The Red Door

Inspector Jessup said, “I’d like to be present.”

“Not immediately, if you don’t mind,” Rutledge said, keeping to the formalities of refusal. “She may speak more freely to me.”

He stood there looking down at Teller’s body, thinking that Constable Satterthwaite would be disappointed, and Lawrence Cobb jubilant. Then he nodded to Jessup. The body could be taken away.

Jessup went outside to find his men, and Rutledge waited until the door had closed behind him. Then he squatted by the body and lifted the legs of Teller’s trousers. But there was no mark that he could see to indicate that Teller had been tripped. And so, accident—or suicide.

Just as Rutledge was stepping back, Fielding came in, preparatory to the removal. He said, looking at Teller as Rutledge had done, “A tragedy, this. The leg he fought so hard to save betrayed him in the end. He might have been better off if he’d allowed them to take it.”

Rutledge said, “In a way you’re right. But I think, knowing Captain Teller as I did, I’d venture to say he’d have wanted it that way, even so.”

As a blanket was spread over the body before lifting it onto the stretcher, Fielding said, “Unless I find evidence to the contrary, gentlemen, I’ll consider this an accidental death.”

Jessup said, “I’d agree with that finding.”

And then Peter Teller was carried out into the gray morning, leaving only a small spot of blood to mark his passage. Rutledge, thinking about Monday morning’s expected arrest, was of two minds. When he closed this case, there would be very little justice for Florence Teller now.

In some fashion, it might be for the best. It would save the Teller family endless publicity and sorrow. Chief Superintendent Bowles would be pleased about that.

When the house door closed behind the dead man, Rutledge walked down the passage and into the study where once he’d spoken to Walter Teller about his brother.

Five minutes later, the study door opened and Susannah Teller was ushered in, her face pale with shock and grief, her eyes red from crying. She had tried very hard to protect her husband. Even knowing what he had done.

She looked Rutledge straight in the face and said as the door swung shut behind her, “You’re to treat this as a murder investigation, do you hear me? They killed him. With their unspoken accusations, their finger-pointing when Jenny wasn’t in the room, their snubs. He told them he hadn’t killed Florence Teller. He tried to explain. But the evidence was against him, and he drank himself into oblivion Friday night and last night. I told him we shouldn’t have come. But he said he must do it for Jenny’s sake. It’s always for Jenny’s sake, isn’t it? The innocent victim, Jenny Teller. Well, I’m having them pay for my losing Peter, do you understand me?” she ended fiercely.

“Mrs. Teller—”

“No, don’t tell me it was just a horrible accident because he’d been drinking and couldn’t find his cane. And don’t try to tell me he killed himself out of a guilty conscience. He didn’t murder that woman in Lancashire. If you want to know the truth, it was either Walter or Edwin. Take your pick. Because when Peter was there, when Peter just wanted to speak to her, he could hear Walter in the house somewhere out of sight. Or Edwin. I don’t know. I don’t care. They both sound very much alike. Have you noticed? One of them was there, and after Peter left, whichever one it was seized the opportunity to kill her and let Peter take the blame.”

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. But she didn’t go up the stairs. He heard the front door slam as well, and when he went to look out the window, she was running across the lawn to the rose garden, as if trying to flee her own thoughts.

Susannah Teller had tried to throw him off the scent once before.

Hamish said, “She loved him verra’ much.”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath and went out to find the rest of the family.

They were a grim and silent lot when Rutledge walked into the dining room. Walter Teller was standing at the window, his back to his family. Leticia was also standing, staring down at the cold hearth. Amy and Edwin sat together at one end of the table, and at the other, Mary Brittingham was trying to calm her weeping sister.

Mary said, “Has he been taken away?”

“Yes. Just now.”

“Then if you will allow it, I’ll take my sister to her room and sit with her. It’s been frightful for her.”

“I must begin by asking each of you where you were when Captain Teller fell. Miss Teller?”

“I was just coming down the passage. I’d been in the kitchen, helping Mollie. I generally do when all of us are here. It’s a great deal of work, and finding suitable help from the village isn’t always possible on a Sunday morning.”

“Thank you. Miss Brittingham?”

“I was upstairs. I’d overslept and was late coming down for breakfast.”

“Could you see Captain Teller fall?”

“I was still in my room. Two minutes—less—later, and I’d have been in the passage.”

He turned to Jenny.