The Red Door

It was nine o’clock when Rutledge reached Bolingbroke Street and knocked on the door of Peter Teller’s house.

The housemaid who had admitted him before took him this time to the study and left him to stare at the books lining the walls as hunting trophies stared back with glassy eyes. Even though it was a warm day, the doors into the garden were closed.

Peter Teller came in shortly afterward, and Rutledge noted that he was sober, although he looked very tired. And he was limping heavily, walking without crutches or cane. He regarded Rutledge with a mixture of surprise and apprehension but said only, “Don’t tell me my tiresome brother has gone missing again?”

“As far as I know, he’s in Essex and safe as houses. No, I’ve come to speak to you this time. About a murder in Lancashire.”

There was a sudden strain in Peter Teller’s face. “I don’t know why anything in Lancashire should concern me. Certainly not a murder.”

“The interesting thing is that the victim was married to a Peter Teller.”

Teller’s lips tightened. “I’m sure she was. But she was not married to me.”

“Are you aware of another Peter Teller in your family?”

“Are you aware of all the Rutledges in England who may or may not be related to you?” he countered.

“I have only to match the dates of your leaves with your namesake’s appearances in Hobson. It may take some time, but it can be done.”

“Then come back and talk to me when you’ve done that.”

Rutledge considered the man. Was it bluster, or was he speaking the truth? If he had to guess, it was a little of both. The question was, where did the truth end and the lies begin?

Hamish said in Rutledge’s ear, “And who in Lancashire will remember the exact dates?”

In truth, someone had removed the letters that might go a long way toward proving those dates.

Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of inheritance after all, but of a man’s handwriting.

But why kill Florence Teller now, when the secret had been kept safe all these years?

“Don’t stare at me like that,” Teller said irritably. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about. Pray, who is this woman I’m said to have married?”

“Florence Teller, née Marshall.”

“And she married a Peter Teller.”

“Lieutenant Peter Teller. A career Army officer who was posted all over the empire at various times. As, I believe, you were.”

“My grandfather—you have only to ask my grandmother—was a man who liked women. How do I know that your Lieutenant Peter Teller isn’t one of his bastards?”

“I did speak to your grandmother. Last night. It appears her side of the family came from Dorset, not the Tellers. They were an Essex family. As your brother is now.”

That shook Teller. “Indeed.” He strove to recover and said, “You had no business speaking to my grandmother without Edwin or I being in attendance. Her mind is slipping .”

“It was clear enough on the important issue, last night.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Rutledge.”

“I daresay we could compare the handwriting where that Peter Teller signed the church register to yours. There’s your desk, if you care to write a brief sample for me. And then I’ll take my leave.”

“I’m writing down nothing. I’ll speak to my solicitor about this business. We’ll see what he has to say. Because I’m innocent, you know. And I won’t be dragged into another man’s folly, just because I share a similar name.”

He gestured to the door. “I think you ought to leave now. I’ve made my position clear. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

Rutledge left. But as he was shutting the door, he glanced back into the study.

Peter Teller was dragging his bad leg in the direction of the whisky decanter on a tray by the desk.

If Peter Teller was at home, the chances were his brother Edwin had returned as well.

Rutledge left his motorcar outside the Captain’s house in Boling-broke Street and walked the short distance to Marlborough Street.

Amy Teller was at her door, just bidding a woman good-bye. She was on the point of shutting the door after her guest, when she happened to see Rutledge coming toward her down the pavement.

She froze, uncertain what to do, and finally as the motorcar with her guest inside drove away, she called to him, “I didn’t expect to see you again, Inspector. What have we done now?”

He smiled. He’d had time to do some thinking on his walk, and he said, “I hope, nothing. No, it’s information I’m after.” He’d reached the steps to the house door, and she moved aside to let him enter the cool hall.

“There’s been a murder,” he began and watched her eyes widen at the words. “No one you know, I shouldn’t think. But she happened to be married to a Peter Teller, who died in the war. We’re in search of any family he might have had, here in London or perhaps in Dorset.”

“Edwin has cousins in Dorset. On his mother’s side.” She hesitated. “Does—Was the murder in Dorset?”