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The Red Door

Driving all night, he came into London in a light rain, mist hanging heavy over the Thames as he turned toward his destination.

Hamish said, “Ye’re no’ fit to do this.”

It was true. He was unshaven, his clothing wrinkled and stained with Walter Teller’s blood. Mrs. Greeley had done her best with a damp cloth and an iron, but it was still there. Even if he couldn’t see it, he could feel the stiffness along the edges of his cuffs.

But there was no time to worry about that. He was nearly certain he was already too late.

Pulling up in front of the house in Chelsea where Meredith Channing lived, he sat for five minutes in the motorcar, searching for some sign of life. Proof that this hadn’t been a wild-goose chase.

And then he got out, feeling the cramps in his muscles, determined to know.

He had knocked at the door before he realized how early it was, how foolishly early.

But to his surprise, Meredith Channing opened the door herself. He only had time to notice that she was dressed for travel before she said, “Ian. What’s wrong?”

He could think of nothing to say. And then, “I’ve just returned from a case in the north,” he managed finally.

“I must finish my packing,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes filled with an emotion he was too tired to read. “My train leaves in an hour.”

“Don’t go,” was all he said then.

She shut the door without answering him.

As he walked back to the motorcar, he could feel her gaze on him from the window of her parlor.

He didn’t turn.

He had said what he’d come to say.

The decision must be hers.

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