The Knocker on Death's Door gfaf-10

by Ellis Peters

  “Ah,” said the sergeant, considering the body of the photographer from Birmingham with the same gravity and calm with which he daily summed up the weather prospects at the edge of winter, and estimated his commitment in case of isolation. “Stranger. Didn’t I see him last Sunday? With a camera?” It was not really a question, unless to himself, and already provided with its answer. Dave said nothing, not yet. When the sergeant wanted anything from him, he’d ask for it.

  “You found him, Dave? Statements come later, now just tell me.” Sergeant Moon knew every soul who belonged in his domain, and could call them all by their first names.

  Dave told him, slowly and accurately, with times. He knew when he’d left home, he knew how long it took to drive a car round into the vicarage garage and walk back here. “I know who he is—or at least I know who he said he was. He brought his car in to our place yesterday morning with damaged steering, and gave me his card. He said he might stay overnight. I had the car ready last night, but I didn’t think anything when he didn’t come for it, after what he’d said. His name’s Bracewell. And you’re right, he was here on Sunday covering the service. He was in ‘The Sitting Duck’ that evening. That’s all I know about him. Except that he was interested in that door—more than most, I mean. As if he thought he was on to something special about it, and thought he might get a good story out of it. I don’t know how, he didn’t say.”

  For Dave it was quite a speech. The sergeant patted his shoulder vaguely, and digested, with no vagueness at all, what he had told him. The Reverend Andrew hovered, with nothing to do but confirm the circumstances that had brought him there.

  And then, within three quarters of an hour of the discovery of the body, the whole apparatus suddenly went into top gear. The succession of events was bewildering. First came the valley police doctor, hurtling in preoccupied and surly to kneel beside the dead man, touch him delicately, probe half-heartedly for a temperature (the body was full clothed for an autumn night) and think better of it. Let the pathologist worry about the precise time of death—not that it would be very precise in the circumstances!—when he got here from Comerbourne. The doctor confirmed the indisputable fact of death, cast one significant glance at the all too obvious matter now darkening and drying on the stone, and withdrew in businesslike fashion to his practice. He had a lot of patients waiting and a lot of territory to cover afterwards, and the sergeant had caught him just at the opening of his surgery.

  Hard on his heels came a police van from Comerbourne with the photography team, and a car containing a detective constable as driver, one detective sergeant, Chief Inspector George Felse, and Dr. Reece Goodwin, the hospital pathologist who bore the blessing of the Home Office in these parts. Detective Superintendent Duckett, the head of the county C.I.D., had been in his car somewhere on the way to consult his Chief Constable about something quite different—a matter of certain local bank frauds—when Moon’s call came through, and thus fate dropped the case into George’s hands from its inception. Duckett might well be along later, when the message reached him. Moon, to be truthful, rather hoped not; he got on better with George.

  “I shouldn’t have said it,” owned George resignedly. “Soon found a way to fetch me back, didn’t you?” He looked the scene over for a moment in silence, and arrived at the vicar and Dave, still patiently in attendance.

  “Dave Cressett here found him,” said Moon practically. “He’s a busy man, with a garage and filling station to look after, and not two minutes away when wanted. Now if the vicar here could loan us a room as office, that would be the most convenient arrangement for everybody.”

  The Reverend Andrew, appalled and delighted, was willing to make over half of his monstrous vicarage to them if required, and said so. Nothing half as interesting as this had happened to him since he came to Mottisham, and the prospect of a front seat on the investigation was dreadfully attractive.

  “All right, Jack, you get a preliminary statement from Mr. Cressett, and I’ll see him later on.”

  Dave looked back curiously as he was ushered, with Sergeant Moon, back into the vicarage gates, crossing the main road, where now the infallible grape-vine had already assembled a small and watchful audience, conversing in pregnant whispers. The team of photographers circled and aimed and manoeuvred round the porch, focusing the body, the weapon, the outflung hand and broken head. Dr. Goodwin, a round, bounding, energetic man who appeared fifty and was actually pushing sixty-five, was on his knees beside the corpse. And one more car was just arriving, and decanting the forensic scientist from the laboratory in Birmingham, last of the team to put in an appearance.

