Ellis Peters - George Felse 10 - The Knocker On Death's Door (9 page)

“Not, however, this murder,” sighed George. “Plenty of reason for nursing grudges against the Martel clan, but what had this poor devil done?” He pondered for a moment, and human curiosity got the better of him. “Any special cases in mind? Locally?”

Sergeant Moon turned towards the window. Faintly through the wet trees beamed the distant lights of “The Duck”, and a mere murmur of music drifted in from the jukebox in the garden bar.

“Some time,” he said, “when you’re at leisure, go and take a good close look at Nobbie Crouch.”

“They’re taking the copper off guard tonight,” Saul Trimble said, flicking a beer-mat accurately in front of Joe Lyon and dumping a levelled-off pint of homebrewed on it without spilling a drop. He deposited his own pot carefully, for the corner table tended to rock slightly, but he knew his territory so well that it was no hazard to him. “Got to give the lads a few hours off in the end, and nothing’s happened so far, has it? I reckon even the spooks are bound to have a bit o’ respect for the English week-end. Back on duty a’ Monday.” He had an uncanny instinct for choosing the role that would most surely provoke whatever strangers he had hooked for the bar’s entertainment. Everyone had taken it for granted that the earnest researchers who had taken rooms at the hotel would carry their inquiries, after opening time, into the bar of “The Sitting Duck.” The natives did not use “The Martel Arms.” The reason was beer rather than caste, but the aliens were not to know that. They came slumming, and it was a wonder they didn’t bring their tape recorders with them, so quaint and primitive was Sam Crouch’s antiquated—and profitable—bar, and so renowned its characters. The visitors being believers, Saul had become a sceptic of the bleakest kind. He believed in nothing he could not touch, smell or drink. He deposited his lean rump in the red pulpit-cushions of the corner settle, and winked at Dinah Cressett across the crowded bar.

This was Saturday night, so everyone was there. The general hum of conversation—“The Sitting Duck” was never a noisy bar, they banished the young and loud into the garden pavilion—was constant, drowsy and warm, like the busy signature of a hive of bees. Over this background, dominant voices floated in emphatic moments like soloists in opera soaring out of the chorus, to subside again gracefully without breaking the continuous arc of rounded, communal sound. Not many pubs can command such orchestration and balance, these days.

“The mockers,” pronounced Eb Jennings, in an unexpected bass lead-in that seemed to emerge from the cellars under their feet, “the mockers may have blood on their hands by morning. Who took away the wreath that was meant to protect us all?”

On Saturday nights the Jennings family went their separate ways, each member with the family blessing on his choice: Eb to the bar of the “Duck,” Linda to the Bingo in the infant school, with her friend Mrs. Bowen, and young Brian, on his powerful pest of a motor-bike, to the weekly dance in Comerbourne, replete with beat groups blessed with incredible names, and heady with nubile girls. Brian was a heroic dancer and a Spartan motor-cyclist. His gear was stark, immaculately maintained and without insignia. In transit he looked more like one of Cocteau’s symbolic fates pursuing Orpheus than a modern, brass-knobbed, long haired, seedy enthusiast.

Within the memories of the regulars, however, Eb had never taken any active part in the entertainments staged impromptu at the “Duck.” Either something had got into him, tonight, or else this was the first occasion that had touched him nearly, and caused him to give tongue.

“In the midst of life,” he proclaimed, erect beside the bar like a prophetic angel, even his pint forgotten, “in the midst of life we are in death. Like our brother departed. No one should laugh who is not ready to go.”

For one instant he achieved such an impression that there was total silence in the bar. Then Saul said reasonably: “Well, nobody who’s ready to go is going to feel much like laughing, that’s for sure. And anyhow, you tell the police, Eb, lad, don’t tell us,
we
didn’t shift your parsley garland.”

“Nor call the coppers off night watch,” confirmed Willie the Twig. “After all, they’ve kept a guard on the church for three nights, and nothing happened. And they need plenty of men during the day on these jobs, they can’t wear out a constable minding the scene of the crime indefinitely.”

“Anyhow,” said Eli Platt sententiously, “lightning never strikes twice in the same place.”

