Charles Todd: The red door

"Are you all right, sir? That was a very foolhardy thing to do," the constable chided him, bending over Hood. "And very brave, I must say." He was shoving something against the heavily bleeding wound as two more men came up and took Billy roughly from Rutledge's hold.

Rutledge knelt by Hood. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, but Mickelson had just reached them, out of breath, saying, "Who's this other man?" Thunder cut across the rest of his words.

"Good Samaritan," the constable retorted as he worked. "We'll need help straightaway, sir. This looks bad."

Billy said nothing, standing there pale in the torch beams, looking down at Hood. Then he burst out with, "What did you want to go and do that for? Now look at what's happened."

Hood cleared his throat, and they could all see flecks of blood like black freckles on his lips. "I didn't expect to see you again quite so soon," he said to Rutledge.

"What were you doing here?" Rutledge asked again.

"My son, man. This is my son," Hood replied haltingly.

They looked nothing alike. As Rutledge glanced from Hood's face to Billy's, he could find no resemblance at all. And then in a quirk of the light as Billy turned to him, fright replacing his belligerence, he caught a similarity in expression around the eyes.

He'd seen Billy only once before, and then only fleetingly. Yet he had managed to register that expression as Billy had tried to plead his innocence to another constable, and it had stayed with him. And Charlie Hood had triggered that memory.

Hood was leaning back in the constable's arms now, his face pale, his mouth a tight line of pain.

"It's my fault," he whispered, smiling with an effort. "I should have been in time. Long before this."

They were trying to lead Billy away, but he was fighting to stay with the man on the ground. A flash of lightning illuminated all their faces briefly in a shock of white light, and then they were blinded in the aftermath of blackness. Thunder rolled, and the breeze had become a wind tearing at their clothing and pulling at their hair.

Someone had come with a motorcar, and there was an effort to get Hood in the back before the rain fell. Already the first heavy drops accompanied the thunder just overhead, and Big Ben striking the quarter hour sounded muffled.

Mickelson said out of the darkness, "We couldn't see. There was a third person, and so we weren't sure."

Rutledge ignored him. He went to the motorcar as the rain fell and leaned in to speak to Hood. The man was breathing with some difficulty, and pain had set in. His clenched fist beat against the seat in rhythm with the throbbing.

"Why were you hunting him?" Rutledge asked urgently, bending over Hood.

"His mother and I separated years ago. I didn't know he was in trouble. I'd been working in the north. When I heard, I started looking. I nearly caught up with him the day Bynum was killed. Too late to save him. He needed a father's hand. I wasn't there. The men she lived with were bad for him. I didn't know. Criminal records."

"Why did he want to kill me?"

"I think-you got in his way. He never liked being thwarted. He tried to kill me once, when he was twelve. I made him return a stolen bicycle."

"Sir?" a constable said, and Rutledge pulled away. The motorcar gathered speed as it turned back the way it had come.

Billy too was gone, in custody.

A constable had stayed with Rutledge, rain cascading off his helmet and onto his cape. "Sir?" he said again.

"Yes, very well." And Rutledge turned with him toward the Yard. He realized he was wet to the skin and cold.

Mickelson had disappeared.

The constable said, "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine," he said shortly, and the constable was wise enough not to say more.

In truth he was not fine. Tired, hurting, and angry enough to take on Mickelson and Billy at the same time, he set the pace, stride for stride with the constable.

When they reached the Yard, the constable-he realized in the light above the door that it was Miller-said, "He held us back, sir. He said he couldn't see who was with you. The other man confused him. He said."

"It doesn't matter," Rutledge told him.

"I think it does, sir."

But Rutledge refused to be led into answering. He went to his office and sat there for some time in the dark, watching the storm move downriver, thinking about Billy and the man who had called him Will.

After an hour had passed, and then most of another, Rutledge stood up and walked to the door.

Chief Superintendent Bowles had not come to find him. Not to apologize for Inspector Mickelson's disregard for orders or to congratulate Rutledge on his role in capturing the killer the newspapers had begun to call the Bridge Murderer.

He drove to his flat, bathed, and changed to dry clothes, then slept for two hours. When he woke, his face on one side was bruised, his knee ached, but on the whole no damage had been done.

He stopped at the Yard to ask the night duty sergeant for news of Hood and was told that the hospital reported he was holding his own.

"And there's a message as well from Inspector Cummins, sir."

He handed it to Rutledge.

The single word Thanks was written in a bold script he recognized.

Nodding to the sergeant, he left and drove to Essex.

It was very early. The storm over London hadn't cleared the air here. The clouds were heavy, the rain dismal, and he had had no breakfast Hamish said, "It willna' improve your mood."

He waited in a lay-by until eight o'clock, and then drove the short distance to Witch Hazel Farm. He found Edwin standing in the doorway, looking out at the weather.

"It doesn't appear that this rain will stop," Edwin called as Rutledge got out of the motorcar. "Good God, man, what happened to your face?"

"An altercation with a belligerent prisoner," Rutledge said.

"Peter's funeral is today. Did you know?"

"I spoke to Mrs. Teller yesterday in London. She told me."

They walked indoors, and Edwin said, "What about Jenny? Can we go ahead there as well? I think it's not in Walter's best interests to go on brooding. We've hardly clapped eyes on him. He stays in his room. Leticia has been taking up his meals."

"I see no reason not to release the body," Rutledge said. "I've decided to agree with Inspector Jessup for now that these were accidents. I have found no evidence that they weren't."

"I don't see how anyone would gain by their deaths. Financially or otherwise."

Rutledge said, "It has nothing to do with money. What concerned me was the fact that your brother is no longer alive to deny he was married to Florence Marshall. And Jenny Teller is no longer alive to be hurt should the legitimacy of her marriage be questioned."

"I don't think-"

"No. I'm sure none of you did when first you embarked on this venture."

Edwin said, "As I was about to say, I don't think justice would be served by pursuing this."

Rutledge entered the study to find the family collected there, save for Walter. They looked tired, dispirited, and isolated in their own thoughts.

Mary said, "The funeral is at two o'clock this afternoon. Did Edwin tell you?"

He thanked her, and asked after Harry.

"He's bearing up well enough. The rector's son gave him a puppy. I don't know what Walter will say to that-he never cared for pets-but it has taken Harry's mind off death."

Rutledge was reminded of another small boy rewarded by a puppy from the litter in the barn.

Leticia said, "Did you speak to Susannah, Inspector? Is she coming?"

"I expect to see her," he said.

She started out of the room. "I'll see that her bed is made up."

Rutledge had the feeling that his very presence dampened the conversation. He followed Leticia out into the passage. "I don't believe she'll stay here," he told her.