Free The Red Door by Charles Todd Page B

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 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