“Have it your way, then,” intoned Eb, “but I tell you we’re not finished yet with this evil. ’Tis in the air all about us. ’Tis lurking there on the scene where the murder was done. I feel my thumbs prick and my blood chill when I go near that door.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” one of the visitors explained with kindly condescension, “if you approach these phenomena in a scientific spirit. From what you’ve told us of the past history of the Abbey, this is a very interesting case which ought to be investigated by someone trained in the proper research techniques. What’s needed is accurate and detached observation. That’s impossible if one is afraid.”

Everyone looked at him with the awed respect of the simple villager for the visiting expert. He was a large, slightly flabby man with an egg-shaped skull fringed with reddish hair, and his pale, probing nose was peppered with russet freckles. He was earnest and patronising, and none too free with paying for drinks; but so innocently impervious to all double meanings that Dinah felt it was a shame to take advantage of him.

“I intend,” he announced, having drawn all eyes upon himself, “to keep watch myself tonight. Alone!”

He declared himself with all possible ceremony. The effect was pleasing up to a point. Everyone gaped at him with curiosity, speculation, and—he was sure—admiration. He had hoped also for a degree of anxious solicitude, but of this he could be less certain.

“Sooner you than me, friend,” said Willie the Twig, with obliging (and quite mendacious) fervour. He lived alone in the back of beyond with his forests, his Land-Rover and a couple of setters, and habitually patrolled by night unarmed, even when he had reason to believe there were wood—or deer-poachers about; and so far no one had been able to identify anything in any real or imaginary world of which he could be said to be afraid.

“You’re venturing too far, ’tis daring the devil,” protested Eb, outraged. “You think you’re wise, my friend, but ’tis foolishness to walk too proud in the face of powers more than mortal.”

“Call it off till it stops raining,” offered Saul sportingly, “and we’ll make up a party. How about you, Hugh, lad?”

“Not me!” said Hugh, not without regret. “Sorry, but I’m driving in the Mid-Wales rally tomorrow. Got to get my sleep tonight, I shall be off about five in the morning. Any other time you plan a ghost-hunt, I’ll be delighted.”

“Oh, ah, that’s right, I forgot! Can’t afford to risk your chances in the hill run, that’s a fact. Anybody else game?”

Facetious offers of help and prophecies of doom came cascading from all directions in bewildering variety. The man from the research society was horrified. These attitudes were the outcome of ignorance, and did untold harm. How could extra-human forces be expected to manifest themselves and communicate where there was derision and noise and lack of understanding? Where no one believed except those who were afraid with the old panic terror, and no one at all had an open mind? He must and would be alone on his watch; it was an opportunity not to be missed. He had brought with him merely a raincoat, a notebook and a torch. His purpose was not to tape-record for his own glory, not to stand off an enemy, but to observe, to report truthfully, and to attempt to establish communication if the opportunity was offered.

“Pity, really, about the Mid-Wales being tomorrow,” Hugh whispered in Dinah’s ear, “we could have fixed him up with a set of phenomena he’d never forget.”

“Hush!” Dinah whispered back, smiling and frowning. “He really means it, you know. In a way there
is
something brave about it.”

“Brave nothing, love! Insensitive and big-headed! It would be gorgeous,” said Hugh, entranced with the prospect, “if he really did see something. I bet you wouldn’t see him for dust! Our Porsche wouldn’t keep his tail-lights in sight!”

That was what was really occupying his mind, Dinah realised, tomorrow, and the twenty-four-hour rally he had a sporting chance of winning. Ted Pelsall, who was Jenny’s brother and their best mechanic, had withdrawn the car a week ago to his own yard, in the ramshackle ex-farmhouse close to the Abbey, and had been working on it lovingly ever since. He always acted as Hugh’s navigator, and since they had to make such an early start to reach the muster-point on time, Hugh was sleeping at the Abbey tonight, where Ted would pick him up before dawn. At least his mother would be happy to have him in the house, even if she saw him for only half an hour before retiring to bed. Sometimes, since that strained evening in her company, Dinah thought of his mother with a curious compassion, detached and mature, surprising even to herself.

“We ought to be going soon,” she whispered.

“Yes, love, I know…” But he went on staring in thoughtful abstraction at the physic researcher, who was standing his ground with an obstinacy so publicly declared that now it could hardly be retracted. Yet to do him justice, he must have meant it from the beginning, since he had come provided with a packet of sandwiches and a small flask of coffee as well as his raincoat and torch. Retreat before his own accusing eyes would have been even harder than retreat in the face of all the mockery and terrorisation “The Sitting Duck” was exercising upon him. And perhaps he was as stupidly big-headed as Hugh had said. Whatever his motives, scientifically pure or humanly stubborn, he meant to go through with it. He
would
go through with it.

