The Red Door by Charles Todd Page A

showed her his identification, and she proceeded to look him up and down.
    “I didn’t know the Yard had been brought into this matter.”
    From her tone, he thought she disapproved of such a move.
    “I believe you were in Portsmouth when that decision was made,” he countered. “Perhaps it might be wise to speak privately.”
    She turned to Harry. “Well, we’ll leave the pollywogs to rest awhile, shall we? I think there might be lemonade in the kitchen, if you ask nicely. And clean your feet before you run in.”
    The boy straightened, a sturdy fair-haired child with a ready smile. “They won’t go away, will they?”
    “No, they live here, and they’ll be waiting when you come back.”
    He nodded happily and dashed off.
    “Walter’s son,” Leticia Teller told Rutledge. She turned to the other woman, who had risen from the bench on which she’d been sitting and come to join them. “Mary Brittingham. Jenny Teller’s sister.”
    She was fair, like her sister, but a little shorter, a pretty woman with an air of someone who knew her own worth.
    “Miss Brittingham,” he acknowledged.
    “Now to what has brought you here. Is there any news? You wouldn’t have come all this way if there wasn’t.”
    “Clothing that has been identified as your brother’s was found by the river. Mrs. Teller recognized them.”
    “But there’s no news of Walter?” Mary put in.
    “None.”
    “Are you saying that the police believe he’s drowned himself? While in an unsound state of mind? Nonsense. I don’t believe it for a moment.” Leticia Teller led them to a circle of chairs out on the terrace. “Do sit down, Inspector.”
    “I’m not drawing conclusions,” Rutledge said, taking the chair indicated. “But the possibility is there. Why did your brother leave the hospital, Miss Teller? He chose a time when his wife was not at his side. He dressed himself—or someone helped him dress—and he walked away.”
    “Who helped him dress?” she asked sharply. “We—my brothers and I—were in Edwin’s house when the news came of his disappearance. Who was there to help?”
    “That’s what we would like very much to know.” He turned to Mary Brittingham. “You were not in London at the time?”
    “No, I went to Monmouthshire to fetch Harry and brought him back to stay with me while Jenny was at the clinic with Walter. He’s been with me ever since.” She took a deep breath. “He believes his parents are visiting friends. I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.”
    “If Walter Teller dressed himself and left the clinic knowingly, where would he be likely to go?” Rutledge asked them.
    Mary said, “It’s possible, you know, that he left the clothing by the river himself. To buy himself a little time to think. That’s probably why he left the clinic in the first place.”
    Leticia Teller regarded her with distaste. “Are you saying that my brother is aware of what he’s doing?”
    “I think it’s likely that he hasn’t found a solution to whatever caused him to be ill in the first place. Did you know he’d heard from his bishop? They want him back. He wrote to tell me he didn’t know how to answer them.”
    “No, I hadn’t heard that,” Leticia said slowly. “He said nothing to us about it. Or to Jenny.”
    “He felt Jenny was distressed enough over Harry. I don’t think Walter wants to go back into the field. I’m of two minds myself. I know they need good men, experienced men. But I don’t think Walter is emotionally prepared to resume his work. He told Jenny before the war that he’d spent too much of his life in places where he felt he’d done very little good.”
    “He was praised for his honesty,” Leticia said. “After the book came out, you know how people admired it. He gave the proceeds to his mission society, for good works.”
    “I imagine, in lieu of his physical presence in the field. You saw his book as a triumph. I saw it as an exorcism.”
    “That’s an odd