Charles Todd - The Red Door

T HE I AN R UTLEDGE M YSTERIES

A Test of Wills

Wings of Fire

Search the Dark

Watchers of Time

Legacy of the Dead

A Fearsome Doubt

A Cold Treachery

A Long Shadow

A False Mirror

A Pale Horse

A Matter of Justice

T HE B ESS C RAWFORD M YSTERIES

A Duty to the Dead

O THER F ICTION

The Murder Stone

November 1918, Hobson, Lancashire

S he stood in front of the cheval glass, the long mirror that Peter had given her on their second anniversary, and considered herself. Her hair had faded from shimmering English fair to almost the color of straw, and her face was lined from working in the vegetable beds throughout the war, though shed worn a hat and gloves. Her skin, once like silkhed always told her thatwas showing faint lines, and her eyes, though still very blue, stared back at her from some other womans old face.

Four yearshave I really aged that much in four years? she asked her image.

With a sigh she accepted the fact that she wouldnt see forty-four again. But hed have aged too. Probably more than she hadwar was no seaside picnic on a summers afternoon.

That thought failed to cheer her. She wanted to see joy and surprise in his face when he came home at last. The war was finally overthe eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Yesterday. It wouldnt be long now before he came striding over the hill and up the lane.

Surely they would send the men in France home quickly. It had been four long lonely unbearable years. Even the Army couldnt expect families to wait beyond a monthsix weeks. It wasnt as if the Allies must occupy Germany. This was, after all, an armistice, not a surrender. The Germans would be as eager to go home as the British.

Peter was some years younger than she, for heavens sakethough shed never confessed to that, lying cheerfully about her age from the start. A man in his midthirties had no business going to fight in France. But of course he was a career soldier, fighting was what he did, in all the distant corners of the Empire. France was nearly next door; it would require only a Channel crossing and hed be in Dover.

She had never gone with him to his various postingsAfrica, China, Indiato godforsaken towns whose names she could hardly remember, and so hed bought her a map and hung it in the sitting room, where she could see it every day, with a pin in each place hed stayed. It had brought him nearer. One year he had nearly died of malaria and couldnt come home on leave. That was the awful winter when Timmy died, and she had been there alone to do what had to be done. She had expected to lose Peter as well, sure that God was angry with her. But Peter had survived, and the loneliness had been worse than before, because there was no one in the cottage to talk to except for Jake.

Hed sent her small gifts from time to time: a sandalwood fan from Hong Kong, silk shawls from Benares, and cashmere ones from Kashmir. A lovely woolen one from New Zealand, soft and warm as a Welsh blanket. Lacey pillow slips from Goa, a painted bowl from Madeira, its flowers rampant in the loveliest colors. Thoughtful gifts, including that small but perfect ruby, set in a gold ring hed brought back from Burma.

She had asked, on his next leave after Timmys death, to go with him to his next posting, but he had held her close and told her that white women didnt survive in the African heat, and hed resign his commission before hed lose her. She had loved him for that, though she would have taken her chances, if hed asked.

She had kept back a new dress to wear for his homecoming, and each day now she must wash her hair in good soap, rinsing it in hard-to-come-by lemon juice she had also saved for the occasion. She could see too that she needed a little rouge, only a very little so he wouldnt notice the new lines, thinking instead how well she looked.

Shed reread all his letters until they were as worn as her hands, and knew by heart every one of them. They lay in a rosewood box by her favorite chair, where she could touch them and feel his presence.

It occurred to her that she ought to do somethingsomething so special that hed always remember the day he came through the door and found her waiting. Something that would take his mind off her, and the changes he was sure to see first thing.

Another thought struck her. His letters had been fewer and the weeks between them longer in the past two years. And there had only been one this year. Was he concealing something? She had dreaded word that he was dead, even though hed spent most of the war safely behind the lines at HQ. But men were wounded every day. Still, if anything terrible had happened to him, he would surely have told heror asked the sister in charge of his ward to write to her if he couldnt. He would never keep a secret from her. Never. They had always been close and truthful with each other about the smallest thing. Well, of course not about the difference in their ages! Hed always lived a charmed lifehed told her about the tiger hunt that went badly wrong, and the African warthog that had nearly got him, and the storm that had all but wrecked their troop ship in the middle of the Atlantic, the volcanic eruption in Java when he was trying to bring the natives to safety.

But even charms ran out after a while, didnt they?

His last letter had been written in early summer, telling her how enthusiastic the British were to have the Americans come into the fighting after long weeks of training. Hed told her that hed soon be busy mopping up.

The Hun cant last much longer now the Yanks are here. So, dear heart, dont worry. Ive made it this far, and Ill make it home. Youll see!

But what if?

She put the thought out of her mind even before it could frame itself. If anything had happened, surely someone would have come to tell her.

Instead she tried to think what she could dowhat would cry welcome and love and hope, and show her gratitude for his safe return at last.

She gazed around the small bedroom, at the curtains she kept starched and crisp, at the floral pattern of the carpet and the matching rose coverlet on the bed. No, not here. Leave their room as he remembered it. She went down the stairs, walking through each room with new eyes, trying to see it as Peter might. There was neither the time nor the money to buy new things, and besides, how many times had Peter told her he liked to find himself in familiar surroundings, because they offered him safety and the sure sense that he was home.

Desperate, she went out to the gate, to see if she could fasten something there, a banner or ribbons. Not flags, flags had taken him off to war. And not flowersthere were none to be had at this time of year.