Ellis Peters - George Felse 10 - The Knocker On Death's Door (10 page)

“Don’t shoot, Dave! It’s me, Brian Jennings…” There was the slender black figure, anonymous as a skin diver in the P.V.C. overalls he wore over his good suit. As if he felt the need to identify himself beyond question, the boy hurriedly hauled off helmet and goggles, and tilted upwards a tense, wide-eyed face.

“Let me in, will you, please, I’ve got to use the ’phone. Honest, it’s urgent. I didn’t want to knock up the Rev., and there’s no copper there tonight…” His voice was a strenuous whisper, and conveyed just enough of shock and excitement to restrain Dave from argument. Reactions were quick in Mottisham these days.

“What’s happened now?”

He kept his voice down, too. Dinah slept on the other side of the house, no need for her to be disturbed.

“There’s another one copped it,” said Brian tersely. “Only this one isn’t dead—not yet…”

“I’ll come down,” said Dave, and vanished from the window.

Brian was pressed against the jamb of the door by the time Dave reached it, and slid inside as soon as it was opened. He was quivering gently, but more with a terrier’s excitement in the hunt than with superstitious alarm. “Sorry about this, I’d have gone straight to the police, but this is the one night there’s nobody there… I’d better get the doctor first…”

“Who is it?” asked Dave, steering him towards the office.

“One of those new chaps—the spook-hunters…”

“In the porch, like the other one?” Dave hoisted the telephone from its rest. “Here you are, go ahead, it’s your story.”

“Right up against the door on his face, just like the first…” Brian’s hard young finger dialled rapidly and without error. Somewhere distant at the other end of the line a furious but controlled voice addressed him. Doctors are used to being called out at night, and used, moreover, to making the rapid decision as to whether to come or not on the evidence given, On public business Brian talked with the efficiency and authority of one sure of his ground.

“We’ve got a bad case of inquiry here at the church at Mottisham, I think it could be a fractured skull—head injuries, anyhow, and he’s unconscious. Should I call the ambulance or leave it to you? No, it wasn’t an accident, it looks like the last time. I
know
, I
am
getting on to Sergeant Moon as soon as this line’s clear…If you think I’m fooling, I’ll give you Mr. Cressett to talk to if you like. —Right, thanks, I’ll be standing by till you come.” He held down the rest and began to dial again, flashing a fiery glance at Dave. “They don’t trust anybody, do they? ‘
Is this a hoax, young fellow
?’ ” he mimicked savagely. “If you’re under twenty they think you’re missing on one cylinder.”

He misdialled ip his haste, and swore, and started over again. The sergeant’s voice, only slightly furred with sleep, came over the line.

“Brian Jennings, here, Sergeant, speaking from Cressett’s garage.” Brian had tensed from head to toes in concentration. “There’s another casualty here at the church, same place, same style—I found him about six minutes ago. He isn’t dead—at least, he wasn’t—I’ve called the doctor, he’s on his way. It’s one of those chaps from London, the psychic research blokes… And, sergeant—
I saw the chap who hit him
—only a glimpse, it was raining, and black as a bag there, but I saw someone dive out of the porch and make off in the trees. Look, you’re not going to like this,” said Brian apologetically, “and I don’t know that I care for it much myself, but it’s gospel—What I saw looked for all the world like somebody in a long brown habit, like those old monks used to wear.”

History had repeated itself with phenomenal exactitude. The position of the prone body was a copy of Gerry Bracewell’s position when found, one hand crumpled down from the sanctuary ring. The second absentee from the now gap-toothed border of white stones along the edges of the grass had been dropped in almost identically the same place as the first. Under the unconscious man lay a large torch, glass and bulb broken, instead of a battered briefcase. By all appearances he had been examining the door at close quarters when he had been hit from behind. It was certainly proving very unhealthy to show too much interest in that door.

The bald skull was lacerated and bleeding, but Brian had made no mistake; the man was alive. The doctor, kneeling over him while the ambulance attendants stood by with stretcher and blankets, pronounced it as his opinion that the victim was in no danger of dying, and that the attack must have been made only very recently, which confirmed Brian’s story of interrupting it at the crucial moment, and suggested both to George and Sergeant Moon, though neither of them said a word, that the boy’s arrival had in fact prevented the completion of this duplication of death. The victim laid out helplessly, the stone coolly positioned for the second and final blow, and suddenly Brian running across the road from the vicarage, an apparition in black P.V.C. He might look like one of Cocteau’s demons, but he had been a guardian angel to this harmless, intrusive crank whose name, according to the papers he had on him, was Herbert Charles Bristow.

Unless, of course, George thought, unobtrusively studying Brian’s interested, impassive face, unless Brian himself had been the one who picked up the stone and laid out the inquisitive stranger at the foot of the door. No apparent reason why he should, but then there were no apparent reasons as yet why anyone should. A cool young card, this boy, and the timing would fit perfectly, in addition to the great convenience of not having to believe, in that case, in the elusive figure of someone in a long brown coat or robe, like a monk, who had vanished at speed among the trees. But if Brian had both provided the tableau and instantly reported it, then there had been no intention to murder, but only to remove the intruder from the scene without being identified.

