The Red Door Part 6

They spoke to the costermonger for another quarter of an hour, but he refused to change his story, although he claimed that he had not found shoes or hat with the trousers, s.h.i.+rt, and coat.

Sergeant Biggin turned to Rutledge. "A man doesn't leap into the river wearing his hat and shoes."

"For all we know, they were taken away before the costermonger found the rest of Teller's belongings."

Rutledge made a brief examination of the clothing. The labels had been removed.

The costermonger said quickly, "They were that way when I found them."

"Yes," Biggin retorted, "and the moon's the sun's daughter."

"It's true," the man exclaimed. "I'll swear to it, if you like."

Rutledge tended to believe him, although the sergeant remained dubious. But if it wasn't the costermonger-then who had taken the time to remove them? Someone intent on throwing dust in the eyes of the police? But if it hadn't been for the vigilance of a constable, the clothing would have disappeared into the backstreets of East London, never to come to light.

"Ye canna' find a man sae easily in different clothes," Hamish pointed out.

To buy a little time, perhaps. Or travel.

In the end, the costermonger lost his sale, and Rutledge, after complimenting the constable for his good eye, left with a box under his arm containing what appeared to be Walter Teller's clothing.

He went directly to Bond Street, and walked up and down, looking in shop windows. And then he saw what he was after. Grantwell & Sons specialized in dressing men who spent much of their time in the country, and displayed over a handsome chair in the window was a man's suit of similar style and cut.

The shop was not busy at that hour, and Rutledge had the full attention of the owner. Bolts of fine cloth, trays of b.u.t.tons and collars, and an array of hats indicated a clientele with the resources and taste to dress well. Sammy Underwood had found himself a bargain.

Mr. Grantwell recognized his workmans.h.i.+p at once, though he deplored the missing labels and the condition of the items he was scrutinizing. After consulting his client book with its diagrams and lists and measurements, he identified the owner of the clothing.

Looking up, he asked quietly, "May I inquire why you are bringing these to me? Does it mean that some harm has come to Mr. Walter Teller?"

"We haven't spoken to Mr. Teller. These were found in the possession of a costermonger, and we are trying to discover who they belonged to and how they came into his hands," Rutledge answered him. It was the truth, as far as it went, and Mr. Grantwell could make of it what he chose.

The tailor nodded. "Indeed. Which of course explains their state. I must say, I've always admired Mr. Teller," he went on. "In his book, he described his years in the field. It was quite shocking. Accustomed as he was to the life of a gentleman, it was remarkable how well he coped with hards.h.i.+p and deprivation. It is a tribute to his upbringing that he had the resources of spirit to fall back on."

Rutledge was struck by Grantwell's remark. Jenny Teller had also mentioned the terrible conditions of her husband's fieldwork, but from a police point of view, Rutledge had considered them as a possible explanation for Teller's disappearance: events that could have preyed on his mind years afterward. But now he could see another point of view-that if Walter Teller had deliberately disappeared, for whatever reason, he was better prepared than most to deal with a completely different way of life. Sleeping rough, for one, and for another, disappearing into the London scene not as Walter Teller, Gentleman, but as an ordinary man of the streets, invisible to police eyes. And a first step would have been altering his appearance-including ridding himself of the clothing that would identify him.

Hamish, silent for some time, told him, "If ye're right, he's no' coming back."

Grantwell was saying, "My father had the pleasure of serving Mr. Teller's father before him, and I'd like to think we'll serve young Master Harry in the years to come."

He was fis.h.i.+ng, an experienced angler in search of information.

And it occurred to Rutledge that a man's tailor knew nearly as much about him as his servants, tidbits garnered in fitting sessions or the type of cloth ordered. Military, funeral, wedding, baptism, riding, a weekend in the country or a shooting party in Scotland, receptions at the Palace or a day at Ascot. His own tailor, solicitous of the gaunt, haunted man who walked into his shop a year ago in need of new suits of clothing for his return to the Yard, had asked if his wounds were healing well and if there was to be a happy event in the near future.

Rutledge hadn't been able to tell him the truth, the words refusing to form in his mind, and so he had murmured something about no date had been set, and then barely heard what followed as the man prattled on about his own son's marriage in the winter.

He said now, "Mr. Teller's brothers are among your clients as well?"

"Yes, indeed. Mr. Edwin Teller has never enjoyed good health, but during the war he was engaged in work for the Admiralty, serving with distinction, I'm told. He was for many years a designer of boats and often traveled to Scotland to oversee their construction. He was given a private railway carriage. Captain Teller was severely wounded a few months before the Armistice. I understand there was some concern that he might never walk again."

The shop door opened and an elderly man stepped in. A clerk hurried from the back of the shop to greet him, and Mr. Grantwell said to Rutledge, "Is there any other way I can help you? My next appointment . . ." His voice trailed off, and Rutledge took the hint, thanking him and leaving.

Now came the unpleasant duty of showing the items of clothing to Mrs. Teller, to confirm what the tailor had said, that they did indeed belong to her husband.

Leaving the sergeant with the box, Rutledge looked first in Teller's private room, and then went to Matron's sitting room.

There he found Jenny Teller in conversation with another couple. The atmosphere was unexpectedly tense. And as he opened the door, he'd caught a fleeting expression of relief on Jenny's face, as if she were glad of the interruption.

