Ellis Peters - George Felse 10 - The Knocker On Death's Door by Ellis Peters Page B

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