The Red Door

“No visitors since the party for Mr. Teller’s birthday,” Mollie told him. “And I don’t remember any letters in particular. I’m not in the habit of looking at the post when it’s brought. I just set it on the salver there.” She turned slightly to point to a long, narrow silver tray on the polished table in the large hall behind her. And then she frowned, as if the act of pointing out the salver had reminded her. “I do know there was a letter from the missionary society the morning of the party. I heard him say, under his breath, that God had remembered him at last. It was an odd thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“Did he receive letters from the society on a regular basis?”

“I don’t make a habit of looking at the post,” she repeated.

But Rutledge said, “You may not look at it, but you can’t help but see what’s there. This could be important.”

“If I was to guess,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, “then I’d say it had been some time since he’d had a letter from them. It was my understanding, with the war and all, not to speak of his malaria, that he was on what Mrs. Teller called extended leave.”

Had the letter been a recall to duty? It could explain Teller’s distress. Rutledge said, “Has any of the family come to the house since Mr. Teller was taken to the hospital in London?”

“Mr. Edwin and Mrs. Amy came to look through his papers last week. I think they were hoping to find a reason for Mr. Teller’s illness.”

That would have been before his disappearance. “Did they find what they were after?”

“I can’t say. I didn’t see them leave. I was in the kitchen making tea, and when I came up with the tray, the study was empty and the motorcar was no longer in front of the door.”

“Anyone else?”

“Mrs. Amy came back two days ago. She said she was collecting fresh clothes for Mrs. Teller. I helped her choose what she thought was suitable.”

“Did she go anywhere else in the house, besides Mrs. Teller’s bedroom? She didn’t for instance return to the study?”

“No, sir. I’d have known if she had.”

“And all she took from the house was clothing?”

“Yes, sir. I did ask her how Mr. Teller fared. She told me that Mrs. Teller would be staying on in London for the time being, while the doctors came to a conclusion about him. I could judge from her face that she was worried. Come to think of it, the clothing she took was mostly black. Now that’s distressing.”

And, Rutledge thought, two days ago Amy Teller had known that Walter Teller was missing.

Back in London, Rutledge went again to Marlborough Street and to Bolingbroke Street to call on Edwin Teller and his brother Peter. But neither of them had returned to the city.

He stopped by his own flat afterward for a change of clothing and found a telegram on his doorstep.

The early darkness of an approaching storm had settled over the streets, and a wind was picking up, lifting bits of papers from the gutter and tossing the flower heads in the garden next but one to his flat.

The war had taught so many people that telegrams brought bad news. Someone missing. A death. The end of hope. He reached down to pick it up and had the strongest premonition that he shouldn’t open it.

Hamish said, “The war is o’er. There’s no one left to kill.” Bitterness deepened the familiar voice.

Rutledge lifted the telegram from the doorstep and shoved it in his pocket as the storm broke overhead, lightning flaring through the darkness like the flashes of shells, followed by thunder so close it was like the guns of France pounding in his head.

He poured himself a drink, forcing the images that were crowding his mind back into the blackness whence they’d come, and this time succeeded in breaking the spell. Or was it only the storm’s fury moving on downriver and fading safely into the distance that erased the memories of the fighting? He couldn’t be sure. He found a clean shirt and put it on, then reached into his pocket for the telegram.

The skies were just clearing enough that he could read it without lighting the lamp. He recognized the name below the message and realized that his premonition had been right.

The telegram had been sent by David Trevor.

A surge of guilt swept through him. Too many letters from his godfather had gone unanswered. This was surely a summons to appear in Scotland and explain himself.

Trevor had written plaintively in his last letter, “The press of an inquiry? What, are you killing off the good citizens of London at such a rate that there’s not a minute to spare for us? I find that hard to believe.” And Rutledge could almost hear the amusement in his words, as well as the uncertainty and the sadness.

He scanned the brief message.

Arriving tomorrow. Stop. Meet us at station.

And the time of the train followed.

For an instant of panic, Rutledge considered that us.

Oh, God, surely not the entire household!

But no, Trevor must have meant himself and his grandson. And that was bad enough.

Rutledge swore with feeling, trapped and without any excuse or escape.