The Red Door

“And you think there’s a connection?”

“Yes. I think Walter has made his decision. I think he’s decided he’s going back into the field. There must be something that he feels he’s left undone, and what’s sent him away is that he doesn’t know how to tell me. Edwin and Peter must have guessed. It’s why they went looking for him where they did.”

In the passage, Rutledge met Matron coming toward him. “There is no news?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“What do you have there? May I know?”

“We’ve found Mr. Teller’s clothing. I brought it here for Mrs. Teller to identify.”

Matron was silent a moment, and then she said, “But you don’t know yet that he’s dead? You haven’t found him? Mr. Teller?”

“No. As I’ve just explained to his family, if he’s wearing different clothes, it will make spotting him all that much more difficult. And we don’t know what other changes he has made. Unless finding these by the river is an indication that he took his own life.”

She said, “I think he wanted to die while he was here. But wanting something and having the opportunity to achieve it can be two very different things.” She gazed down the passage, the way she’d come. “I must tell you that I had the oddest feeling that Mr. Teller had lost his faith. Perhaps that’s what he’s trying so hard to find.”

“His wife feels he’s made the decision to return to mission work.”

“Perhaps that’s why,” she said, and walked away.

Rutledge looked after her, considering her words. He was turning to go when he nearly collided with a well-dressed man just stepping out of one of the doctors’ offices, pushing an invalid chair. The woman swathed in shawls and a motorcar rug looked up and smiled at Rutledge, her thin, illness-ravaged face still attractive and sweet. He smiled in return and held the door for the man.

From the clinic, Rutledge drove directly to Bolingbroke Street, intending to speak to Captain Teller before either Edwin or his wife could describe their conversation with Scotland Yard.

Hamish said, “Do you believe what yon missionary’s wife told you?”

“It could be true. It would explain many of the loose ends. For instance, why Teller is so insistent that he enroll his son in Harrow.”

“But why take the boy fra’ his mother at sich a time?”

And that was the sticking point.

It might be well to have a word with the family solicitors.

The house in Bolingbroke Street was a corner property, trees overhanging the tall fence that enclosed the back gardens, giving it privacy.

When Rutledge knocked at the door, the maid who answered told him that Captain Teller was in the garden.

He noted as he passed through the house to the study where French doors gave onto the garden, that it had been tastefully decorated, with an air of old money that was unmistakable. There were two or three landscape paintings of the Dutch school, and one portrait of a woman in a white gown with rich blue sleeves and ribbons. She was of another generation, and dressed for a ball, but her stance and her dark blue eyes, which matched her sleeves, suggested intelligence and humor. A half smile lurked at the corners of her mouth.

When Rutledge stepped out onto the terrace, he could see Peter Teller sitting in a chair by the small pond, his left leg pillowed on a hassock.

Captain Teller had stronger features than those shown in the photograph of his brother that Rutledge still carried. There was already a touch of gray at his temples, and his blue-gray eyes were bloodshot.

For the captain was very drunk.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “I told Iris I wasn’t at home today.”

“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I’m looking into the disappearance of your brother.”

“Are you, indeed. Well, I hope you have better luck than we have had. Any news?”

“Nothing promising.”

As Rutledge crossed the lawn, Teller indicated the chair opposite him. “Sit down. It strains my back when I have to look up at you.”

Rutledge took the chair.

Teller went on, “I’m not usually drunk at this hour. The last three days have been hellish. I do my best, but sometimes the medicines my doctor prescribes can’t touch the pain. I’d have been better if I’d let them take the damned leg when they wanted to.”

“Is there nothing more to be done?” Rutledge asked sympathetically.

“The doctors have washed their hands of me. After two or three surgeries and endless treatments with heat and massage and the like, they can’t think of anything else to do. I’m told that I’m fortunate. The sort of treatments now available didn’t exist in the past. They took your leg, and you went home on crutches or a wooden limb. And that was that. But you haven’t come to discuss my leg, I take it.”

“I’m hoping that you can shed some light on your brother’s disappearance, or if not, on his state of mind the last time you saw him.”