The Red Door (2 page)

London, Late May, 1920

B
efore leaving the next morning to give evidence in a court case in Sheffield, Ian Rutledge had taken his sister, Frances, to dine at a new and popular restaurant. There they encountered friends just arriving as well and on the point of being shown to a table. They were invited to join the other party, and as new arrangements were made, Rutledge made certain that his own chair remained at what had become the head of a larger table. His claustrophobia after being buried alive when a shell blew up his salient in 1916 had never faded. Even four years later, he couldn’t abide a crowded room or train, and something as ordinary as a chair in a corner, with others—even good friends—between him and the door could leave him shaken. Frances, unaware of her brother’s irrational fear, was already enjoying herself, and he watched her flirt with Maryanne Browning’s cousin, an attractive man named Geoffrey Blake. She had met him before, and as they caught up on events and old friends, Rutledge heard someone mention Meredith Channing. He himself had called on Mrs. Channing not ten days earlier, to thank her for a recent kindness, only to find that she was away.

Now Blake was saying, “She’s in Wales, I think.”

And Barbara Westin turned to him, surprised. “Wales? I’d understood she was on her way to Norfolk.”

Someone at the other end of the table put in, “Was it Norfolk?”

Frances said, “I don’t think I’ve seen her in a fortnight. Longer . . .”

“Doesn’t she visit her brother-in-law around this time of year?” Ellen Tyler asked.

“Brother-in-law?” Rutledge repeated.

“Yes, he lives in the north, I believe,” Ellen replied. “He went back to Inverness at the end of the war. Apparently he was sufficiently recovered to travel.”

“A back injury,” Alfred Westin put in. “His ship was blown up and he held on to a lifeboat for two days before they were picked up. A brave man and a stubborn one. He was in hospital for seven months. But he’s walking again, I heard, albeit with canes now. He was here in the spring, for the memorial concert.”

Rutledge remembered: in early spring he’d spotted Meredith Channing trying to hail a cab just as a rainstorm broke, and he’d stopped to offer her a lift. She had said something about a concert. St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t married him,” Ellen Tyler went on. “Her brother-in-law, I mean. He’s been in love with her for ages.”

“Speaking of love, have you seen the announcement of Constance Turner’s engagement in the
Times
? I am so pleased for her. She deserves a little happiness.” Barbara smiled. “But wouldn’t you know—another flier.”

Rutledge had known Constance Turner’s husband. Medford Turner had died of severe burns in early 1916, after crashing at the Front. He’d been pulled from his aircraft by a French artillery company that had risked intense flames to get to him. Rutledge and his men had watched that dogfight, before both planes had disappeared down the line. He hadn’t known it was Turner at the time, only that the English pilot had shown amazing skill.

Their orders were given to the waiter, and the conversation moved on.

Hamish, ever present at the back of his mind, said to Rutledge now, “Inverness is a verra’ long way.” The voice was deep, Scots, and inaudible to the other diners—a vestige of shell shock, guilt, and nightmares that had begun during the fierce battle of the Somme in July 1916. In the clinic, Dr. Fleming had called that voice the price of survival, but for Rutledge it had been a torment nearly beyond enduring.

Inverness might as well be on the other side of the world. Rutledge had made it a point since the war to avoid going into Scotland. And Hamish knew why. Even his one foray there, on official business, had not ended well. In truth, he’d nearly died, taking Hamish into the darkness with him.

At that same moment Frances turned to her brother with a question, and he had to bring his attention back to the present.

But after he’d dropped her at the house that had belonged to their parents, and driven on to his flat, he couldn’t shut the words out of his mind:
Doesn’t she visit her brother-in-law around this time of year? I’m surprised she hasn’t married him. He’s been in love with her for ages.

Meredith Channing had never spoken—to him—of her family or her past. And he had been careful not to ask questions of others that might draw attention to either his ignorance or his interest. She was reserved, a poise almost unnatural in one so young. Rutledge suspected it had been the result of what she had seen and done in the war. Nor would she have cared to be discussed as she was tonight.

