The Red Door Read Free Page A

and stop in the circle before the house. His hands refused to open the door, his feet refused to lift from the pedals. Fear held him in a vise, and he could do nothing for Harry, he couldn’t even save his son.
    His wife came running from the house.
    “Walter? What’s the matter? What’s happened?” Jenny cried, taking in his pale, sweating face and shaking hands.
    “Something’s happened to Harry.”
    “He’s in Monmouthshire, visiting the Montleighs—”
    “I know—I know. Call them. Pray God it isn’t too late. Tell them we’ll be there as soon as possible.”
    But how was he to drive to Monmouthshire? He’d find a way.
    She ran back into the house, and he sat there, fists clenched, eyes shut, his mind straining to hear the conversation that was going on inside the house. He felt he would stop breathing before Jenny could bring him the answer.
    There she was—running toward him. He scanned her face.
    “Harry’s all right, Walter, he’s just fine.” Mollie, the housekeeper was on her heels, wiping her hands in her apron. “I’ve called Dr. Fielding, he’s on his way. Can you come inside? Walter—what’s wrong ?”
    Exhausted, he sat there, not moving. He could die now. It was all right. If that was demanded of him, he’d understand.

Chapter 5
    London, Early June, 1920
    A fter several days of giving evidence in the case in Sheffield, Ian Rutledge had returned to the Yard to find Superintendent Bowles suffering from dyspepsia and a headache.
    Glowering at Rutledge, Bowles had snapped, “You’re late.”
    “There was a heavy storm in the north. Trees down, in fact, and part of the road washed away.”
    “If you took the train like the rest of us, you’d have been on time.”
    “As it happens, the train was late as well.”
    “And how would you know that?”
    “When I came in just now, I overheard Sergeant Gibson telling someone there had been problems with tracks in the north as well as the road.”
    “What was the outcome in Sheffield? Well? Don’t keep me waiting,” Bowles snapped.
    “The jury was not long in convicting. Tuttle will spend the rest of his life in prison.”
    “I thought the Crown hoped he’d hang.”
    “The jury was not for it.”
    “Damned county jurors. It was a hanging case if ever there was one. It would have been, in London.”
    Rutledge made no answer. He’d agreed with the jury. It had been, as the French would say, a crime of passion, an overwhelming grief that had ended in the death of Tuttle’s ill wife. Whether by design or by accident, only God knew. For Tuttle, hanging would have in many ways been a travesty.
    Bowles took out his watch and opened the case, looking at the time. “Just as well you’re back. I’m informed there’s trouble in Brixton, and we’re shorthanded at the moment. Clarke is in Wales, and I’ve just sent Mickelson to Hampshire.” He waited for Rutledge to raise any objection. Satisfied that none was forthcoming, he went on. “Four barrow boys in a brawl with a handful of Irishmen. But it has to be sorted out. Two are in hospital, and one could be dead by morning. And he’s the brother-in-law of the constable who broke it up. There’ll be hard feelings, and no end of trouble if the man dies.”
    And so Rutledge had taken himself off to Brixton, only to learn the fight had occurred because the men involved were out of work, gambling in an alley behind The Queen’s Head, and were far too gone in drink to do more than bloody one another when one side had accused the other of cheating. The man said to be on the verge of death by his hysterical wife was nothing of the sort, merely unconscious and expected to recover his senses momentarily. And the Irishmen were as sheepish as their English counterparts. A night in gaol would sober them sufficiently to be sent home by the desk sergeant with a flea in their ear, and they had already informed Rutledge during his interview with them that they were the best of friends despite a small