Charles Todd - The red door

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."