Then her expression changed to alarm as she realized that it was Rutledge and not a member of Matron's staff.

"Is there news?" she asked quickly.

"We haven't found your husband, no," he answered her.

She nodded. She was beginning to cope with her shock and her fear. Her husband's disappearance, coming on the heels of his mysterious illness, had shaken her badly, her emotions raw, her tears not far below the surface. Now Rutledge could see changes in her face, a new strength and determination, an unwilling acceptance of the unacceptable: that her life had changed.

She turned to present her companions.

"My brother and sister-in-law. Edwin Teller and his wife, Amy."

Amy Teller came forward with her hand outstretched. "Yes, Jenny was just telling us that the Yard had joined in the search. We're very grateful."

Rutledge was struck by Edwin's wife. She was well dressed, attractive in the way she held herself, and had clear, intelligent eyes. But there was something behind that intelligence that spoke of worry, and a sleepless night.

Edwin, pale and showing signs of an even deeper fatigue, was a rather handsome man with an Edwardian beard. He stood to greet Rutledge and said, "We've just come back from searching, ourselves. I'm afraid we've had no better luck. I was hoping . . ." He shrugged eloquently, unwilling to finish the sentence in the presence of Walter's wife.

Rutledge said, "You were looking for your brother. May I ask where?"

"We've only just got back," Amy answered for her husband. "I thought he might have gone to the house in Ess.e.x. I know, Jenny disagreed, but I did look. Edwin and Peter went to Cambridge on the odd chance Walter had gone to see someone there. Edwin seemed to remember being told that a colleague had retired there."

Jenny said, "I didn't know that. Was it Percy? I thought he had gone back to Northumberland."

"As it turned out, Percy is there for the summer," Amy told her. "He wasn't at home when Edwin called, he was meeting with someone at the college."

Edwin said to Rutledge, "My brother was severely wounded in the war and is still recovering. He kept me company."

It was an unnecessary clarification, and Amy spoke quickly to cover it. Indeed, Amy Teller appeared to answer for her husband almost as if uncertain that he knew his lines on cue.

"Susannah-she's Peter's wife, Inspector-drove to Cornwall, where the family often went on holiday. And Leticia, Edwin's sister, was in Portsmouth, on the off chance that Walter might have"-she hesitated, glancing uncertainly toward Jenny-"where he might in his confusion have thought he was returning to the field."

Edwin said, "We didn't find him, but it was better than waiting for the police to get around to looking beyond London. And we might have got lucky. There's always that." He sounded defeated but smiled for Jenny's sake and added, "We could count on Jenny here at the clinic, if the police came through."

Jenny glanced from one to the other, and said, "Portsmouth was a waste of time. Leticia should have stayed here. Walter wouldn't have left the country without telling me. He wouldn't have left Harry without a word. No matter how confused he might be."

"Do you know for a fact that he didn't try to contact his son?" Rutledge asked.

"Well-no. But Mary would have sent word at once if he had." Edwin replied.

"You should have informed the police before leaving London," Rutledge told them. "It would have been helpful."

"It wasn't a Yard matter, then," Amy answered. "And there's something else. Jenny was just telling us that a watch is being kept on the river. Surely these men could be put to better use searching the city. None of us can believe that Walter intended to do away with himself."

Rutledge said, "I don't think any of us can say with certainty what was in Teller's mind when he left the clinic."

Jenny Teller said stubbornly, "I've told you. Walter won't kill himself."

"With respect, Mrs. Teller, he hasn't been seen for days. He hasn't contacted you, he hasn't come back to the clinic. Your husband's family seems to feel he left London almost at once. I'd like to know why they were so certain of that?"

Edwin said, "Because we know him. Because he's our brother."

"And so you believed that he would visit a colleague-or his childhood holiday home-as soon as he came to himself again?"

Edwin said shortly, "Don't be absurd. That's not what we believed. It's just-look, we were clutching at straws. We drove around London searching for him that first afternoon, and then we tried to think where he might go if he needed to talk to someone or remember where he was happy as a child."

"You think, then, that he isn't fully cured?"

"d.a.m.n it, I don't know," Edwin told him. "You're the policeman, what do you think?"

"The evidence we have is circ.u.mstantial. He was able to walk out of the clinic. All well and good. He was able to dress himself presentably, so that he wouldn't attract attention leaving with the afternoon's visitors. That argues a certain awareness, an ability to think ahead. With respect, Mrs. Teller," he went on, "he chose a time when no one was here to stop him or ask questions. That tells us he knew where he wanted to go and why, and perhaps it didn't necessarily march with your opinion on the subject. And you, Mr. Teller, weren't here pacing the floor, your sister wasn't here demanding that something be done and quickly, making a nuisance of herself with the staff and the police. That's what generally happens, you see. Instead, the family left London with almost indecent haste. Mrs. Teller, unable to reach any of you, was left to cope on her own. What, I wonder, was so urgent in your minds that it took precedence over every other consideration? And don't talk to me again about old friends and childhood holidays."

Bowles had urged Rutledge to be careful in his handling of the Teller family. But if they were withholding information, he needed to know now.

"I won't listen to this," Edwin said, getting to his feet.

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 s.h.i.+rt, 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.