Hamish said, “She refuses to let hersel’ feel anything.”

Was that it? Something must have hurt her very badly. Or someone. The loss of her husband?

I’m surprised she hasn’t married him . . . He’s been in love with her for ages.

W
hen the weekend was over, Walter Teller had dropped Peter and his wife, Susannah, at their house in Bolingbroke Street, and driven on to call on his banker. He conducted his business there, arranging for his son’s school fees to be paid as they came due, and strode purposefully out the door of the bank and back to his motorcar, his thoughts moving ahead to the rest of the day’s errands.

Those accomplished, he had only just reached the outskirts of London on his way home when his body failed him. Sweating profusely, he fought to see the road ahead through what seemed to be narrowing vision, and his limbs felt like lead, moving slowly, clumsily.

What the hell is wrong—?

He’d never felt this way before.

Am I dying?

He started to pull to the side of the road, out of the light traffic, and then thought better of it.

If I’m to die, I’d rather die at home. Not here, not in the middle of the street. I’ve survived everything else—malaria, dysentery, parasites. I can make it to Essex.

He drove with utmost concentration, his hands clenched on the wheel, forcing muscles that had no will of their own to respond to his. Counting the miles now.
Why wasn’t Jenny here, as she ought to be? She should be driving, damn it.
But there had been words last night over Harry leaving for school. She had been unapproachable this morning, and he’d known better than to press for her to come to London with him.

There was the sign for Repton. The farm was beyond the next turning.

“I haven’t died,” he told himself, his voice overly loud in his ears. “I’ve come this far.” But he couldn’t have said how he got here from London.

Harry.
It isn’t you, it’s Harry. Something has happened to Harry—

The motorcar turned into the drive seemingly of its own accord, and as he came into sight of the house, he blew the horn over and over again. “Jenny,” he shouted, “Jenny, for God’s sake, come and help me.”

It was all he could do to pull on the brake and stop in the circle before the house. His hands refused to open the door, his feet refused to lift from the pedals. Fear held him in a vise, and he could do nothing for Harry, he couldn’t even save his son.

His wife came running from the house.

“Walter? What’s the matter? What’s happened?” Jenny cried, taking in his pale, sweating face and shaking hands.

“Something’s happened to Harry.”

“He’s in Monmouthshire, visiting the Montleighs—”

“I know—I know. Call them. Pray God it isn’t too late. Tell them we’ll be there as soon as possible.”

But how was he to drive to Monmouthshire? He’d find a way.

She ran back into the house, and he sat there, fists clenched, eyes shut, his mind straining to hear the conversation that was going on inside the house. He felt he would stop breathing before Jenny could bring him the answer.

There she was—running toward him. He scanned her face.

“Harry’s all right, Walter, he’s just fine.” Mollie, the housekeeper was on her heels, wiping her hands in her apron. “I’ve called Dr. Fielding, he’s on his way. Can you come inside? Walter—what’s
wrong
?”

Exhausted, he sat there, not moving. He could die now. It was all right. If that was demanded of him, he’d understand.

London, Early June, 1920

A
fter several days of giving evidence in the case in Sheffield, Ian Rutledge had returned to the Yard to find Superintendent Bowles suffering from dyspepsia and a headache.

Glowering at Rutledge, Bowles had snapped, “You’re late.”

“There was a heavy storm in the north. Trees down, in fact, and part of the road washed away.”

“If you took the train like the rest of us, you’d have been on time.”

“As it happens, the train was late as well.”

“And how would you know that?”

“When I came in just now, I overheard Sergeant Gibson telling someone there had been problems with tracks in the north as well as the road.”

“What was the outcome in Sheffield? Well? Don’t keep me waiting,” Bowles snapped.

“The jury was not long in convicting. Tuttle will spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“I thought the Crown hoped he’d hang.”

