The Red Door

Sunday morning was misty and gray as Rutledge returned to the Yard early. There was a report to write and then preparations to be made for the night’s promenade along the river. He had debated asking for a weapon, to even the odds, and then thought better of it. Sitting in his office, staring out the window and listening to Big Ben chime the hour, Mickelson’s plan seemed workable. But Billy was becoming an accomplished killer now. And in the dark, many things could happen. What had driven the boy to this point in his life? Not that it mattered. He had crossed the boundary; he was going to hang when caught.

Rutledge was just turning around to begin his report when Sergeant Gibson burst into the small office with only a cursory knock.

“I think you’d better know, sir. We’ve just had a telephone call from Essex, sir. There’s been a death at Witch Hazel Farm. The Teller house.”

“What happened?” Rutledge asked, getting to his feet. “When?”

“Someone fell down the stairs. Just before breakfast. Chief Superintendent Bowles isn’t in, nor is Inspector Mickelson. I think, if you hurry, you can be on your way before they arrive. It’s still your inquiry, after all.”

Rutledge reached for his hat. “It will take no more than fifteen minutes to pack a valise.”

He was down the passage and in the stairwell when he remembered the rendezvous with Billy. Mickelson could deal with it.

Sunday morning traffic was light, and he made good time, going directly to the house at Witch Hazel Farm.

The drive was crowded with vehicles, and he could see that the police from Waddington were there, already taking over from the constable in Repton. Dr. Fielding, the Tellers’ Essex physician, was standing by the door in the watery sunlight, an unlit pipe in his hands.

He saw Rutledge pull up and hailed him. “Inspector. Good, you’ve come.”

“I’ve had no briefing,” he told Fielding. “There wasn’t time.”

“It’s Captain Teller. He tripped coming down the stairs this morning.”

“Gentle God,” Rutledge said blankly. And then, “What can you tell me?”

“It was a family weekend. Mrs. Jenny Teller’s birthday. There was a party on Friday, and my wife and I were invited. Rather a nice party, actually. I did notice that Captain Teller was drinking a little more than usual. But he carried it well, there was no disturbance. My wife and I left just before eleven, and that’s all I can tell you until the summons came this morning. Amy Teller called to say there had been an accident and to hurry. But by the time I got here, Captain Teller was dead. Amy Teller was the first to reach him. She said he was alive then. He spoke her name. She distinctly heard him say ‘Mee’ as she bent over him.”

“Considering his injuries, was that possible?”

“I should think so. I’ve examined him as best I can on the floor at the foot of the stairs. I’ll know more when I’ve got him in the surgery. If you want my best opinion at this time, I’d say his bad leg gave way, pitching him down the stairs. According to his brother Edwin, Peter has been avoiding using his cane of late. He may just have paid for his stubbornness with his life.”

Rutledge thanked him and walked into the house.

Captain Teller lay where he’d fallen, his body sprawled at the foot of the stairs, his bad leg still on the first step behind him. Just coming down the passage was a man of slender build with a pockmarked face.

“Good morning. Who let you in? There should have been a constable on the door.”

“My name is Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I believe someone sent for me, since I was just involved in Walter Teller’s disappearance.”

“Inspector Jessup. Waddington.” They shook hands. “Disappearance? When was this? I wasn’t told about it.”

“You wouldn’t have been. It happened in London, and Teller returned unharmed, after giving his wife a hellish four days of worry.”

“Indeed. Well, this one—Captain Peter Teller—fell down the stairs, as you can see. He’s quite lame, I’m told, and wasn’t using his cane, as he should have done. Straightforward. Accidental death. A waste of the Yard’s time.”

Rutledge said nothing, kneeling by the dead man, close enough now to smell the stale whisky on his skin and in his hair.

“He was drinking. Last night, I should think. It wouldn’t have helped him manage the stairs,” he commented, straightening up. “What does the family have to say?”

“They’re in the breakfast room. I haven’t interviewed them. Mrs. Susannah Teller, the victim’s wife, insisted that we touch nothing until you’d arrived.” Rutledge could tell that Jessup wasn’t especially happy to be second-guessed by the Yard. Not in what he clearly believed was an accidental death on his patch.

And Rutledge would have agreed with him, if it weren’t for the other case in Lancashire. A fall down the stairs was easier to face than the hangman, and Teller had been drinking enough of late to indicate something was troubling him.

“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Susannah Teller in the study. Do you think that could be arranged? I’d like to know why she sent for me.”