  Suddenly the south porch of St. Eata’s was a seething hive of industry, and there were some eight or nine people clustered like bees in swarm round the indifferent body of Gerry Bracewell.

  Before eleven o’clock they had lifted the body carefully into an outspread polythene sheet, retrieved the open briefcase from under it, and packed the deceased into a plastic shell, which was promptly whisked away under Dr. Goodwin’s supervision to the hospital mortuary in Comerbourne. It was inconveniently far from the scene, but that was unavoidable, there was no suitable place nearer. The relevant exhibits had vanished with the man from the forensic laboratory. The south porch looked empty and innocent again, and the imperturbably amiable iron beast chewed his twisted ring and grinned as before. In the vicarage George made hurried notes before following the body to the mortuary, and somewhere on the road to Birmingham his sergeant fretted at a succession of red traffic lights, on his way to break the news to Mrs. Roberta Bracewell, and bring her to identify her husband’s body. It was a job that mustn’t be put off, but on the other hand couldn’t be indecently rushed. George reckoned he had plenty of time to call at Dave Cressett’s garage, and still be at the mortuary before the post mortem could begin.

  The Morris was four years old, none too well maintained, and had accumulated the usual hotchpotch of appurtenances official and unofficial, assortment of cleaning rags, old tools, paper tissues, folding red triangle for travel abroad, one left glove, a man’s knitted scarf, a crumpled packet of cigarettes, a box of first-aid dressings and a dismembered morning paper, but nothing at all suggestive or interesting. It stood waiting in. the rear part of the yard, beyond the workshop.

  “You’ll probably want to take it away,” said Dave, watching the chief inspector’s face attentively. A thin, dark, self-contained, mildly humorous face. Moon liked him, and Moon’s liking was a decided recommendation.

  “I doubt it,” said George, “seeing he left it here with you yesterday morning, and it’s been here ever since. Keep it for a couple of days, and I’ll get it looked over here on the spot. It’s as private as anywhere. When we’ve finished with it I’ll clear it for you, and you can hand it over to the widow. Or if you prefer, we’ll do that for you.”

  “I’d rather do it myself. He left it here for a job to be done, and I’d like to hand it back in good order to whoever owns it now. There’s a widow, then?”

  “Yes, he was married. No children, apparently. He took just his briefcase out of the back there when you left, you said? Nothing else?”

  “No, nothing else. He said he might stay overnight, so I thought nothing of it when he didn’t show up in the evening.” He wanted to ask if Bracewell had indeed booked a room at the Martel Arms Hotel, but he wasn’t on that kind of terms with the chief inspector. If it had been Sergeant Moon he would have asked whatever he wanted to know, and Moon would have told him as much as he thought he should be told. George was to be encountering the shadow of Sergeant Moon on every side in this valley, but it didn’t matter. Moon was his man, and could pick up at leisure what was withheld from his chief.

  A confidence might always be worth a confidence in return. “He booked in all right,” said George. “He left his pyjamas and shaving kit there in the room. Nobody realised he wasn’t in overnight, because up here—but I realise I’m telling a native the facts of life—nobody bothers to lock hote
l rooms or hand in keys. They thought he was sleeping a bit late this morning, but he hadn’t asked for a call, so they never even wondered until around nine o’clock.” He turned briskly away from the car. “Now if I could have one more word with Miss Cressett and your partner…”

  Dinah and Hugh were in the kitchen together, and the shocked and wary glances they turned when they were interrupted, and the way their low-pitched and subdued voices died upon the air, spoke for them.

  “Don’t let me disturb you,” George said. “I just wanted to make sure on one point. On your way back from the Abbey last night—that would be at about ten o’clock?”

  “Just about ten past when we got here,” said Hugh. “I looked at my watch after we said good night.”

