The Red Door

But there was nothing in the pack that could have been used for a weapon. And nothing that could have come from Florence Teller’s house. Only spare clothes, a tarp for wet weather, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, a comb, a block of soap, a razor, a book on English wildflowers and another on birds, a heavy bottle for water, and a small sack of dried fruit, biscuits, sweets, and a heel of cheese. Nothing, in fact, that a walker shouldn’t have, and everything he should.

Hamish said, “He could ha’ left behind anything he didna’ want you to see.”

It was true. But the very compactness of the haversack, intended to minimize weight and maximize comfort in a small space, didn’t allow for extras.

Rutledge nodded, asked for his address at Cambridge, and when that was done, thanked him again. Larkin went out the door.

“What do you think?” Inspector Hadden asked, echoing Hamish.

“I’ll ask the Yard to be sure he’s who he says he is. But I expect he’s telling the truth.”

“Was it Teller coming home?” Satterthwaite asked. “If it was, he has money now. I never thought he did before. He had enough that he wasn’t looking to live on Florence’s money from her aunt. But not rich.”

“A good point,” Rutledge acknowledged. “Pass the word to keep an eye on Larkin while he’s in the district. He might be able to identify the driver, if we find him.”

Turning to Satterthwaite, Rutledge said, “Did you look at that hedge around the front of the house? If I wanted to rid myself of a murder weapon, I might consider sticking it deep in there. It’s thick enough.”

Satterthwaite said slowly, “No, we did not. Under it, yes. But we’d have seen anything in the branches, wouldn’t we?”

“It won’t hurt to have another go at it.”

By the time they reached Sunrise Cottage, clouds were building far out over the water, and Satterthwaite, scanning them, said, “Looks like this fine weather is about to break. I’m glad the service was dry.”

Rutledge agreed with him. But he thought they had another hour.

They searched the hedge carefully, together pulling at the thickest parts of it and then letting them fall back into place. Inch by inch, they worked one side and across the front. As they came round to the corner closest to the house, Rutledge had to step into the hedge to make it easier to part the thick branches there, and grunting, Satterthwaite pushed and shoved at them. Rutledge nearly lost his footing and caught the constable’s shoulder to steady himself. He turned to look down.

The earth under the hedge was thick with last winter’s fallen leaves and possibly those of winters before that. They formed a light bed perhaps a good inch or so deep.

Cobb, the schoolmaster, had told Rutledge that since the war, there had been no one but his nephew to help with the farm. And this was proof of it.

“What’s the matter?” Satterthwaite asked as Rutledge knelt to run his fingers through the damp and rotting mass.

He had to dig deep into the soil below, but it was loose enough and damp enough for him to wedge his fingers behind something there.

He found what he was after and pulled it toward him. He could hear the constable’s indrawn breath as he realized what was coming to light.

Not a walking stick as the doctor had first suggested, but the remains of a Malacca cane. Rutledge stood up with it in his hands.

Although filthy, with leaves still clinging to it, it was not an old and rotting thing. It had been hidden here fairly recently, buried just deep enough that a policeman searching among the sparse hedge trunks close to the ground would have seen only what he expected to see—the carpet of leaves. But someone had taken the sharp end and used it to thrust the length of the cane out of sight well below that layer.

“If I hadn’t felt it under my sole, I wouldn’t have thought to dig,” Rutledge said, running his hands along the wood, gently brushing off the debris.

“There’s no head,” Satterthwaite pointed out.

The head had been broken off, and the smooth dark red shaft was still raw where the wood had been splintered.

“It would match the wound in Florence Teller’s head—or at least the murderer thought it might.” He frowned. “It wouldn’t be easy to snap off the head. Rattan palm canes are very strong. There must have been a weakness—where the cane had dried and cracked around the knob that served as a handle.”

“Why leave the rest? Why not take the cane and throw it off a bridge far from here?”

“The killer wouldn’t have wanted to be seen with it in his possession.”

“But if he brought it here—”

“Yes, that’s the point. But it only became a weapon once Florence Teller was killed. Before that it was simply someone’s cane.”

He looked around. The tidy bit of lawn, the flowers on the path, the step and the street door . . . They hadn’t been disturbed.

Hamish said, “The step.”