The Red Door

She was the eldest. It was up to her to straighten out this tangle. Damn Edwin for going to the funeral. Damn Peter for losing his head. Damn Susannah for not keeping her mouth shut so that all this could be smoothed away. And damn Jenny, for being naïve and for walking into rooms at just the wrong moment, never mind that it was her house. Every time the rest of them had tried to confront Peter, he was either drunk or he was protected, unwittingly, by Jenny’s presence.

She had another thought. If it hadn’t been for Jenny, Peter might not have died. They could have cleared the air, got through to whatever it was that was tormenting him, and come up with a solution.

Her hands over her face, she pressed cold fingers against her closed eyelids.

What could she do? What should she do? What would her father, who was never at a loss about anything, have done about an accusation of murder against one of his sons?

She could almost hear her father’s answer.

Protect Harry. Keep the family intact. Preserve the Teller name. At any price.

She took a deep breath, pulling in the cooler night air until her lungs hurt.

It was too bad Susannah hadn’t fallen down the stairs instead of Peter. It would have made her task easier. But there it was.

And if Jenny’s innocence had to be sacrificed, so be it. Walter would just have to live with her decision.

After a while she went back to bed. The owls had stopped. But she still couldn’t sleep.

Chapter 28

Rutledge drove to Lancashire without stopping, save for petrol.

The misting rain kept him company, the windscreen wipers almost hypnotic in their sweep, clearing his vision and then blurring the landscape.

What was the truth about Peter Teller’s death? he asked himself, coming out of St. Albans.

Accident, suicide, murder?

In spite of Susannah Teller’s angry claims, he could see no conceivable motive for murdering the man. To keep the family’s name from being dragged through a courtroom drama that would have London agog? A very poor reason for murdering one’s own flesh and blood.

Suicide, then, to spare his family the onus of a convicted murderer turned over to the hangman?

Or just a simple, horrible, unbelievable accident because the man’s leg was weak and his cane lay in the boot of Rutledge’s car?

“Why did he no’ buy anither one?” Hamish asked.

Rutledge answered, “It would have drawn attention to the missing one. If it had a special head, that would have to be ordered. Time wasn’t on his side.”

There was no immediate solution to the problem of Captain Teller’s death, he decided finally. It could wait until he returned from Hobson.

He had a fairly decent idea of why Satterthwaite had summoned him in such haste. A simpler solution, that. The head of the cane had been in the gardens after all. He hadn’t looked long enough. Or Cobb had stumbled on it.

Satterthwaite was waiting in the station for him, late as it was. He could just see the glow of lamplight through the window. He walked in, pulling off his driving gloves. The single lamp on the constable’s desk guided Rutledge through the outer office and down the dark passage.

A Thermos of tea stood on the desk in front of Satterthwaite, and in the lamp’s flickering glow, he appeared to be bone tired, as if he hadn’t slept, the deep hollows and bony ridges of his face stark as he looked up to greet Rutledge.

His own fatigue forgotten, Rutledge studied the man. He was under great strain.

“I’m sorry, sir, for the abrupt summons,” Satterthwaite began. “But I didn’t know what else to do, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“I thought it best you didn’t take Peter Teller into custody tomorrow. And I wasn’t ready to tell the world and his uncle what I believed you ought to hear first.” He gestured to the Thermos. “There’s a clean cup just behind you on that shelf. It’s likely to be a long night.”

Rutledge found the cup and filled it with the steaming liquid. He drank half of it to clear the rest of the cobwebs out of his head, and then set it aside.

“All right. Where’s the cane’s head?”

Satterthwaite smiled. “You do take all the wind out of a man’s sails,” he said grimly. But he reached into his drawer and pulled out a round object wrapped in a clean handkerchief. He passed it to Rutledge with distaste, handkerchief and all, as if he couldn’t bear to touch it.

Rutledge glanced at him, then looked down, unwrapping the linen to reveal a gold knob that caught the light and flashed dully in his hand.

It was indeed the head of a cane, broken off the Malaccan stick.

With one finger he rolled the knob toward the light, and sat there for a moment, absorbing what it represented. Satterthwaite said nothing, watching him.

Damning was the best word for it. Small wonder Walter Teller had lied, telling Rutledge the cane was of ivory.

Embedded in the heavy gold head was an enameled button or plaque. A black scum obscured part of the design, but even so, Rutledge knew what it was.

He glanced at Satterthwaite.