Charles Todd - The red door

Something fell over in the house. Rutledge moved quietly through the gate.

Hamish said, "Someone's in yon parlor."

"Yes."

And then a light bloomed in the bedroom window, a candle flame, he was sure of it.

Rutledge returned to his motorcar and collected the torch. Then crouching low so that he couldn't be seen from the windows, he made his way to the rear of the house.

He stumbled, realized that he'd tripped over one of the tiny head-stones, and froze. But no one came to the windows or the door. Aware that he'd failed to gauge his approach properly, he realigned his direction to avoid the flower beds by the kitchen door.

Ducking under the kitchen windows, he glimpsed a flash of light, as if whoever was holding the candle was moving down the stairs.

Time was of the essence.

He reached the door, counting to twenty-five before putting his hand on the latch. Lifting it gently, he waited in the doorway.

No one spoke, and he stepped inside.

The candle was in the parlor. He couldn't see who was holding it, only the faint glow as it was raised to allow someone to survey the room.

It moved on to the sitting room.

Rutledge was well inside the kitchen now, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness within the house.

Then there was an intake of breath, and a curse as the candle went out.

"My God, what are you doing here?" It was Teller speaking. And then the scrape of a match, and the candle bloomed into life again. Rutledge could see Teller's shadow thrown against the far wall, black and formidable, but knew he himself was invisible.

Teller raised his voice. "I asked you what you were doing here?"

A woman's low voice said, "The police said you weren't here. But I knew you were. Do you think you can make amends to her? Or is this sackcloth and ashes too late?"

Rutledge strained his ears. Was it Susannah? Hamish disagreed.

"Sanctuary. Of a sort. That's all."

"Men like Rutledge don't walk away. He'll find you here."

"Well. I'll think of somewhere else to go. I've lived rougher than this. At least the roof is sound, and I have a bed. Though I couldn't sleep in it. I made myself a pallet on the floor, next to Timmy's bed. I slept there many a night when he had croup or a heavy cold. It was familiar."

"Did you love him more than Harry?"

"I didn't know Harry. Even though I was there with him as he grew. Timmy kept getting in my way. I'd see his smile in the way Harry's lips quirked. The shrug of a shoulder-the way he'd kick a football. Even the way he sometimes talked with his mouth full and the way a lick of hair stood up straight after a nap. God, how I tried."

"And Jenny? Did you love her as much as you loved Florence? Or are you unable to love anyone but yourself?"

"What difference does it make to you? Yes, I thought I was in love with Florence-I was young, I wanted the world, and she thought I was everything I wanted to be. I could see myself in her eyes. Better than my father's, surely."

There was a silence, and he said, "Jenny knew nothing about Timmy. It was a relief to talk to her-to pretend this part of my past didn't exist. And then I couldn't bear not to come here and remember. You saw through me. You always have known the kind of man I was. It was like looking into my mirror, when I was with you."

"Yes. Well. It all came crashing down. You brought it down, you know. Wittingly or unwittingly."

"You haven't told me. Why did you come?" he asked.

"I brought you something."

"That's Peter's revolver."

"I thought you might like to die as Peter Teller. This Peter Teller."

"I won't hang, and I won't shoot myself. I disappeared before, and I can do it again. You heard Gran-what she said will still be enough to hang me about the laudanum."

"I was angry enough with you to want to see you hang," she said. "I could have told them it was nonsense about the laudanum. She could tolerate it perfectly well, mixed with warmed milk. I don't know why she was ill that other time. She might have had a miscarriage for all I knew."

"Why the hell didn't you speak up and tell Jessup what you knew?"

"Why should I make life easier for you? It would be best, really, if you just went away, but the police will find you in the end. Harry will do very well with Amy and Edwin to care for him. Put the barrel in your mouth and simply pull the trigger. Like this."

"You're wrong about me. I didn't kill anyone!"

"Of course you didn't. I did it for you."

Even from where he was standing, Rutledge could hear the hiss of Walter Teller's indrawn breath.

"It sorted out everything very nicely. Jenny died knowing she was safe and loved. Peter was the last connection with Lancashire. You of all people should appreciate the logic of that. After all, everything pointed to him. And it left Harry as the Teller heir, and that was all everyone cared about. If you're honest, you'll agree with me."

"Were you that jealous? I wasn't aware of it."

"That's because you're selfish and self-absorbed. So do the decent thing and get it over with. I loved you once-single-mindedly, blindly-but I was misled like everyone else. And now I've come to my senses."

"No. I won't touch that gun. In the morning, I'm going back to Essex. There's nothing left for me here."

"Are you so afraid to die?" she asked pityingly. "Well, then. I'll take care of that for you as well. My last gift."

And before Rutledge could move, the revolver fired. Through the echo, Rutledge heard a slight cough, then the sound of a body hitting the floor.

He reached the dining room in time to see Mary Brittingham standing over Walter Teller, the revolver down by her side, tears on her face shining in the light of the candle.

"Put down the weapon and step away from him," Rutledge said, his voice sharp.

She looked up, startled, so intent on the man lying at her feet that she hadn't heard Rutledge coming toward her.

"Why are you here?" she asked. "I'd have left him for them to find. They'd never have realized he hadn't killed himself."

Reaching Teller, he went down on one knee, feeling for a pulse. It was faint, fluttering. Rutledge swore silently. He shoved his handkerchief into the wound in Teller's chest, pressing against the warm flow of blood, willing it to stop. As the handkerchief was soaked, he flung out his other hand, trying to find something else to add to it. And Mary reached for the table's cloth and was down beside him, frantically adding the pressure of her hands to his.

They worked for several minutes, but Walter Teller's breathing slowed, caught, then stopped altogether.

Rutledge rocked back on his heels, easing his shoulders.

"No-don't stop," Mary cried.

"He's dead," Rutledge told her, but she wouldn't hear of it, begging him to find something else she could use, and when he wouldn't, she screamed at him, her voice a shriek that sounded like Jake's, wordless and primeval.

And then over her scream, he heard the faint choking sound that preceded a long indrawn breath, and Teller was breathing again.

Mary collapsed over Teller's body, telling him that she hadn't meant for him to die, begging his forgiveness. Rutledge picked up the revolver and put it in his pocket. He felt drained, but his mind was already setting out what had to be done next. He found sheets in the bedroom and tore them into strips, rough bandaging of a sort. And working swiftly, he moved the woman aside, leaving her huddled in a corner, crying, as he ripped the buttons from Teller's shirt and set about keeping the man alive.

The sun was just showing over the horizon when Mary Brittingham got to her feet. The first rays struck the front of Sunrise Cottage and illuminated the faded red door.

She looked down at Teller, still unconscious but alive.