The Red Door (5 page)

R
utledge found the London addresses for Edwin and Peter Teller, and drove to each house, but he was informed by the maids who answered the door that the family was away.

Wherever they were searching, he had a feeling that they were having no better luck than he had had in finding their brother.

The second day of Walter Teller’s disappearance brought no new information. It was as if he’d never existed.

Hamish said, “If he were wandering about—truly lost—someone would ha’ noticed him and brought him to a hospital or the police.”

It was what had been on Rutledge’s mind all morning.

“He might not wish to be found,” he replied. “An alternative to suicide.”

“There’s that, aye,” Hamish agreed.

It made a certain kind of sense. If one can’t face the nightmare, one can try to avoid it. But what sort of nightmare haunted a man like Teller?

He went back to question Teller’s doctors.

They had failed to unlock their patient’s secrets.

He said, “Teller’s wife has been casting about for answers as well. She has even considered a curse on her husband, from his time in places like West Africa.”

“Curses are interesting things,” Dr. Davies replied. “They work when people believe that they will work. In short, the curse is effective because the victim accepts that it will happen, and that nothing can be done to prevent it from happening as foretold. In my view, Teller was far too intelligent—and knowledgeable about the people with whom he worked—to be taken in by such a threat. I’ve talked to several other missionaries who told me that a curse had been put on them by a tribal shaman, a way of discouraging competition, one might say. And of course it failed, which caused no end of trouble for the shaman. His power was seen to be weak.”

“What would be a modern equivalent of a curse?” Rutledge asked.

“Ah,” Davies answered him. “That’s an even more interesting question. I expect it would take the form of something happening once and the fear that it could happen again. If one finds an intruder in one’s house on a dark night, it might well be something one would fear, coming into that same house on another dark night.” He smiled. “Guilt can produce irrational fears as well.”

“Was Teller likely to die of his illness? Was that on his mind?”

“At a guess, no, it wouldn’t have killed him. The fact that he recovered so quickly points to the same conclusion.”

Dr. Sheldon put in, “I can tell you this. Walter Teller wasn’t afraid of dying. When he turned his face to the wall, it was his acceptance that death was preferable.”

“Preferable to what?” But they had no suggestions in Teller’s case.

He said, “Do you have any reason to think that Walter Teller was being poisoned?”

“No. We considered poisoning. We found no evidence of it. Is there any reason to believe—”

Rutledge cut in quickly, “No. It’s something a policeman must bear in mind.”

Hamish said as they left the clinic, “It isna’ likely that he went away to die. He could ha’ hanged himself in his room while his wife was resting at his brother’s house.”

“He didn’t want his wife to find his body.”

Rutledge spent much of that day and well into the early evening going to police stations all across London, showing the photograph he’d been given to each shift of constables coming in or going out.

They studied the photograph, but no one had seen anyone resembling Teller. And as a rule, constables on the street could be counted on to remember the faces of people not normally seen on their patch, keeping an eye out for troublemakers and strangers alike. Even a well-spoken, well-dressed man like Walter Teller would be noted for future reference.

One constable, shaking his head, said to Rutledge, “It’s more likely that he found a cab soon after leaving the clinic, well before the search began. He could be anywhere now. He could have taken an omnibus, a train, or cadged a lift from someone.”

But Rutledge had already sent a man from the Yard to speak to any cabbie who had taken up custom near the clinic at four o’clock on the afternoon in question. No one remembered seeing Walter Teller or even someone who looked like him.

“Ye’re searching for a needle in a haystack,” Hamish told Rutledge.

“Or for one man when there might well have been two, if someone had come for him, or was there to help him dress and leave.”

The clinic had had no record of visits to Walter Teller, other than the immediate family. Still, it was possible to use another patient’s name to pass the porter and gain access. But that led him nowhere, either.

Rutledge had even driven to Essex, to the house of Dr. Fielding, arriving there just as Fielding was preparing for his first patient of the afternoon.