“The jury was not for it.”

“Damned county jurors. It was a hanging case if ever there was one. It would have been, in London.”

Rutledge made no answer. He’d agreed with the jury. It had been, as the French would say, a crime of passion, an overwhelming grief that had ended in the death of Tuttle’s ill wife. Whether by design or by accident, only God knew. For Tuttle, hanging would have in many ways been a travesty.

Bowles took out his watch and opened the case, looking at the time. “Just as well you’re back. I’m informed there’s trouble in Brixton, and we’re shorthanded at the moment. Clarke is in Wales, and I’ve just sent Mickelson to Hampshire.” He waited for Rutledge to raise any objection. Satisfied that none was forthcoming, he went on. “Four barrow boys in a brawl with a handful of Irishmen. But it has to be sorted out. Two are in hospital, and one could be dead by morning. And he’s the brother-in-law of the constable who broke it up. There’ll be hard feelings, and no end of trouble if the man dies.”

And so Rutledge had taken himself off to Brixton, only to learn the fight had occurred because the men involved were out of work, gambling in an alley behind The Queen’s Head, and were far too gone in drink to do more than bloody one another when one side had accused the other of cheating. The man said to be on the verge of death by his hysterical wife was nothing of the sort, merely unconscious and expected to recover his senses momentarily. And the Irishmen were as sheepish as their English counterparts. A night in gaol would sober them sufficiently to be sent home by the desk sergeant with a flea in their ear, and they had already informed Rutledge during his interview with them that they were the best of friends despite a small misunderstanding over the dice.

They swore on their mothers’ graves that it wouldn’t happen again. Rutledge pointed out that one of their number was still in hospital and that more serious charges would be brought if he suffered any lasting harm.

Properly chastened, the Irishmen promised to say an Ave for his swift recovery. The Englishmen were all for assuming the cost of his care.

After speaking to the desk sergeant, suggesting that the offenders be held for another twenty-four hours until the doctors were satisfied that the injured man would make a full recovery, Rutledge left the station.

He had a strong suspicion that Bowles had sent him to Brixton out of pure spite, and that feeling was confirmed by Sergeant Davis’s commiserating grin when Rutledge finally walked back into the Yard.

“Wild geese are the order of the day, sir. Chasing them, that is. Inspector Mann is in Canterbury on much the same errand. And Chief Inspector Ellis is on his way to Chichester. Idle hands and all that. It’s been a week of quiet, you see. That rubs the Old Bowels on the raw.”

Free to leave at last, Rutledge was too tired to go home, and too angry to rest once he got there. Instead, late as it was, he had taken to the streets, trying to walk off his own mood and finding himself beset by Hamish at every turn.

He watched the last of the summer light fade from opal to rose to lavender and thence to darkness as the stars popped out above the blackness of the river. The streets around him emptied of pedestrians and wheeled traffic alike, until his footsteps on the pavement echoed in his head and kept him company.

It occurred to him at some point that today had been the anniversary of his return to the Yard. A year ago . . .

It had been a long and difficult twelve months.

Finding himself at the foot of Westminster Bridge, he went along the parapet and leaned on an elbow, watching the dark water swirl far below, mesmerized by the motion as it surged and fought its way through the arches that struggled to hold it back.

Lost in thought, he came to the conclusion that the past year was in some fashion comparable to the battle he was watching between river and stone. The implacable stone was the past, anchored forever amid the torrent of his days, redirecting, obstructing, thwarting, and frustrating him at every turn.

Hamish said, “Ye canna’ resign. Ye ken, before a fortnight was out, ye’d be back in yon clinic, sunk in useless despair.”

And that was the truth of it. He wouldn’t be able to live with his own failure.

