Charles Todd: The red door

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."