ground with the local people and work with them in projects designed to better their lives. A school, for instance, or a new well, or a market that attracted commerce to the area. Very practical things, you might say, but through them, people could be persuaded to find worth in Christianity and turn their thoughts to conversion.”

“I understand,” Rutledge said, “that you’ve only recently written to Mr. Teller.”

“Yes. In fact, I have a copy there in my desk. I keep meticulous copies of all correspondence. My records are excellent.” He set aside his cup and went to the desk, where he found the folder he wanted and brought it back to his chair.

“Let me see.” He thumbed through several sheets before finding the one he was after. “Here it is. Mr. Teller has been some years out of the field—his book, of course, and then the war—and we are experiencing a little difficulty in finding good men to send to established missions, much less new ones.” He looked up at Rutledge. “Sadly, the world has changed now. Before the war, there was a fervor for service.

We’ve grown sadly bitter and tired these past two years. Our missionaries are older, on the point of retiring. We’d like to see Mr. Teller return to the field. Indeed, it is more than like—there is need.”

“And has he responded to your call for serving?”

“Not so far. But you told me earlier that he’d been ill. Perhaps that has been the reason?”

“Possibly,” Rutledge replied, evading a direct answer. “It’s Mr. Teller’s illness that has brought me here. The doctors are at a loss to explain it. He seems deeply troubled by something. The family can think of nothing that would have provoked a sudden and unusual attack of paralysis.”

Mr. Forester looked steadily at Rutledge. “And this has required the attention of Scotland Yard?”

Rutledge smiled. “In fact, Mr. Teller has had a miraculous recovery, and he disappeared from the clinic. I’ve been in charge of the search for him.”

Forester shook his head. “This is very odd. I’d have never thought of Walter Teller experiencing a collapse of any kind. I do know he is very attached to his son. An only child, as I recall.”

“That’s correct.”

“And nothing has happened to the boy?”

“He’s on the point of going to public school.”

“How the years fly. I remember when he was born, how proud Mr. Teller was of him, all the plans he spoke of. I have had the strongest suspicion that he didn’t return to the field because of the boy. I can appreciate that, having had a son of my own late in life. The wonder of watching him grow was precious beyond words.” Something in his voice as he spoke the last words alerted Rutledge.

“He was in the war?”

“Yes, how did you guess? He was lost on the Somme. I have long wanted to go to France to see his grave. But that’s not to be. I’m too old for such a journey now.” Clearing his throat, he said, “But to return to Walter Teller. I shan’t expect an answer any time soon. I’m grateful to know the circumstances. The Society has need of him. I hope his recovery will be complete.”

Rutledge thanked him and left.

On the drive back into London, Rutledge gave some thought to Walter Teller’s relationship to his son, and then stopped at Frances’s house.

David Trevor was in the garden, enjoying the late evening breezes before the sun went down, and looked up with a smile when he saw his godson walk through the French doors and across the terrace.

“Ian. You’ve had a long day. Frances told me you’d gone back to the Yard.”

Rutledge smiled, and took the chair across from Trevor’s. “How are you feeling?”