Read Online Ellis Peters - George Felse 10 - The Knocker On Death's Door by Ellis Peters - Free Book Online

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