  “So probably around ten when you came though the village. You’d touch only one side of the churchyard on that route, I know, but did you see anyone moving around at that hour? Anywhere in that stretch?”

  They had not, and said so. “Except Joe Lyon, just making off across the lane to the fields, on his way home,” added Hugh. “But I bet you’ll find he’d left the bar of the ‘Duck’ a couple of minutes before. He always leaves just before ten, he’s got a long way to go.”

  “Nobody else at all?”

  “Not a soul. It was misty and miserable outside.”

  “Yes, that’s true, not an attractive night. Then there’s nothing else you can add? Nothing that might be relevant in any way?”

  “There’s one thing that’s just too relevant,” said Dinah abruptly. She looked at Hugh for guidance, but he was gazing back at her with eyes wide in wondering inquiry. “But it isn’t a matter of fact at all, and you’ll think I’m crazy. If it wasn’t for the—the resemblance…”

  “Tell me,” George suggested, “and let me judge.”

  “It’s what Dave told us about how he was found, huddled up facing the door, and with his hand stretched out touching it—as if he’d been holding the knocker when he was struck, and just slid down the door as he fell. Last night Robert told us a story about that door. There’s supposed to have been another queer death connected with it, centuries ago.”

  Light had dawned on Hugh. “Oh, that! But that’s just nonsense, it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It means there could be people who think of the door in that way, plenty of people. It could even mean that someone might try to reproduce what’s supposed to have happened all that time ago—supposing he wanted to kill at all, that would be one way of creating a complete fog around the act, wouldn’t it? Even if there’s nothing at all in the superstition itself, it could be effective, couldn’t it?”

  “What is this story? The door’s supposed to have killed someone before?” asked George.

  “Not so much killed him as refused to save him.” Dinah told the story, as nearly as she could remember them in the words Robert had used. “But Mrs. Macsen-Martel said how odd, she couldn’t remember hearing that legend before.”

  “My mother hears only what she wants to hear,” Hugh said indulgently, “and she hates all this superstitious mush. If she met a couple of ghostly monks pacing along the gallery, she’d walk straight through them and pretend they weren’t there. There are plenty of odd stories, there always are about old houses. But none of us ever think about them at all unless we’re prodded. Dinah did ask about the door.”

  She admitted it. “Yes, I began it. But isn’t it queer that this man Bracewell should be killed just there—close to the door—touching it? Exactly the same!”

  “Oh, come off it!” protested Hugh bracingly. “Any moment you’ll be crediting it that the devil took this one, too!”

  “I shan’t,” said Dinah, “but once the word gets round, half Middlehope will. Maybe that’s what somebody wants to happen.”

  George made no comment, merely thanked her and took his leave. But as he drove down the valley towards Comerbourne and the unpleasant and lengthy rendezvous at the mortuary, he could not help feeling that Dinah might turn out to be a true prophet. Much worse, the first whispers of words like “devil.” “witchcraft.” “ghost,” would bring the representatives of the more sensational Sunday papers converging on Middlehope like hounds in full cry. Some fast and determined work was indicated, if they were to escape that fate.

  He went over the facts and possibilities with Sergeant Moon, at something after ten o’clock that night, in the room the Reverend Andrew had placed at their disposal. George was just back from the post mortem, a conference with his superintendent and his Chief Constable, and a round of brief calls arising. Moon had sat tight in Mottisham and pumped all his most useful acquaintances in addition to all the relevant witnesses. Both were tired, and George had still to compose his first report, which was a matter for great care, since the future charge of the case largely depended upon it. “That’s it, then. We know his movements for most of the day. Arrived in the village about a quarter to twelve, noon, yesterday, and left his car at Cressett’s for repair, taking his briefcase with him. Had lunch at the Martel Arms and asked about a room. Left there, still carrying his briefcase, but having unloaded his night things from it, about two. Was seen by four different people during the afternoon. Three of them noticed him strolling round the church, but not paying any special attention to the door more than any other part—or not letting himself be noticed doing it, at any rate—and one saw him walking on the hill overlooking the Abbey, about four o’clock. This one says he was carrying binoculars. One of those who saw him in the church is quite positive that he had a small camera, and was photographing the few bits of medieval carving inside there. He remembers the flash bulbs going off. Incidentally, Bracewell expressly told Cressett that he hadn’t brought a camera with him this time. About five he came back to the hotel, had some tea and sandwiches, and sat around and read the evening paper for a while. He was still there at opening time, and had a drink and another snack at the bar, but said he wouldn’t be in to dinner, and asked for a sidedoor key, which in any case Mrs. Lloyd always gives her guests, it’s less trouble than having to let them in. It was then getting dark, and also misty. So far we haven’t found anyone who actually saw him alive after he left the hotel, which was at about a quarter past seven.

