The Red Door

“Your brother felt it had enough to do with your family that he attended her funeral yesterday.”

The two women, their quarrel forgotten, were giving him their undivided attention now.

“Which brother?” Leticia demanded finally. “It’s the first I’ve heard of this. Not Peter, surely?”

“Edwin Teller. As we haven’t yet been able to locate her husband’s relations, he felt it was his duty to represent the Teller family there.”

“Was Amy with him?” Leticia asked as Mary’s voice cut across hers.

“Duty?”

“There’s damning evidence piling up against Peter Teller,” he told them. “I have a shard of cane in my motorcar, part of the murder weapon, if I’m not mistaken. I have not seen your brother use a cane since I’ve met him. But I’m sure Sergeant Biggin in London will remember if there was one before I came on the scene. A witness saw what we believe was your brother’s motorcar in front of the victim’s house the day she died, and then watched a lame man matching your brother’s description hobbling out to crank it and drive away in some haste. He was angry—upset, according to the witness. And if we take a sample of your brother’s handwriting, I’m sure it will match the signature in the records of St. Bartholomew’s Church in Hobson, where Florence Marshall and Peter Teller were married. For that matter, I could bring a dozen or more witnesses from Hobson, who knew Teller well enough to recognize him if they saw him now.”

Leticia said, “Then why haven’t your arrested him?”

“There are one or two loose ends to tie up. For instance, when you were in Portsmouth looking for your brother Walter, where was Peter?”

“He was with Edwin,” she said immediately. “They went together. To share the driving, since both of them have had health problems. It was agreed.”

“But that makes very little sense. The four of you left Jenny Teller in London, at the clinic alone. Why didn’t Peter, since he found it so difficult to drive, stay with her and cope with the police? Cambridge was not so great a distance for Edwin.”

“We did what we thought was most useful. We might well have found Walter, if he’d left London. We were fairly sure we would. And Peter was there to spell Edwin, if he were too tired to carry on.” Leticia’s eyes were hard.

“Peter couldn’t have been in two places at once,” he pointed out. “I suggest to you that he went to Lancashire under cover of his brother’s disappearance, because he knew Walter would try to stop him. Whether Edwin knew at the time what it was Peter was intending to do, I can’t say. But it would explain, very well, why Edwin felt compelled to attend Florence Teller’s funeral. It wasn’t a kind gesture to another of his name; it was a guilty conscience because he lied to protect Peter.”

Mary said with interest, “You’ve worked out all the details. But what if they aren’t true? What if it’s all circumstantial evidence? It could be, you know. I’ve known Peter for a good many years. I can’t believe he would have married someone else when he was so devoted to Susannah. That’s the human evidence, Mr. Rutledge. However beautiful or exotic or wealthy or socially prominent this woman was, he was waiting to marry Susannah.”

“She was none of those things.”

“And that may be the key. An opportunist. Perhaps he met her on a walking tour. And there was a child. He might have had no choice but to marry her. But this child,” Leticia added. “He’s older than Harry? Or was he never born, because he didn’t exist? What’s become of him?”

“He was the elder. He’s dead.”

“Well, then,” she countered, “if the child is dead, there was no longer a tie. He would have divorced the woman as soon as he uncovered her lie.”

“We have it on good authority that he was still involved with Florence Teller until the war. I don’t think he could make up his mind.”

Mary said, “I’m glad I stayed. This is nonsense, but it will upset Jenny no end. She’s very fond of Peter and Susannah.” She turned to Leticia. “We’re all invited to the farm, to celebrate Jenny’s birthday on Friday. It’s going to be a very uncomfortable state of affairs.”

“I must contact our solicitor. The time to stop this ridiculous business is now, before the police act on what they consider their ‘evidence.’ Thank you for your information, Inspector. I hope you will come to your senses and realize that you are about to take a step that will seriously jeopardize your career. I suggest you look into the background of this woman. The solution to her murder is there. Not with my family.”

He accepted his dismissal. There was other information he needed to collect now. A. P. Repton for one. That would explain why Florence Teller had never tried to contact Peter through the Army or at his London house at the war’s end.

Rutledge stopped in Cambridge and asked the porter at King’s for information about one Benjamin Larkin.

The porter looked him up and down. “And who might be inquiring about one of our young gentlemen, sir?”

“Rutledge, Scotland Yard.” Rutledge produced his identification, and the porter scanned it closely.