The man reluctantly put aside the pipe he’d been smoking and addressed himself to Rutledge’s questions about Walter Teller.

“I can give you a brief sketch of his background. Missionary for many years, and then he married Jenny Brittingham. Rather than returning to the field, he chose to write a book about his experiences.”

“And this was . . . ?”

“Just a year or so before the war—1911? 1912?”

Rutledge thought how the war had defined time—before the war—after the war. As if that great cataclysmic event that had interrupted and ended so many lives was still with them like a personal watershed.

“And of course there is Harry, the son. Quite a nice child, and not at all spoiled, as you’d expect with doting aunts and uncles surrounding him. Jenny—Mrs. Teller has seen to that. She’s a very good mother.”

“Did Teller serve in the war?”

“As a matter of fact he did. Chaplain. But he was struck down with malaria in that rainy spring before the Somme and was sent home to recover. It was decided not to send him back to France, and so he worked among the wounded here.”

“Was there anything in his war years that might have affected what happened to him last week?”

Fielding raised his eyebrows. “Not to my knowledge. In fact, I remember Teller commenting that he’d seen death in so many guises that he’d lost his fear of it long before going to France. There was something about a famine in West Africa—people dying by the droves. And of course in China death was as common as flies, he said. No, you’re barking up the wrong tree there.”

“Then what caused his illness?”

“That I can’t tell you. Which is why I sent Teller to the Belvedere Clinic. And the last progress report I received was rather grim. He was showing no improvement, and in fact was beginning to feel paralysis in his arms and hands as well as in his legs.”

“Do you think this paralysis was genuine?”

Fielding said, “Are you asking me if his illness was feigned? No, of course not! I’d take my oath on that.”

“Then how would you account for the fact that three days ago, Walter Teller got out of his sickbed while his wife was resting, dressed himself, and walked out of the clinic?”

“He did what? You’re saying there was a
full
recovery? And what did his doctors make of that?” Leaning forward, Fielding stared hard at Rutledge.

“They had no better understanding of events than you do. But Teller is missing, and there’s been no word from him since he walked away.”

“My God. He’s still missing? How is Jenny? She must be distraught.”

“She’s taken it very hard, as you’d expect. Now, I repeat my earlier question—can you shed any light on his illness? Or his miraculous recovery?”

“If that’s what it was. I can’t imagine—look, Inspector, the man was ill. I saw that for myself. It was all I could do, with Mrs. Teller’s assistance and that of their maid, Mollie, to get him into their house, so I could examine him properly. He was a dead weight. And that’s not easy to fake. I’d look on the road between his banker’s and Essex for my answers. As for his recovery, someone else must have been there when he dressed and left the clinic. I can’t see how it was managed any other way.”

“Why should anyone help him leave the clinic, and not inform Mrs. Teller that he was safe and well elsewhere?”

Fielding said, “You aren’t—do you think there was foul play? No, that’s not possible.” He shook his head. “Walter had no enemies. Except perhaps himself. Because if this illness is in his mind, the reasons must go deep into something none of us is aware of.”

From Fielding’s surgery, Rutledge drove on to Witch Hazel Farm, and knocked at the door.

The housekeeper, Mollie, answered the summons, and as Rutledge introduced himself, she said quickly, “Don’t tell me something has happened to Mr. Teller!”

“Why should you think something has happened to him?” Rutledge asked, misunderstanding the direction of her question.

“Because you’re a policeman. And he wasn’t himself at all that day when he came home from London so ill.”

“His doctors are still uncertain about the cause of his illness. Tell me, was he in pain, when you were helping Mrs. Teller work with him?”

“Pain?” she repeated. “No, I’d not call it that. He was more fearful. I heard him ask Mrs. Teller twice if she thought it was his heart.”

“Were there any visitors to the house before he went to London? Any letters or telegrams?”

