The Red Door

“No. The dead woman’s name was Florence Teller. She lived in Lancashire.” He watched her face and then said, “There’s the matter of a will. We can’t seem to locate one, and it’s rather important that we do. We need to know her wishes in regard to her burial as well as the disposition of her property. That could lead us to her murderer.”

“You’d better come into the sitting room,” she told him and led the way to a small, very feminine parlor with a desk and several comfortable chairs. “You think her husband’s family might have killed her for her property?” she went on when they were seated.

“We won’t know, will we, until we find the will and contact them.”

“What about her own famiy?”

“Sadly she had none.”

“And—and there were no children to the marriage?”

“A son,” he said, and she bit her lip.

“Doesn’t he know where the will might be?”

“We have no way of asking him that.”

“He wasn’t—was he harmed when his mother was killed?”

“He wasn’t in the house at the time.”

She nodded. “Of course you would need to find her will. But I’m afraid I don’t know any other Peter Teller. Which doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Or half a dozen of them for that matter.”

“We wondered—forgive me, but the police must consider all possibilities—if perhaps this Peter Teller was not an—er—recognized member of the family.”

Amy stared at him. “Are you suggesting that my husband—or his brothers—might have a child out of wedlock? But you met Edwin, and he’s the eldest. It’s not possible that he could have had a child old enough to serve in the war.” She was deliberately misconstruing his words.

“It would have been his father, I should think,” he corrected her patiently.

She laughed outright. “You never met the man. I could believe Edwin had an affair before I could see his father with another woman.”

“You knew the man when he was older and had grown children. You can’t judge what he might or might not have done as a young man. These things happen in the best families.”

Amy shook her head. “He could have matched Prince Albert in rectitude,” she told him, and then suddenly seemed to realize that she had closed a door that the police were willing to walk through. Rutledge could almost read her thoughts as they flicked across her face. And he wasn’t surprised when after a moment she said, “Of course, you’re right. I can’t say with certainty.”

“Perhaps your grandmother might be in a position to know.”

“Gran?” she all but squeaked in her astonishment. “But she’s—I mean to say, you couldn’t possibly expect a woman of her age and her diminished mental capacity to remember something like that.”

She was right. But then, as if to prove her wrong after all, the sitting room door opened, and the elder Mrs. Teller stepped in, her face anxious.

“Amy, dear, has that awful woman gone—” She stopped, frowned, and then said, “Oh. It’s that handsome young man I was telling Edwin about. The one who came to call last evening.” Crossing the room with the aplomb of a duchess, she held out her hand. “How nice of you to come again.”

Amy said, “Gran . . .”

But Mrs. Teller was seating herself in the chair next to Rutledge and saying, “Are you staying for luncheon, Mr. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes were suddenly filled with tears. “I am so sorry. I can’t recall your name. I have troubles with names sometimes. It’s a terrible affliction, getting old.”

“Rutledge, Ian Rutledge,” he told her, omitting his title.

“Ah yes, Mr. Rutledge.” She smiled, the tears vanishing. “It’s so nice to see you again,” she repeated. “You’ve met Amy, I see. She’s my favorite granddaughter. Of course, I love Jenny as well. Everyone loves Jenny. Have you met Jenny? She’s Walter’s wife.”

“Do you have a granddaughter by the name of Florence? She was married to the man I was looking to find last night.” Amy was about to protest, but he glanced at her, warning her not to interfere. “The other Peter Teller.”

“There’s only one Peter, dear,” she told him. “Our Peter. A very brave man during the war, you know. Decorated and all that. But his leg is bad, he walks with a cane.”

“I was thinking perhaps that your son—Peter’s father—might have had a child. By someone else. And that son was also called Peter.”

“Peter’s father? Oh, no, dear, that’s not likely. The Teller men are extraordinarily faithful. It’s part of their charm. They love only once. Besides,” she said as she glanced at Amy’s stricken face, “it would be bad form to name a child on the wrong side of the blanket for one of your own. It brings bad luck, you see. Like a curse, you know. One of them will surely die.”

Rutledge’s eyes met Amy’s. “One of them has,” he said. “In the war.”

He stood up, adding, “I’ve taken enough of your time. I’d like to speak to Mr. Edwin Teller, if I may. And then I must go.”

Amy was on the point of saying that her husband was resting, when Mrs. Teller said brightly, “I saw him stepping into the study as I was coming here. Shall I take you to him?”