Concussion, probably fairly bad, the doctor said. Don’t expect to get anything much out of him for two or three days, and don’t expect him to know much about whoever hit him even when he is coherent again. That was fairly obvious advice. Nothing was more certain than that the victim’s attention had been concentrated avidly on what he was examining, and the victim’s back solidly turned on the world. If he had heard steps and turned, even at the last moment, the blow would not have been positioned so accurately at the very back of his head.

It had stopped raining soon after two o’clock, so on the paths, and especially in the places where the gravel had worn thin and mud had gathered, there might be a chance of discovering the most recent footprints. But the wet grass would show them nothing, and according to Brian the assailant had fled among the trees and so to the rear of the church, which meant grass most of the way. They would have to go over every inch. He might have left some trace behind. Trees in the dark are scratchy, aggressive beings, retaining stray threads and bits of wool pile never missed by their owners. There was a whole day of the finicky, meticulous work policemen hate most in store for them; and the day, heaven help them, was Sunday. You can’t keep a church congregation from pursuing its Christian rites on the sabbath day, not even for the sake of a murder investigation. But with the vicar’s help they might be confined to one approach.

They lifted the injured man carefully, swathed him in blankets and carried him away to the ambulance. The doctor took his car and followed his patient. The stone was shrouded in polythene and dispatched, with the broken torch, to the forensic laboratory. The plainclothes and uniformed men available dispersed to patrol the entire surroundings of the church. And in the temporary office in the vicarage Dave and Brian put their evidence formally on record. Until then there had been no time for the finer details, but they were sure of their times, and they had their statements clear in their minds.

“He must have heard me coming through with the bike,” Brian said, and was momentarily disconcerted by his own words, and stopped short.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” confirmed Sergeant Moon emphatically. “He must have if he wasn’t stone-deaf.”

“What I mean,” persisted Brian sturdily, “is that anybody who lives around here
knows
my bike, they’d know that about two or three minutes after the racket stopped—no, it takes longer than that, I always switch off and bring her quietly on account of the Rev.—say about like five or six minutes after—I should be walking across home. Not always through the churchyard, sometimes I go round, but still I should be somewhere around, and
might
see something.”

“You have a distinct point there,” said George with interest. “So you think this was somebody who
didn’t
know the habits of everybody around here. Somebody who might even think you’d driven straight through.”

“Or else somebody very cool,” said Brian, feeling his way visibly with every word. “Because, you see, it was raining, and I must have taken less time than usual over putting the bike away. I shoved her in the vicarage shed, where he lets me keep her, and ran for it as soon as I’d locked the door. Really ran, all down the drive and across the road and up the path, to get round to the lodge by the south porch. I reckon I cut at least two and a half minutes off the course. Maybe he was counting on these two and a half minutes, and didn’t have them. Maybe he’d forgotten about me until he heard me go rocketing through, and then he thought, all right, what does it matter, I know that chap’s timing to the second. Only this time he didn’t. Maybe he took a shade too long over hitting him again, and all of a sudden I was pelting up the path like a greyhound, and he had to cut his losses and drop his rock and get out. Either it’s somebody who doesn’t know at all,” said Brian with great care, “or somebody who knows absolutely, to the minute. Somebody right inside, or right outside.”

“And then, of course,” said Sergeant Moon amiably, “that still leaves one more person—you, laddie.”

“Yeah,” agreed Brian, gazing back at him steadily and not visibly disturbed by the suggestion, “I thought of that, too. I suppose I could have. There’s nothing I can say about that, except that I didn’t. I didn’t even know he was there. Sure I could have picked up the stone and bashed him, and then dropped it and run back to the garage and knocked up Dave—only I’m not green enough to suppose that would give me an alibi, so if I
had
knocked him out I should just have gone home and said nothing. Dad would probably have been the one to find him, this being Sunday. Also he’d probably have been dead, after a night out in the rain and cold.”

“I’m doing you the favour of supposing that you never wanted him dead,” said Sergeant Moon reasonably.

“If I was desperate enough to want him knocked flat, I’d be desperate enough to prefer him dead rather than talking,” pointed out Brian, and smiled, a genuine if rather cagey smile.

The sergeant, unruffled, cast a glance at George. “You want him anymore, sir?”

“This figure you saw,” said George, thoughtfully, “could it possibly have been a woman?”

The boy, so little capable of surprise in other directions, was ingenuously astonished by this, a thought which had never for a moment occurred to him. Belligerent modern as he was, he had delightfully old-world ideas about women. He thought about it, and visibly the very possibility disturbed him. George put away for good the suspicion that there had been no elusive brown figure, and with it the faint reserve he might otherwise have felt about Brian himself.

“In a maxi, you mean?” He didn’t want to admit the idea at all. The broad, fair brow sweated for the first time. “I suppose it
could
have been, but honestly I don’t think so. She’d have to be as big as a man—I mean, well, lots of women are as big as
some
men, but this one—it’s hard to judge, but I’d say going on six feet if not over. Quite as tall as me. I wish now I’d gone after him, but there was this chap lying there, and I had to find out how bad he was, and do something about him…”

“All right,” said George mildly, “I think that’s all, thanks, Brian. You can push off to bed now.”

