Authors: Charles Todd
He could read the answer in her eyes. That was precisely what someone had done.
“Was it your brother Edwin and his wife? The head of the family, with his strong sense of duty? Yes, I’m sure it was. The truth must have come as a shock. And so Peter—the real Peter Teller—was dispatched to Lancashire to see who this woman was, what she might want, and whether Walter was leaving Jenny for her.”
She picked up her plate and put it on the tray for Mollie to collect. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch, Inspector. I’m afraid I have much to do.”
Leticia walked out without looking back.
Rutledge said to the empty room, “With Florence Teller dead, and Peter, and Jenny, the past is wiped out. Except for Harry . . .”
Hamish answered him, “There’s the Captain’s wife.”
Susannah, who refused to set foot in this house again.
“But she’s loyal to the family.”
“Was
loyal.”
It was a very good point. Could she be trusted to keep the secret? He went to the telephone and put in a call to the Yard. Sergeant Gibson listened to Rutledge’s request, then said, “It’s going to be difficult getting it past the Chief Superintendent, but I’ll see that a watch is set. You don’t care to explain why it’s needed?”
Rutledge said, “Early days,” and let it go at that.
Edwin Teller met him in the passage and said, “I should think the Yard would have no further business with the family. I’m told you’ve found your murderer. I’m glad. A pity Peter couldn’t hear that as well.”
“Indeed,” Rutledge agreed. “I’m leaving this afternoon for London, there’s something there I must do. I’ll be back by tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t know why you should return at all.”
“There are loose ends.”
He was about to walk on when Edwin said, “Do you mean Susannah? Peter’s wife—widow?”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”
“Look, I’m just concerned, I wanted to know if you’re expecting to speak to Susannah. She’s grieving, and in great distress. This was such an—no one can prepare for these things, can they? Peter should have lived to a great age, like my grandmother. Give her time to come to grips with her loss.”
“Are you afraid she might decide, finally, to tell the truth? To clear her husband’s name?”
“She hasn’t been told that he’s no longer under suspicion. I tried to telephone her just now, and Iris says she’s not taking calls. For God’s sake, let her alone.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, shall I?”
Leticia came out of the study. “Has anyone asked Walter if he’d like a tray? Edwin, try to persuade Gran to eat something. She says she doesn’t care for Mollie’s cooking, that Jenny knew what she liked.”
“I’ll try.” Edwin excused himself and walked off.
Leticia said, “I’ll see to Walter then. He ought to have something.” Rutledge, looking after her as she went up the stairs, decided to start out for London. He could hear her now knocking on Teller’s door and calling to him. Turning away, he found his hat and left the house. The constable nodded to him.
“I have to return to London. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Tell Inspector Jessup I’ll give him a clear answer then.”
The constable came forward to crank the motorcar for him. And then he was on the road. Clearing his mind of everything else, he concentrated on Billy and what might be waiting for him on Westminster Bridge.
R
utledge made good time to London and went to his sister’s house before reporting to the Yard.
She was surprised to see him, saying as he walked through the door, “Are you coming for Jake?”
“Not yet. How is he?”
“I don’t want him to grow more attached to me than he is,” she said. “He likes to sit on my shoulder and walk around the house. I dare not take him outside, for fear he’ll fly away. But he wants to go to every window and look out, then he searches for roses.”
“His owner grew them. Bring a few inside. That might cheer him up.”
“A very good idea.”
“Any news of Meredith Channing?”
“I haven’t seen her since she returned to London. But I’m told she’s back and feeling much better. Oh, speaking of injuries and recoveries, did you hear that Chief Inspector Cummins was viciously attacked last night? I ran into his sister coming from the hotel in Marin Street. She was sent for. He was badly hurt, loss of blood, stitches. I hope they find whoever did such a vile thing.”
“I’m sure the Yard has every possible man searching.”
“What brought you here, if it wasn’t Jake?” she asked.
He smiled. “No further word from Scotland?”
“All’s well. Ian had his pick of the pups. He’s excited because Fiona is allowing him to sleep with it. I don’t think there’s any lasting harm from the horror of the train crash.”
“The resilience of youth.”
Leaving, he trolled the streets toward St. Paul’s, looking for Charlie Hood. But there was no sign of the man. Another loop, he thought, and then, six blocks from the cathedral, he spotted Hood.
This time Rutledge caught up with him and called, “Hood?”
The man turned, recognized Rutledge, and started toward an alley where the motorcar couldn’t follow. And then he thought better of it and came forward slowly, stopping about five feet from the vehicle.
People were swarming around them at this hour of the day, weaving in and out and making any sort of conversation nearly impossible.
“What do you want?” Hood asked. And Rutledge read his lips rather than heard his words in the noisy intersection.
“A drink. A few words,” Rutledge said to him.
“I don’t have the time,” Hood replied. Then, coming nearer, he asked, “You haven’t caught your murderer, have you?”
“Not yet. He came close to killing another man last night.”
Hood nodded. “Word gets about on the street.” He made to go.