“No visitors since the party for Mr. Teller’s birthday,” Mollie told him. “And I don’t remember any letters in particular. I’m not in the habit of looking at the post when it’s brought. I just set it on the salver there.” She turned slightly to point to a long, narrow silver tray on the polished table in the large hall behind her. And then she frowned, as if the act of pointing out the salver had reminded her. “I do know there was a letter from the missionary society the morning of the party. I heard him say, under his breath, that God had remembered him at last. It was an odd thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“Did he receive letters from the society on a regular basis?”

“I don’t make a habit of looking at the post,” she repeated.

But Rutledge said, “You may not look at it, but you can’t help but see what’s there. This could be important.”

“If I was to guess,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, “then I’d say it had been some time since he’d had a letter from them. It was my understanding, with the war and all, not to speak of his malaria, that he was on what Mrs. Teller called extended leave.”

Had the letter been a recall to duty? It could explain Teller’s distress. Rutledge said, “Has any of the family come to the house since Mr. Teller was taken to the hospital in London?”

“Mr. Edwin and Mrs. Amy came to look through his papers last week. I think they were hoping to find a reason for Mr. Teller’s illness.”

That would have been before his disappearance. “Did they find what they were after?”

“I can’t say. I didn’t see them leave. I was in the kitchen making tea, and when I came up with the tray, the study was empty and the motorcar was no longer in front of the door.”

“Anyone else?”

“Mrs. Amy came back two days ago. She said she was collecting fresh clothes for Mrs. Teller. I helped her choose what she thought was suitable.”

“Did she go anywhere else in the house, besides Mrs. Teller’s bedroom? She didn’t for instance return to the study?”

“No, sir. I’d have known if she had.”

“And all she took from the house was clothing?”

“Yes, sir. I did ask her how Mr. Teller fared. She told me that Mrs. Teller would be staying on in London for the time being, while the doctors came to a conclusion about him. I could judge from her face that she was worried. Come to think of it, the clothing she took was mostly black. Now that’s distressing.”

And, Rutledge thought, two days ago Amy Teller had known that Walter Teller was missing.

Back in London, Rutledge went again to Marlborough Street and to Bolingbroke Street to call on Edwin Teller and his brother Peter. But neither of them had returned to the city.

He stopped by his own flat afterward for a change of clothing and found a telegram on his doorstep.

The early darkness of an approaching storm had settled over the streets, and a wind was picking up, lifting bits of papers from the gutter and tossing the flower heads in the garden next but one to his flat.

The war had taught so many people that telegrams brought bad news. Someone missing. A death. The end of hope. He reached down to pick it up and had the strongest premonition that he shouldn’t open it.

Hamish said, “The war is o’er. There’s no one left to kill.” Bitterness deepened the familiar voice.

Rutledge lifted the telegram from the doorstep and shoved it in his pocket as the storm broke overhead, lightning flaring through the darkness like the flashes of shells, followed by thunder so close it was like the guns of France pounding in his head.

He poured himself a drink, forcing the images that were crowding his mind back into the blackness whence they’d come, and this time succeeded in breaking the spell. Or was it only the storm’s fury moving on downriver and fading safely into the distance that erased the memories of the fighting? He couldn’t be sure. He found a clean shirt and put it on, then reached into his pocket for the telegram.

The skies were just clearing enough that he could read it without lighting the lamp. He recognized the name below the message and realized that his premonition had been right.

The telegram had been sent by David Trevor.

A surge of guilt swept through him. Too many letters from his godfather had gone unanswered. This was surely a summons to appear in Scotland and explain himself.

Trevor had written plaintively in his last letter, “The press of an inquiry? What, are you killing off the good citizens of London at such a rate that there’s not a minute to spare for us? I find that hard to believe.” And Rutledge could almost hear the amusement in his words, as well as the uncertainty and the sadness.

He scanned the brief message.

And the time of the train followed.

For an instant of panic, Rutledge considered that
us.

Oh, God, surely not the entire household!

But no, Trevor must have meant himself and his grandson. And that was bad enough.

Rutledge swore with feeling, trapped and without any excuse or escape.