“Oh, and one thing,” supplemented Sergeant Moon pleasantly, “not a word about monks, brown robes and elusive figures. Not that it’ll make a blind bit of difference, they’ll be on to it before morning anyhow, but do me a favour, don’t
you
set it going.”

“No, Sergeant,” said Brian with unusual serenity and complacency, “I won’t.”

He departed, drained but satisfied. Looking back, he tried to fault his own performance, but not too enthusiastically, and wasn’t sure whether he could or not. These proficiency tests crop up at the most unexpected moments; you rise to them or you don’t. He had no special feeling of having fouled this one, as he crawled into bed and fell asleep.

“I just wanted to mention,” said Dave, “though you probably know it already, that apparently all the regulars in the bar of the ‘Duck’ were putting on their usual performance last night for this poor soul who got laid out. I wasn’t there myself, but Dinah told me. Ed Jennings was prophesying doom, and Saul was being the scoffer this time. Nearly everybody was in on the act. I don’t know if it may have suggested something to somebody—a joke that turned sour. I just mention it.”

“Perhaps,” George said, “we could have a quiet word with Miss Cressett tomorrow—very discreetly, and get the general tone. We shall have to talk to everyone who was present, eventually, but her account would certainly help us a lot. If a joke was intended, and got out of hand, somebody will cooperate. Thank you for your assistance. I’m sorry to have kept you so long. Good night!”

Good morning would have been more appropriate, although, this being Sunday, the village appeared to be still fast asleep. But as Sergeant Moon said, as soon as Dave had left them, the word would be going round any moment now that the monks of Mottisham Abbey had struck again.

“The boy won’t talk, once he’s said he won’t,” he said with certainty, “but the grapevine will have it before daylight. And by the way, young Brian could have, but didn’t. Don’t ask me how I know—simply I’d know if he had. In that case I might even have a glimmering why.”

“Don’t bother about him, he’s all right. He wasn’t just shocked when I suggested it might be a woman, he was genuinely afraid it might!”

“Hmmm, yes, I did wonder about that. And do you really think it might?” asked Sergeant Moon curiously.

“What, six feet high and a dead shot with a twelve-pound rock? Not a chance in a million! Women have the necessary capacity for malice, all right,” said George, “and the cold blood, and every other requisite—but not the accurate aim.” He settled down at the table to work out the best deployment of his available manpower for the next twenty-four hours, and only after some minutes of concentration reverted uneasily to his previous pronouncement. “I think!” he said dubiously; and with burgeoning alarm and slightly disoriented faith: “I
hope
!”

“Ha!” snorted Sergeant Moon tolerantly, “where women are concerned, you and young Brian are two for a pair!”

Sunday passed in a semi-daze after the police visit, which was discreetly timed and considerately conducted. They had let Dinah have her sleep out and, Dave catch up with his, and given him time, when he was in circulation again, to acquaint her with what had happened in the night. But all day long she kept saying helplessly: “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it! They didn’t mean him any harm, not any of them. You know what they’re like, they just close up against the invader, and the more superior he is, the more they make him pay for it. But they never
hurt
anyone!” She said “they” only because she was referring in particular to the inner circle of the community, which was male; what she meant, what she would have said if she had stopped to think more deeply, was “we.”

Late in the evening Hugh telephoned, from one of the northern checkpoints on the circuit.

“I’ve got five minutes in hand, so I had to call you. Maybe there won’t be another chance till the finish. Everything’s going fine.” He told her, volubly, the clinical details, how the engine was running, how well he was doing on timing, and how few points they’d lost. “How are things with you?”

“Fine,” she said mendaciously. “Only it’s started raining again now.” She was sorry for the police, doggedly parting grass-blade from grass-blade round the churchyard, under the dripping trees. “What’s it like up there? Usually it rains far worse than here.”

“No, not bad at all. Nothing but an occasional shower all day. Ted sends his love. He’s just getting everything possible filled up again with coffee. I’m going to need it before the night’s out, but with a bit of luck we’re well in the running.”

“Take care of yourself. And call me after the finish, just to prove you’re in one piece still.”

“I will. Be good, girl!”

She came back into the living-room with a carefully bland face, and Dave knew that she hadn’t said a word about the night’s developments to Hugh. Why put him off his stroke when he was in the middle of something dear to his heart?

Sunday night in “The Sitting Duck” was like the sober phase of a wake. Even the jokes had gone into black, though they were still present. Eb Jennings never came in on a Sunday, preferring his pint at home after all the business of the day was over; and it was Brian who came to fetch it for him. He stayed long enough to consume half a pint on his own account, with his elbows spread comfortably across the corner of the bar counter.

“Still at it, are they?” asked Saul Trimble.

“No, called it off for the night. What can you do in the dark?”

“I swear there was more of ’em outside, picking bits of lint off the trees and scraping crumbs of earth into pillboxes, than there was of you lot inside singing ‘Through death’s dark vale I fear no ill.’ ”