“Drink up, then, my fond and fair one! Sure you wouldn’t like the other half?”

“No, really, thanks. We promised Dave we’d cut it short.”

Hugh held her coat for her, and they withdrew among a chorus of good nights. Everyone who remembered about the rally added fervent good wishes. One or two even had bets on him. They passed close by the earnest stranger, who was also climbing into his coat with slightly defiant resolution. The torch he fished out of a deep pocket was truly formidable in size. Hugh eyed it respectfully in passing.

“You need that to see the ghosts, or what?”

“They don’t like light,” said Eb Jennings mysteriously, as if, had he wished, he could have given this amateur a lot of valuable tips.

“He’s right, you know,” said Hugh seriously. “Much better leave it behind. You’re taking this whole thing too lightly. In for a giggle, in for a thrill, if the monks don’t get you, the devils will!”

“You’re awful!” said Dinah, as they darted through the rain to the car, the everyday Mini they used for general transport. “You just don’t give a damn for anybody!”

“Those people burn me up. Coming to a place they know nothing about, and feel nothing about, where if they had sense they’d sit and listen, and put out feelers until they understood at least the language! I can’t stand phoneys!”

“I’ll drive,” said Dinah, slithering behind the wheel, for she had, in any case, to drive herself home from the Abbey after dropping him. They threaded the roads between autumnal, leaning trees, streaming and gleaming with rain. She drove well; both Dave and Hugh had had a hand in teaching her, and her vision was phenomenally sharp and her reactions naturally rapid and decisive. “Take me as navigator,” she said suddenly, “I mean next time. Ted wouldn’t mind, just for once.”

“Ted wouldn’t mind anything you suggested, and you know it. Ted dotes. Sometimes I’m downright jealous. You sure you want to run yourself into the ground on a stint like that?”

“I could do it,” she said confidently. “I bet I can stick out anything you can.”

“If only it hadn’t got so damned professional these days, we’d do the Monte together. I’d love it! Dinah, Dinah…”

“Hey, cut it out!” protested Dinah, unexpectedly kissed behind the left ear and—by mistake on a curve—in the left eye. “You’ll have us in the hedge!”

They turned into the Abbey drive. There were lights in the drawing-room.

“Good, Mother’s still up.” It was not much after nine o’clock. “She’s got a bit of a cold, Rob said, but it probably won’t be much. Anyhow, I’ll go and give her your love, shall I?”

“Yes,” said Dinah, “do that.” It wasn’t love she felt, but it was something outgoing and grievous and urgent, and the word love would do for want of one more exact. She was sorry for everyone who was old and lonely, and narrow, and cold.

Hugh kissed her, now with a more assured aim, and at leisure. “See you some time Tuesday morning, then.”

“Give me a ring when the results are out, I’ll be waiting to hear how you got on.”

He promised, and disentangled himself reluctantly.

“And go to bed as soon as she does,” ordered Dinah, as he got out of the car, “or you’ll be dropping tomorrow.”

He mouthed one more promise and blew a kiss back to her, and was gone. Dinah turned the car in the broad stretch of unkempt gravel before the door, and drove back home. The rain continued, steady, soft-voiced and impersonal, a curtain of pearl-textured sound against the stillness of the night.

The Saturday night dances in Comberbourne ended, in deference to the English sabbath, at midnight, but in practice no one actually left before half past twelve, even if the extra half hour was spent in gossiping and finishing up the last drinks after the band had gone. Consequently it was regularly after half past one in the morning when Brian Jennings roared back into Mottisham, accompanied by the hearty curses of all the residents he disturbed in passage. Brian considered he was entitled to one anti-social moment in his week, and this was it. He admitted he could have made his machine quieter if he’d cared to, but he just loved the music it made. At about twenty to two on this particular Sunday morning Dave, whose bedroom overlooked the road, heard him thunder by on his way home. About ten minutes later the offence was aggravated by a second disturbance, just as Dave was drifting into sleep again. A handful of gravel rattled sibilantly down the window. Dave rolled out of bed and flung up the sash. “What the hell do you think…”