Rutledge said, “Have you ever had trouble with the police?”
Hood laughed harshly. “Not since I was twelve and learned my lesson. Still trying to make a connection with that other man?”
“That inquiry was successfully concluded.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” And he was off, moving briskly through the late afternoon crowds, then crossing the street and disappearing into a shop.
Rutledge watched him go. “I’ll have you yet, my friend,” he said under his breath, then turned back toward the Yard.
Instead he went to Bolingbroke Street and asked to speak to Susannah Teller.
To his surprise, she agreed to see him. The shades were drawn in the sitting room, but even in the dim light Rutledge could see that her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep. Yet he thought she seemed to have found some inner strength to carry her through.
Hamish said, unexpectedly, “Anger.”
Rutledge thought that was very true. For she kept him standing, like a servant.
“I wanted you to know that we’ve released your husband’s body.”
“Thank you. I had a call from Inspector Jessup. I have arranged for the service to be held tomorrow afternoon.”
That was very quick, but he said only, “He didn’t kill anyone, Mrs. Teller. He’s been completely absolved.”
“How nice to know that the rector needn’t mention in his eulogy that Peter was nearly arrested for murder,” she said sardonically.
“If I’d had the whole truth from the start,” he told her, “it might have been different.”
“All I know is, you made his last days a hell on earth. I hope this knowledge will give you nights as sleepless as his were.”
“I expect there are worse burdens on my conscience than this one.”
“Who did kill that woman in Lancashire?” she asked him, unable to stop herself.
He told her, and she said, “Jealousy is a powerful thing.”
“But you weren’t jealous of Florence Teller. After all, there was no need. She wasn’t Peter’s wife.”
“It never troubled me,” she said, still keeping up the lie, “from the time I found out. We had a happy marriage, Peter and I. Whether you believe that or not.”
“Have you asked your solicitor what your rights are, if you persist in this charade? Whether you are in fact the legitimately surviving spouse? Mrs. Teller is dead. Of course, the Captain must have made proper provisions for you in his will.”
That visibly shook her. But she said, “Our solicitors will sort it out.”
“Or perhaps they weren’t informed of the necessity for provisions. Unless your husband changed his will in the last ten days.”
“You’re unbelievably cruel, Inspector. My husband is dead, and so is the woman in Hobson. He can’t be prosecuted for bigamy, and you will only bring public shame on me if you pursue this.”
“Shaming you isn’t my intent, Mrs. Teller. But when people break the law—and there is a law against bigamy, I remind you—there are often repercussions that hurt the innocent. Your husband, for instance, whose name was used by Walter Teller. And Jenny Teller, who—if the truth had come to light—was about to discover that she was no one’s wife and her child illegitimate. It was convenient for both of them to die when they did. Accidentally? Very likely. But if not, I want you to realize that you may also stand in some danger. You’re very angry just now about your husband’s death. Understandably. He bore the brunt of his brother’s misdeeds. And he kept his head and fought me every step of the way. I recognize why, now. All of you are very fond of Harry. And you’re protecting
him
, not his father. But when you find yourself being denied your rights as the Captain’s widow, you might well see matters very differently. And if you are forced to tell the truth to protect yourself, you will break this wall of silence.”
He could see she hadn’t thought that far ahead, she hadn’t considered the legal repercussions or the danger she might stand in. She replied slowly, as if still thinking through what he’d said, “But you’ve just told me that Peter’s death and Jenny’s were accidents.”
“At this stage, we have to consider them accidental. We haven’t been able to find any proof to the contrary. But they were—providential. You must see that.”
She shook her head. “My murder would bring to light everything that the family has fought so hard to protect.”
He let it go and told her instead, “As for the voices your husband heard in the cottage when he was speaking to Florence Teller, it might well have been the parrot, Jake, that her husband brought her. It speaks sometimes.
Mimics
may be a better word.”
“I—parrot?”
“Yes. He’s here in London. You can see him for yourself.”
“No. You’re saying I have no grounds to believe Walter or Edwin were already there in the house? Peter was so sure.”
“I think Edwin can prove he was in Cambridge. And Walter was aware you’d discovered his secret. He never left London.”
“Or is this a trick to see to it I withdraw my charge of murder?” she asked suspiciously. “I don’t trust you, either.”
Rutledge smiled. “I don’t ask you to trust me. Just consider what I’ve said.”
He turned to go.
As he reached the door, she stopped him. “What you’re telling me is that you aren’t finished with Walter. And you want me to leave him to you.”
He turned. “I’ll do my best to protect Harry. For his mother’s sake. And I owe it to the Captain to protect you as well. At the same time I have a duty to the law. Until I am satisfied, neither your husband’s death or Jenny Teller’s will be closed.”
He left her then, and she didn’t call him back.
Rutledge was returning to the Yard when he saw Meredith Channing just coming out of Westminster Abbey. She still wore a sling on her arm but moved without pain as far as he could tell. He slowed the motorcar, and when she came within speaking distance, he called to her.