Or with the voice that was in his head. Hamish lay dead in a French grave. There was no disputing that. Nor did ghosts walk. But putting that voice to rest was beyond him. Working had been Rutledge’s only salvation, and he knew without it, the only escape would be drinking himself into oblivion. Hamish’s victory then. His own lay in the bottom of his trunk, the loaded service revolver that was more to his liking, swift, certain, without disgrace. He’d learned in France that a good soldier always left himself a sure line of retreat.

Without conscious awareness, Rutledge had registered the footsteps passing behind him—a man on crutches, a woman hurrying in shoes too tight for her tired feet, a dog trotting purposefully back to his side of the bridge. But he had missed the soft footfalls of someone creeping toward him, half hidden by the dark, jutting islands of the lamps.

Hamish said sharply, “Hark!” and Rutledge was on the point of turning when something sharp dug into the flesh of his back.

A muffled voice said, “Your money. Any other valuables. Be quick, if you want to live.”

Rutledge could have laughed. Instead he said quietly, “I won’t give you my watch. It was my father’s. But you can have whatever money you may find in my pockets.”

The point of the knife dug deeper, and he could feel it pulling at his shirt.

The man said, a nervous anxiety in his voice, “I’ve told you—!”

And nerves could lead to a killing.

Rutledge didn’t respond for a moment. Then, without changing his tone, he said, “I saw a constable on the far side of the bridge. He’ll be here soon.”

“You’re lying. He turned the other way.”

Hamish said, “ ’Ware. He’s verra’ young.”

That too could be unpredictable and deadly.

Rutledge said, “You don’t want to commit a murder. Take the money I’ve offered. Left pocket. I won’t stop you. What’s your name?”

“I’ll kill you. See if I don’t.” He pushed hard on the knife, piercing the skin, and Rutledge could feel a trickle of blood slowly making its way down his back.

“It makes no difference to me if you do. I was in the war, my lad, and I’m not afraid of dying. But I won’t give you my watch. I’ll throw it in the river first. You must take my word on that.”

He could smell the fear on the man behind him and listened for sounds of traffic turning into the bridge road. “What are you called?”

There was a brief hesitation. Then, “Billy.”

Rutledge doubted that it was, but the name would do.

Hamish warned, “Have a care. There’s no one about.”

Even as he spoke the words, Big Ben behind them struck one.

Trying to reason with his assailant, Rutledge said, “You don’t want to do this, Billy. I’ll help you find work, if that’s the problem. I give you my word.” There was a distant splash. “My watch is next,” he commented, taking advantage of the sound. “I won’t turn you over to the police if you give me the knife now.”

He could feel the boy’s uncertainty in the pressure brought to bear on the blade against his back. He could feel too the twisting of the boy’s body to look up and then down the bridge for witnesses. And then the pressure increased.

The time had come.

Before his attacker could shift his weight and drive the knife home, Rutledge wheeled and caught Billy’s free arm in an iron grip, twisting it behind him in a single move. His other hand reached for the knife. Startled, the boy cried out, and Rutledge misjudged the swift reflexes of the young.

The knife flashed as it swung wildly in the direction of Rutledge’s face. Before he could force it away and down, it sliced through his coat and into his right arm as Billy fought with the strength of fear.

Rutledge swore and ruthlessly pinned his assailant against the parapet, knocking the wind out of him for an instant as his fingers bit into the wrist of the hand with the knife. It flexed, and all at once the knife spun in the air, catching the lamplight before it clattered on the pavement. Rutledge managed to kick it out of reach, then concentrated on subduing the boy, gradually forcing his body backward until the fight went out of him.

He was just reaching for the cap that half covered Billy’s face when he heard a constable’s whistle and the heavy thud of his regulation boots as he came pounding over the crest of the bridge.

Startled, Rutledge sent the cap flying into the darkness.

“Here, now!” the constable exclaimed as he got closer and took in the two men, a knife lying some two yards away. From his vantage point, Rutledge appeared to be the aggressor, and Rutledge’s attacker took swift advantage of it.

