The Red Door by Charles Todd Page A

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.”
    Peter Teller was very still for a moment. Then he said, “His state of mind the last time I spoke with him was worrying. I said something to my brother Edwin about it. Walter seemed to have lost the will to live. I expect it was the thought of being paralyzed for the rest of his life. And I couldn’t blame him there. The doctors were doing damn all. Well, to be fair, they couldn’t tell what should be done. I think the consensus was some unknown disease. Or else Walter was losing his mind.”
    “Do you know how his will stands, by any chance?”
    “His will? Damned if I know. But I should think there would be the usual bequests to Mollie—his housekeeper—and the church, and the rest left to Jenny in trust for Harry.” He frowned, trying to clear his head. “Are you suggesting that we ought to be prepared?”
    “We found your brother’s clothing early this morning, in possession of a costermonger who claimed he’d found them neatly folded close