The Red Door by Charles Todd Page B

by the river just south of the Tower.”
    “Good God,” Peter said blankly. “Is the man telling the truth? Or do you think something has happened to Walter? Did you speak to Edwin? What did he have to say?”
    “We’re not sure what to think,” Rutledge said. “That’s why I’m here. Why did your brother walk out of the clinic without a word to anyone? Why has he made no effort to reassure his wife that he’s alive and well? Has the marriage been a happy one? Or is it troubled?”
    “I—I have no answer to give you. There’s been a disagreement over Harry’s future, but it was bound to come at some point. In my opinion, Walter is wrong on that subject, but Jenny is Jenny—she’ll be angry for a time, and then find a way to cope.”
    “Where did you go when you left London to look for your brother?”
    “Where?” For an instant Peter Teller seemed to be at a loss. And then he asked, “Didn’t Edwin tell you?”
    “I had rather hear your version of events.”
    “Damn it, I’ve nothing to add to what he said. We went looking for Walter’s old adviser. He’d left Cambridge and moved to Scotland. It was a wild goose chase.”
    Which wasn’t what Amy Teller had told Rutledge.
    “Can you give me the direction of Walter’s solicitors? I’d like to speak to them.”
    Peter Teller moved so quickly he knocked his glass from the table at his elbow, and he swore, as the sudden movement hurt his back. “The man is still alive as far as we know. I think it’s obscene to read his will before he’s dead. I’ve told you, as far as I know, it’s straightforward. When you find his body, come to me and I’ll give you the name of the firm.”
    There was nothing more to be gained from Peter Teller. Rutledge thanked him and left.
    Walking back through the house, he encountered an attractive young woman with hair the color of honey and dark brown eyes. She started, and said, “Oh—I didn’t know we had guests.”
    Rutledge apologized, then identified himself.
    “Scotland Yard?” Her gaze shifted to the passage behind him, then back again. “You’ve—were you speaking to my husband?”
    Susannah Teller, then. He said, “I’ve just come from the garden.”
    “He’s a little—under the weather,” she told him. “I hope you’ll consider anything he said with that in mind.”
    What, he wondered, had she thought her husband might have said?
    “I would like to ask you the same questions, if you don’t mind. I’ve been put in charge of the search for your brother-in-law. Apparently you went to Cornwall on the off chance that he might be there.”
    “It was hardly an off chance, as you put it. His family had a summer cottage just north of St. Ives, and they often spent holidays there. The cottage was sold at his father’s death, but he might not have remembered that. He might have wanted a quiet sanctuary.”
    “Why? Why leave his wife to worry? If he’d recovered, why not take her with him?”
    She was watching his face. “We were trying to think where he might have gone. That’s all. Cornwall was a place of happy memories.”
    “What would you have done if you’d found him in Cornwall, confused and difficult to handle?”
    “I—I don’t believe I considered that possibility. I thought he might be grateful that someone was there, and come back with me without fuss.”
    Rutledge let it go. Whatever motivations the Teller family had had for going off on their own, they weren’t about to confide in the police. Until Walter Teller was found dead, there was no way to persuade his family otherwise.
    “Has Teller had a history of such disappearances?”
    “Good heavens, no! Nor has he ever been this ill, except of course for his bouts of malaria. That’s what was so worrying.”
    Was , not is .
    As if the solution was already known to them.
    Rutledge said, “Early this morning, the police discovered Teller’s clothing in the possession of a man who claims he found them beside the