He screamed, “Don’t let him hurt me—he’s trying to kill me. Help me—”

The constable was there, catching at Rutledge’s shoulder, hauling him away from his victim, and for the first time Rutledge glimpsed the flushed and frightened face of a boy who looked eighteen or nineteen but for all his size must be no more than sixteen.

And then as the constable’s fist closed over Rutledge’s bleeding arm, his fingers just as quickly opened again.

“What’s this, then?” the constable demanded, stepping back. He was thin and middle-aged, an imposing figure with the light reflecting from the crown of his helmet, giving the impression he was taller than he was. “Is that your knife, or his?” he asked the boy.

In that split second of hesitation, Billy wriggled free of Rutledge’s grip and set off over the bridge, his feet flying. The constable looked from him to Rutledge, and Rutledge said rapidly, “I’m Scotland Yard. Rutledge, Inspector.
Go after him, man.
”

But it was too late. By the time the constable had collected himself and pelted after the suspect, he had turned at the bridge abutment and was lost in the darkness on the far side of the river.

The constable came back, breathing hard, to meet Rutledge halfway. “I’m sorry, sir—”

“So am I. His next victim might not be as lucky.” He gave the constable a description of the boy, including the false name, and added, “He’s frightened enough to be dangerous.”

“I didn’t get a close look at him,” the constable admitted. “But I’ll see word is passed on.” He gestured to Rutledge’s arm. “You’d best have that seen to, sir.”

The wound was beginning to hurt now. Rutledge warned, “He may not always choose this bridge.”

“Yes, sir, I understand that.” He shook his head as he bent to retrieve the knife. “A pity. Nothing here to tell us where it came from. Common enough, by the look of it.” He ran his finger along the edge. “And sharp enough to bone a chicken.”

“I’ll come to the station tomorrow to make a statement,” Rutledge told him. “Where are you? And what’s your name?”

“Lambeth Station. Constable Bishop, sir.” He grinned tentatively, adding as if it were a longstanding joke, “Though there are none in the family that I know of.”

Rutledge didn’t return the smile. He nodded and walked back to where he’d left his motorcar. The blood trickling down his arm to his hand left a trail behind him, and he thought cynically that it was too bad that the boy hadn’t cut his own arm instead.

Dr. Lonsdale, answering the summons at his door, was in his dressing gown and still knotting the belt. “It can’t wait until morning?” And then he noted the dark patch of blood on Rutledge’s sleeve. “Come in, then,” he said and led Rutledge directly to his surgery.

“It’s not deep,” the doctor informed him, turning to wash his hands after examining and then bandaging the wound, “but it will be sore enough for a few days. Be careful how you use it.” Accustomed to patching up men from the Yard, he added, “Providing infection doesn’t set in from the knife that did this.”

It was good advice. The next morning the arm was still sore and felt heavy, but he reported to the Yard, where news of events had preceded him.

Bowles said as they crossed paths in the corridor, “Constable Walker has reported that a week ago on the Lambeth Road a boy tried to rob a doctor returning from a lying-in. Someone came along, and the boy ran. But the description is similar. He claimed he had a knife, but neither the doctor nor his rescuer actually saw it.”

“So I wasn’t the first victim.” He had hoped that he was.

“In fact, there have been a number of robberies at knifepoint south of the river, but most victims hand over their money without any fuss. You and the doctor argued. What were you doing on the bridge at that hour, anyway?”

“A good question,” Rutledge answered him shortly. And then seeing that Bowles was intent on having an answer, he went on. “Making plans of a sort.”

“A mad place to go woolgathering,” Bowles commented. “How’s the arm?”

“It will do.”

Bowles grunted. “Dr. Lonsdale tells me otherwise. You’ll be on light duty for several days.” He handed Rutledge the stack of folders he was carrying. “Inspector Mickelson is behind in his paperwork. You can deal with these.”

He walked away without looking back.

Rutledge stood there for all of ten seconds, then strode in the direction of his office, his expression grim.