  “Found in his room afterwards, his pyjamas, a paperback thriller, toilet and shaving kit, and that’s all. Found under the body, his briefcase, containing a number of letters of no particular significance that I can see so far, some from girls, some to do with photographs used by various papers; a fairly strong torch, the binoculars mentioned before, and a number of flash bulbs, filters and other equipment. But no camera! So what? It isn’t in his hotel room, it isn’t in the briefcase, yet he had it. The evidence is sound. So maybe someone who came on him by night in the south porch not only wanted him out of the way, but also wasn’t taking any chances on what he might have on record in that camera. In which case whoever it was would probably remove the film and discard the camera. If he was panicky enough he might even make a mistake and leave some prints on it.”

  “He wouldn’t,” said Sergeant Moon pessimistically.

  “Well, if he was sure he hadn’t, and cool enough, he’d simply drop it somewhere in the churchyard. Where better, once the film was out? So that’s one job, find that camera.”

  “That’s for me. Go on, what about the postmortem? How much can the time be narrowed down?”

  “Not nearly enough,” admitted George. “Just about what I expected. Reece Goodwin says the man was dead certainly before midnight, probably before eleven, but he won’t be more exact than that. We know he was alive at a quarter past seven. That’s four hours at least. Maybe we’ll manage to narrow it down by finding someone who saw him later. We’ll try. He was hit twice, Reece says. I’ll spare the medical language, but it adds up to the fact that someone picked up the stone and clouted him with it hard enough to lay him out. He was standing when that blow was struck, and probably stooping forward. It might have killed him, in any case, but X was taking no chances. He hit
him again, very carefully and thoroughly, as he lay on the ground. And that was that. Fractured skull—an understatement, it was caved in like a soft-boiled egg. Surprisingly little bleeding, considering. He may have lived approximately fifteen to twenty minutes afterwards, but even if he’d been found at once he’d have died.

  “And now we’ve got little Miss Cressett passing on— quite rightly—this curious legend that some poor wretch of a monk dabbled in black magic four hundred odd years ago, and was knocked off by the devil at the foot of that same door, and in just that attitude, when the sanctuary knocker burned his hand and made him loose his hold. Heaven rejected him, and hell got him. Tell me, Jack, did you ever hear that particular legend about Mottisham Abbey?”

  “George, my boy, I never did, to tell you the truth. But don’t make too much of that, either, we’re prodigal about legends here, we spawn ’em and forget ’em. I could have heard it and paid no heed, a dozen times over. Only I don’t think so. Bear it in mind, but don’t go overboard about it.”

  “The old lady said much the same, apparently. She didn’t recall it, but didn’t totally reject it. I called round at the Abbey on my way out this morning, Jack, just to check with Robert Macsen-Martel. He confirmed that he had obliged with the story when Miss Cressett inquired. He said it was a tradition in the family, but didn’t vouch for it in any other way. Very aloof and indifferent. I asked him how it happened that his mother didn’t recognise the tale. He said his mother’s memory was not what it once had been, and of course she’d known the story, but she took no stock in such superstitions, and so put them out of mind almost wilfully. Which was more or less what the young one—Hugh—said, too. The mother I didn’t see.”