The Red Door

Teller marked his place, closed his book, and set it to one side, as if preparing himself.

Rutledge said, “There’s been a murder, and I’m trying to find the family of a man who died in the war. They may be able to cast some light on the last wishes of the victim and who is to inherit.”

Teller frowned. “A death in Repton? Why wasn’t I told?” He got to his feet. “I’ll come at once.”

Rutledge said, “Not here in Repton, no. The man I’m after is Lieutenant Peter Teller—”

Walter Teller had turned at his words and walked to the window.

“The only Peter Teller I’m aware of is my brother. And he survived the war.” There was a silence, and when Rutledge didn’t carry on, Teller said tensely, “Who was murdered? Surely you can tell me that.”

“A woman in Lancashire, by the name of Florence Teller.”

“Flor—” He broke off. And then, as if the words were torn from him, he said, “I don’t know anyone by that name, I’m sorry.”

“But I think you do,” Rutledge said. “Your brothers know who she was.”

Teller wheeled. “Don’t lie to me. Ask me what you want to ask, and get out of here. But don’t lie.” His face was ravaged, aged.

“I’m not lying. I’ve just come from asking them the same questions. And while they deny all knowledge of this woman or the Peter Teller who married her, there’s something they’re both concealing, and Edwin Teller’s wife, Amy, as well.”

“I don’t believe you. It’s a ruse, and I’m not stupid, Rutledge. Get out of here. I won’t hear any more of this.”

“You aren’t even curious about how Florence Teller died?”

Rutledge could see that he was torn between asking and giving himself away.

Finally he said, “I don’t know her. I’m sorry to hear that she has died, but I can do nothing about it. I hope you find the husband you’re looking for.”

Standing his ground, Rutledge said, “She was struck over the head and left lying in her own doorway for two days until someone passing by the house happened to see her there and called the police. It’s a murder inquiry, Mr. Teller, and you’d be wise to tell me what you know.”

“I can prove I have not left this house since my wife and I returned from London. Now get out.”

“It happened while you went missing from the clinic. Your brothers and your sister are unaccounted for as well. You may have been sleeping in churches or you may not have. They may have been searching in Cambridge and Cornwall and Portsmouth. Or they may not have. Unless I can find this Lieutenant Teller and prove beyond a doubt that he is no connection of yours, I have no choice but to consider you all as suspects in Mrs. Teller’s murder.”

Walter Teller crossed the room, took up the book from the table beside his chair, and in one motion, heaved it at Rutledge.

It missed his head by inches and clattered against the door before falling hard to the floorboards.

“I’ll assume that was a reflection of your distress,” Rutledge told him coldly. “But I’ll advise you now never to try that again.”

And he opened the door and left the study.

As he walked out of the house, shutting the outer door behind him as well, Hamish said to Rutledge, “He kens the lass.”

“But did he kill her?”

Back in London, Rutledge was met with a message left at the Yard by Edwin Teller.

He drove to Marlborough Street and found Teller waiting for him in the study.

Teller said, without preamble, “I’ve sent for you because I need to know when this woman will be buried?”

“I’ve given permission for the body to be released,” Rutledge said and watched Teller wince at the word body. “I should think services will be held in Hobson tomorrow or the next day.”

“I should like to attend.”

Teller saw the surprise on Rutledge’s face and said, “She was married to a man by the name of Teller, is that not so?”

“As far as we know.”

“And you haven’t found his family, I take it.”

“No.”

“Then I feel honor bound, as the present head of the family, to be there when she is interred. As a gesture. You may discover that her husband has no connection to my family. It’s what I expect. But I have a duty all the same.”

“Then be there day after tomorrow. If you are serious about this.”

“I’ve never been more so. But I shall also tell you in no uncertain terms that it is a duty on my part, entered into freely. And it has nothing to do with her life or her death. It is merely a show of respect.”

“I understand,” Rutledge said, and he thought he very likely did. But he thought there might be as well a measure of curiosity mixed in with that sense of duty.

And he wondered who else might decide to come to Hobson out of curiosity.

Rutledge was driving back to the Yard and was nearly there, when he saw a woman walking along the street and stopping at the next corner to cross over. She looked up at the same time, and he realized it was Susannah Teller.

Pulling over just beyond the crossing, he said, “Mrs. Teller?”

“Mr. Rutledge? I was just on my way to see you.”

“Let me drive you the rest of the way,” he said. “Or would you prefer to talk to me somewhere else?”

“Perhaps we could walk to the bridge. What I have to say is—rather private.”