The Red Door

He could hear Mrs. Blaine threatening to wring Jake’s neck, because he didn’t talk, he only made a terrible racket.

Hamish said, “Aye, it wasna’ the letters.”

Rutledge turned on his heel and walked briskly back to the police station. He found that Satterthwaite had brought chairs to the cell door, and he and Cobb were staring at each other like mastiffs circling each other looking for a weakness.

Rutledge said to the Thielwald constable, “Handcuff him. I want to take him with us.”

“Back to Hobson?” the constable said.

“Where?” Satterthwaite demanded.

“Just do it,” Rutledge told them. “I’ll be in the motorcar.”

And he walked away.

His mind was on Hamish. Cobb in front, Satterthwaite in the back. And then both of them could watch Cobb.

The two constables emerged from the station with Cobb between them.

“This is most irregular. Sir?” the constable was saying.

“It’s all right. He’ll be back within the hour. Front, Cobb. Sit just behind him, Satterthwaite.”

They did as they were told. One look at Rutledge’s face, and none of them was willing to risk argument.

They drove in silence out of Thielwald to the road for Hobson, and then took the turning for Sunrise Cottage.

“We’re going back to the house?” Satterthwaite asked.

Rutledge didn’t answer, his mind on what was to come.

When he drove past the cottage and turned into the rutted lane to the Blaine farm, Satterthwaite said, “Here, you can’t call on her at this hour!”

“She keeps a dairy farm. She was up milking at four.” Drawing up at the front of the house, he said, “Cobb, stay here. And keep watch.” He strode up to the door and knocked. “Let me do the talking,” he told Satterthwaite.

“If you’ll just tell me, sir—”

But the door was swinging open, and Mrs. Blaine was standing there, a basket of eggs under her arm.

She stared at them suspiciously. “Inspector. Constable. I was just about to candle the eggs.” Then she saw Cobb in the motorcar, and said angrily, “What’s he doing here? He’s a dangerous man.”

“If he’s smart, he’s doing precisely what I told him to do,” Rutledge said. “May we come in?”

She was still blocking the door, but she said now, “I’ll tell you flat out I found it hard to believe he was a killer. Just shows you, doesn’t it, that you can’t be sure about people, however well you think you know them. And so I shall say at the inquest.”

“This isn’t about Cobb. I’ve come to tell you that the parrot does talk.”

Her eyes widened, but she said only, “We heard it. It said good night to Lieutenant Teller.” She stepped aside. “You’d better come in, then.”

“Thank you.”

They followed her through to the kitchen where she set the basket of eggs to one side of the sink, then turned to face them.

“There’s a witness who heard the bird exclaim ‘No. No. No.’ in some distress. We’ve come to believe that this was the moment when Mrs. Teller turned from her assailant and tried to escape.

“A witness?” Mrs. Blaine asked warily.

“The person who is presently caring for the bird.”

“Did it mention a name?” She waited, her eyes on Rutledge’s face. “It would know Cobb. He was always there. Couldn’t stay away.”

“You found the body. Is that correct?”

“I told you—I was off to market and I often asked if there’s anything Mrs. Teller needed. That’s why I saw her in the doorway.”

“After she’d been dead for what? Two days?”

“It’s you and the constable there who said two days. I couldn’t tell.”

“You brought Jake here, to keep him safe, is that correct?”

She was more comfortable now. “Yes. Poor thing, someone had to have mercy on him.”

“But you were prepared to wring his neck when you discovered he couldn’t name her killer.”

“I—who said he could name him? It was you, wanting to take him to London with you.”

“You found the body. You’d taken Jake without telling the police. What else was there? Did you see that the cane had a heavy gold head? And did you think the rosewood box might hold more than letters? That the deed to the house might be in there as well? After all, there were no heirs.”

“Here!” she exclaimed. “You can’t prove any of that. Except that I took the parrot out of pity for it.”

“There’s no one else who would have taken the box. She was alive when Peter Teller saw her, and she would never have given the letters up—”

“Peter—but I was told he was dead.”

“But he was there that day. It was his cane you picked up. And he owns the house with the red door, now that his wife is dead.”

Her face flushed. “If it was Teller who came back, why didn’t he stay? Why did he leave? I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t know the answer to that. Still, he must have spoken to Florence. She must have turned him out. Perhaps she decided that she preferred Lawrence Cobb after all.”

“She did. Betsy—”

She stopped.

“Betsy asked her?”

“I was about to say—”

“Mrs. Blaine. Was it you or your daughter who murdered Florence Teller?”

Satterthwaite’s breath came out in a hiss, but he said nothing.

“Murdered her? It was that husband of hers, I tell you. You’ve seen the proof.”