Charles Todd - The red door

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.

Arriving tomorrow. Stop. Meet us at station.

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.

He found an umbrella and went back out to his motorcar, driving through the wet streets to his sister's house. For a mercy, she was at home, and he came through the door almost shouting for her.

"Ian. I'm neither deaf nor in the attics. What's the matter?" she demanded, coming down the stairs.

He held up the telegram. "Trevor's coming. Did you know? He'll have to stay with you, I'm afraid, there's no hope that the flat can be made habitable in time." The thought of Trevor being there, in the same flat, hearing Rutledge scream in the night, was unbearable. Explaining why he screamed at night would be beyond him. And Trevor-Trevor would speak to Frances, and ask if she knew.

"Habitable? Don't be silly. When has your flat been anything but scrupulously tidy? I sometimes wonder if you ever really live there. But yes, he's staying here." She laughed at the panic in his eyes. "Darling, this is your godfather. Not your Colonel in Chief. He's bringing the little boy. He told me that Morag was turning out the cupboards and beating the mattresses, and it was no place for sane men to linger." But the panic hadn't subsided in her brother's eyes, and she said, her laughter vanishing, "Ian. Surely you don't mind giving up a day or two to spend with David? I'll see to his comfort, of course I will. But he'll want to talk to you, dine with you, that sort of thing. He's been worried, if you must know. You haven't written in ages, and he needs to be reassured that all's well." She paused, still considering him. "All is well, isn't it, Ian? It's just been the press of work, hasn't it?"

He was well and truly caught.

The trouble was, David Trevor was an insightful man, and he would see too much. What if Hamish sent him into darkness in the middle of a dinner-a drink at Trevor's club-during a walk in St. James's Park? And there had been insufficient warning, not enough time to prepare himself. He'd be on parade, as surely as if he were in the Army again, and in the end he'd betray himself out of sheer witless nerves. Something would slip, a word, a hesitation, an instant's lapse in concentration. Trevor would know.

Frances said gently, "It's David, my dear, and he's lost his son. He's still grieving."

"I can't replace Ross. No one can." Rutledge stood there helplessly, with nowhere to turn.

"He isn't asking you to replace him. I think he merely wants to hear your voice and see your face and laugh with you at some bit of foolishness, the way you and he did before the war. A little space in time where there's neither past nor future, where he can pretend. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

He did. All too well. The question was, could he provide the strength and the ease someone else required, and not find himself mourning too?

Rutledge took a deep breath. "He should have given me a little time to arrange matters at the Yard…" His voice trailed off. There was the inquiry into Teller's disappearance. It was taking up all his time- "And you'd have put him off. I suspect he knew that. Meanwhile, I'm the one with the preparations to see to. We've aired the spare bedroom and the nursery, and there's food for meals and an invitation for his old partner in the architectural firm to lunch with David at his club, and there's even a lady who wants him to come to tea."

That got his attention. He looked up. "A lady?"

"Melinda Crawford, of course." She smiled. "We're going to Kent the day after tomorrow. It's arranged."

He could see how much had been planned without his knowledge. But if there was a luncheon and a visit to Kent, as well as the zoo, or whatever else a small restless boy might wish to see, he might-just-make it through.

"Ian?"

"All right. But you must go to the station, I can't take-"

"But you can take a half an hour," she said gently. "And bring them here to me."

And so it was that he found himself at St. Pancreas the next morning, waiting for the train from Edinburgh, Hamish ringing in his ears and his mouth dry as bone.

For nearly eight months, Rutledge had refused every invitation from his godfather, David Trevor, to come back to Scotland. What had happened there in September of the previous year had left him physically near death and emotionally shattered. He needed no reminder of that time-events were still etched in his memory, and Hamish had seen to it that every detail remained crystal clear. For he had entered Hamish's world without any warning to prepare either of them, and the price had nearly been too high.

He could not tell his godfather why the very thought of traveling north was still anathema. Because of Fiona, the woman Hamish should have lived to marry. Because too many young Scots like Hamish had died under his command. All the same, he sometimes felt that Trevor already understood much of the story, at least the part that had taken place in Scotland. Please God, no one would ever learn the whole truth about Hamish, and what had happened in France.

He was grateful now for the inquiry that was presently taking up so much of his time-it would give him the excuse to absent himself from his visitors when the strain of pretense was too much.

Rutledge met the travelers at the station, as promised, and as the train came into view, he felt tension invest his body, like steel rods.

Hamish said derisively, "It willna' help."

Rutledge said nothing in reply, swallowing the bitter taste that rose in his throat.

And then the carriages were passing him, slowing as the train came to a halt, and it was too late to run. His godfather was at the window waving to him before the carriage door opened, and then Trevor was stepping out, holding the small boy named for Rutledge by the hand. He said something to the child, and reached back into the carriage for the leather valise he'd left on the seat. Rutledge had a few seconds in which to realize that his godfather looked better than when he had last seen him. Some of the strain was gone from his face, and his step was lighter. The boy's doing, at a guess.

The two crossed to where Rutledge was waiting, rooted to the spot.

"Hallo, Ian, it's good to see you!" Trevor said heartily, taking his outstretched hand. "Everyone sends their love. And here is the young chatterbox, as we call him. My lad, do you remember your honorary uncle? He knew your father very well once upon a time."