- Charles Todd
- 18+
New York Times bestselling author Charles Todd brings back Scotland Yard detective Ian Rutledge in another riveting mystery set in post-World War I England Lancashire, England, June 1920. In a house with a red door lies the body of a woman who has been bludgeoned to death. Rumor has it that two years earlier, she'd painted that door to welcome her husband back from the Front. Only he never came home. Meanwhile, in London, a man suffering from a mysterious illness first goes missing and then just as suddenly reappears. He is unable to explain his recovery. His family, supposedly searching for him, give conflicting accounts of where they were and why. What is the secret that nearly drove one man mad and turned his brothers and sister against one another with such unexpected savagery? Inspector Ian Rutledge, drawn into both cases and facing a wall of silence, must solve two mysteries before he can bring a ruthless killer to justice: Who was the woman who lived and died behind the red door? Who was the man who never came home from the Great War, for the simple reason that he might never have gone? And what have they to do with a man who cannot break the seal of his own guilt without damning those he loves most?
THE RED DOOR
Charles Todd
MAY 15, 1930–JULY 25, 2008
She 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 she’d worn a hat and gloves. Her skin, once like silk—he’d always told her that—was showing faint lines, and her eyes, though still very blue, stared back at her from some other woman’s old face.
With a sigh she accepted the fact that she wouldn’t see forty-four again. But he’d have aged too. Probably more than she had—war was no seaside picnic on a summer’s 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 over—the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Yesterday. It wouldn’t 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 couldn’t expect families to wait beyond a month—six weeks. It wasn’t 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 heaven’s sake—though she’d 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 he’d be in Dover.
She had never gone with him to his various postings—Africa, China, India—to godforsaken towns whose names she could hardly remember, and so he’d bought her a map and hung it in the sitting room, where she could see it every day, with a pin in each place he’d stayed. It had brought him nearer. One year he had nearly died of malaria and couldn’t 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.
He’d 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 he’d brought back from Burma.
She had asked, on his next leave after Timmy’s death, to go with him to his next posting, but he had held her close and told her that white women didn’t survive in the African heat, and he’d resign his commission before he’d lose her. She had loved him for that, though she would have taken her chances, if he’d 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 wouldn’t notice the new lines, thinking instead how well she looked.
She’d 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 something—something so special that he’d always remember the day he came through the door and found her waiting. Something that would take his mind off