Charles Todd: The red door

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.

When 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

After 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.