The Red Door

Rutledge said, “The only alternative, sir, is that someone came here for your brother and spirited him out of the clinic.”

The consternation on the face of Edwin Teller was a reflection of his wife’s expression. Rutledge couldn’t tell whether they accepted the possibility or were shocked by it. But he was nearly certain that it had never occurred to them.

Jenny said, “This is nonsense. I won’t listen to any more. We need to concentrate on what’s important now, and that’s finding Walter.”

“There’s one other piece of business to attend to.” Rutledge turned from her brother-in-law to her as he spoke. “Give me a moment.”

He went out to find Sergeant Biggin and retrieve the box.

Returning to the room, he crossed to the table where Matron served tea to her guests and set the box carefully on the polished surface.

Jenny’s gaze hadn’t left the box from the moment Rutledge came through the door with his burden. It was almost as if she had a premonition of what lay inside.

Without a word, he removed the lid.

He thought at first that Jenny was going to faint, and he moved to help her, but she shook her head and resolutely looked into the box. Edwin followed her, and then Amy looked over his shoulder.

One glance was enough. Jenny’s gaze lifted to Rutledge’s face, and then she reached out her hand and caressed the cloth of her husband’s coat.

“It’s not very clean,” she began, then stopped, as if afraid to hear why.

“I must ask you to make a formal identification of the clothing. If you like, I’ll remove each item and hold it up for you.”

“You needn’t do that,” she said huskily. “It’s Walter’s.”

But he lifted out the coat, the shirt, and the trousers, all the same, along with a necktie.

“Where are his shoes and stockings?” she asked.

“We haven’t found them so far.”

“Where did these come from?” Amy asked, moving to Jenny’s side and linking arms with her. “How did you find them?”

“The clothing was in the possession of a costermonger near Covent Garden. He claims—I’m sorry, but I must tell you this—he discovered them neatly folded by the river not far from Tower Bridge. But no undergarments. And not his wallet. That can mean one of two things. That Mr. Teller is alive and still wearing them. Or they were taken away—or went into the river—to keep us guessing about what happened to him.”

“No, that’s not possible!” Amy said. “It’s a trick. Walter was playing a trick on us.” She had lost her veneer of helpfulness, anger replacing it.

Rutledge turned to her, surprised. “What makes you feel it was a trick?”

“It—it stands to reason! Walter hasn’t killed himself, he only wants us to think so. So we’ll stop looking.” She was very upset. “Show me his body, and then I’ll believe you.”

Jenny said, “Amy—”

But she turned away. “I’m tired,” she said. “You mustn’t pay any attention to me. I’m just—tired.”

Edwin had said nothing, staring at the clothing as if waiting for it to speak and explain itself. But now he said quietly to Rutledge, “Put those things back in the box where we can’t see them. You’ve made your point.”

Chapter 11

As Rutledge was refolding the clothing and settling it into the box again, Jenny Teller said thoughtfully, “The mission station in West Africa was by a river. I remember Walter telling us that he couldn’t wear his English clothing there—the damp ruined everything. And so he put them in a tin box and left them behind. He didn’t have a tin box just now, but he left his clothing behind as he was accustomed to doing.”

Edwin said, “Jenny—don’t.”

“No, I think it’s true. It’s oddly—comforting, somehow. It means he’s still alive. I’ve said from the beginning that he was.”

Edwin swore under his breath and cast a glance at his wife. She was watching Jenny, a look of anguish in her eyes.

Rutledge set the lid back on the box.

“We don’t know what he might be wearing now,” he warned them. “The search will be all that much more difficult.”

“I understand,” Jenny said. She took a deep breath. “He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

Rutledge was halfway to the door when Jenny called to him, “There’s something I should tell you. I hadn’t before. It was very—personal, and Walter has always been a very private man.”

He turned and waited.

“Matron very kindly had a cot put in my husband’s room for me, so that I might stay with him. The night before he disappeared, I woke up because I could hear him talking. It was only a murmur, I couldn’t make out the words, and at first I thought he must be talking in his sleep. But then I remembered another time when I’d heard him doing the same thing. It was when he was writing his book. And he had come to a chapter that disturbed him—he kept putting off working on it, and I told him that he should just write—you know, like getting back on a horse after it’s thrown you. It might not be the best material, but it would be a start, and he could revise it when he was finished. And so he did. And it was that night I heard him talking to himself. Or to someone. I never knew for certain what it was.”