She looked up, recognized him, and paused, as if uncertain whether to greet him or not. And then she crossed to the motorcar.
“I see you’ve recovered,” he said.
“And you found the people you were searching for? Were they all right?”
“Yes, thank God. I came back to look for you. I was told you’d already been moved, but no one seemed to know where.”
“A very kind woman took in several of us. It was a relief to get away from such an horrific scene. And then friends came for me. I stayed a few days with them. ” She paused. “Ian. I’ve decided to travel for a while. I think it would be good for me.”
There was traffic behind him. He said, “Are you going home? Just now?”
“Yes. I sometimes come here to think. It’s very lovely and very quiet.”
“I’ll take you, then.” And he lied when he saw her hesitation. “I’m going in that direction.”
“All right. Yes. Thank you.”
As they pulled away from the pavement and headed for Trafalgar Square, he asked, “How long do you expect to be away? For the summer?”
“I’m not sure. A year or two, perhaps. I haven’t looked ahead.” After a moment, she added, “I’ve—become fond of someone. And I’m not sure that it’s wise.”
He couldn’t see her face. She was looking at the passing scene as if she had never traveled this way before. He wasn’t sure she was seeing it now.
“Something has upset you.”
“I think the train crash upset everyone who was there,” she said evasively. She turned to look at him, then looked away again.
He remembered that no one had sent him word about the name of the passenger who had died.
“Was he on the train? The man you’ve become fond of?”
Surprise flitted across her face as she turned back to him. “On the train? No. I was traveling alone. What made you think—”
“There was a man in your compartment. He didn’t survive.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m glad I didn’t. He was very nice. We’d chatted for a time.” She bit her lip. “He’d been to visit his son.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked to hold them back. “Well. You see. I’m still very emotional about the crash.”
“It’s not unusual. God knows—” He stopped.
“Like my shoulder, that will heal too,” she said, trying for a lighter tone. “With time.”
He said nothing, weaving his way through traffic, giving her space to recover. The tension in his mind brought the voice of Hamish to the forefront, so loud it seemed to fill the motorcar.
They had reached Chelsea. Her house was just three streets away. He was searching for words now, unable to think for the other voice, realizing that time was slipping away.
Two streets now.
He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He had steeled himself against any feelings, and the wall was high, insurmountable.
One street.
“Running,” he said finally, “is no solution.”
She sighed. “No. But I don’t know what else to do.”
They had reached her house. He slowed the motorcar, stopped, was getting out to open her door, and the moment was lost.
“At least,” she said, smiling brightly, “it isn’t raining this time. Thank you, Ian. This was very kind of you.”
And she strode up the walk, opening her door, disappearing inside.
He stood there, Hamish hammering at him, and then turned and got in his motorcar.
Afterward, he wasn’t sure how he got as far as Windsor without knowing it. He had to turn around and drive back to London.
C
hief Superintendent Bowles had given some thought to the trap he intended to lay for the murderer they knew only as Billy.
He said, as Rutledge reported to him, “Good, you’re early.”
“How is Cummins?”
“Out of the woods, but not thanks to Billy. He came damned close to severing an artery. We’ve got to stop this maniac, and you’re to be the bait. At least that’s the current thinking—that it’s you he’s after.”
“I don’t think he’s a maniac.”
“Stands to reason that he is. Hunting people like an animal. Then taking his knife to them.”
Rutledge let it go. Instead, he asked Bowles, “Was there any information on that man Hood, who is our witness for Bynum’s killing?”
“The address he gave us was false, a stationer’s shop. Like many of his kind, he doesn’t want to be found.”
So, Rutledge thought, little more than he’d known already. “Have you spoken to Gibson or one of the older sergeants? The man may have a past. I’ve seen him before or dealt with him somewhere.”
“It doesn’t matter. We shan’t need him until the trial. Here’s the plan. You’ll drive over to the police station in Lambeth, and speak to the sergeant on duty. It’s a routine question, about one of the men Billy robbed earlier on. I want you to be seen, and then return here. At nine o’clock, I want you to dine with Mickelson, walking with him to that pub on the far side of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Then you’ll return alone on foot as darkness falls, and walk along the Embankment. Failing any sighting of our friend Billy, you’ll walk to the bridge and stand where you did before.”
“He’s not going to fall easily into a trap,” Rutledge warned. “He’s seen your men, he knows he sent Cummins to hospital. Here’s a better choice.” And he outlined what he had in mind.
Bowles was willing to compromise, and at eight o’clock Mickelson and Rutledge left the Yard on foot for their meal. It was a stilted dinner, neither man feeling much like opening a conversation, the animosity between them making even a request for a saltcellar sound like a declaration of war.
Their dislike of each other went back to an inquiry in Westmor-land, where Mickelson misjudged a volatile situation and nearly got an innocent bystander killed. Rather than acknowledge his mistake, he’d rushed to London and laid full blame at Rutledge’s door. Circumstances had cleared Rutledge, but Bowles had not been swift to act on the information and still favored Mickelson.