The Red Door

“Frances, this is Jake. The bird is presently a ward of the court. Sergeant Gibson has already cursed my offspring, my hope of promotion, and my mental capacity. And so it’s here. But you’re right, I don’t have time to care for it properly. You do. Would you like to be its guardian for the next several days?”

“Ian, you must be out of your mind. What am I to do with a bird?”

“That’s exactly what Sergeant Gibson said to me. Although he called me Inspector Rutledge. You have a lovely window looking out onto the gardens. It would be very happy there. And all you have to do is feed it, water it, and—er—keep the newspapers at the bottom of the cage fresh.”

She had come over to the cage. The bird was sitting on a swing, regarding her with a fixed gaze, then it blinked and ducked its head down in a shy motion.

“I think it’s flirting with me,” she told her brother, laughing. “Look.”

Rutledge had wisely stepped aside. “Yes, I think it actually is.”

The bird ducked its head down again, and Frances touched the wires of the cage with her fingers. “Does it talk?”

“I’ve heard it say good night. That’s all. So far.”

“Pretty birdie,” she said lightly, and then, “Good morning, Jake.”

To her surprise, Jake sidled over to her fingers and tucked his head down close to them. “I think he wants to be petted.” She moved her fingers through the wire and touched his feathers, first on his shoulder and then his bent head. “He likes it.” She was smiling with that fondness women reserve for small children and baby animals. “Oh, you are a sweet boy.”

Rutledge had been on the point of warning her to watch the bird’s beak but stopped just in time.

Hamish said, “Ye ken, it belonged to a woman.”

Jake was leaning into Frances’s fingers, clearly enjoying the personal contact. Then it shook itself and flew to the door of the cage.

“He wants to come out.”

“Not on your life,” Rutledge told her.

“But, Ian . . .” She was already unclasping the cage latch, and she put her hand in. The bird hopped on her fingers like a hawk perching on a falconer’s glove. Frances lifted her hand out of the cage, then held it in the air, looking at Jake. They stared at each other, and then he flew to her shoulder, moving back and forth across it in a bobbing motion.

“If men were as malleable as this,” she said, smiling at her brother, “women would be happy as larks.”

“Frances,” he began.

“No. I can’t imagine having to mind it all day. No.”

“It likes you. Look at the feathers in the bottom of his cage. He’s been plucking them out. I think in mourning. His owner is dead. But he likes you. And he may be a witness. Who knows? I need to see to it that he’s safe and comfortable.”

“Do you think he saw a murder? Is that it?”

“I doubt if he did. But it’s possible that someone might confess, if the killer thought Jake knew something.”

She held up two fingers, and Jake stepped passively on them.

“No, don’t put him back. Not until I’ve cleaned out those newspapers.”

Frances talked quietly to the bird as her brother worked. Jake cocked his head, as if trying to understand, then ducked it for more petting.

“Was his owner a woman?”

“Yes. He lived with her for quite a few years. They must have grown close.” He thought of that touching good night that Jake must have heard week in and week out.

“I believe he understands that I’m not his mistress, but he knows I’m a woman.”

“The woman who had temporary care of him threatened to wring his neck. He was screeching like a wild thing.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Will you take him? If only for a few days?”

Frances took a deep breath. “I will not keep him, Ian. Are we clear on that? But I’ll take him for your few days.”

“Wonderful. Er—why was it you stopped by?”

“For one thing, David and little Ian arrived home safely. I thought you’d like to know.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“And,” she went on, “I must admit, I miss the company. I came to see if you could arrange a few days of leave. We might go down to Cornwall or somewhere for a bit. Just to get away. And now I’m saddled with a parrot.” But she smiled wryly.

Rutledge had cleaned the bottom of the cage and put in fresh newspaper. Washing his hands, he said, “It won’t be for long. I promise you. As for leave, it’s just not possible at the moment. In fact, I’m driving north again this morning. I can’t say with any certainty when I’ll come back.”

He followed her back to her house and settled Jake in the breakfast room, where sunlight, breaking through the clouds, promised a better day. Through an open window, the scent of roses came wafting by on the light breeze.

Jake bobbed as he gazed with interest out the open window.

“Roses,” he said, quite clearly.

“His owner,” Rutledge told Frances, “had a garden outside the kitchen windows. This must remind him of his home.”

“It was a verra’ clever thing to do, bringing him here,” Hamish said.

Rutledge left his sister coaxing Jake to speak to her, crooning softly and letting her fingers brush the bird’s feathers.

He was very grateful to make his escape before she changed her mind.