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.”
“Few people do,” said Sergeant Moon. “She’s so aristocratic she’s become used to existing alone in a rarefied world. It gets narrower and narrower as you get older. She belongs to an older time in more ways than one, you know—she and the son both. They pay on the nail for everything, and they keep their word. The old man’s debts—he ran ’em up time and again, and absconded as soon as things got too hot for him—those two paid off every time, to the last penny. Is that such a barren virtue as it sometimes seems?” The sergeant came down to earth with an acrobat’s agility. “What about the widow? Ghosts, doors and churchyards are all very well, but when a wife’s murdered, check up on the husband, and when a husband’s murdered, check up on the wife. This solitude would make a sweet cover for a dead ordinary killing from dead ordinary motives.”
“Blonde,” said George tersely, “thirty-ish, good-looking, a city tough. Had to be. She works, too. According to friends and neighbours, their marriage ran in the offhand way that sometimes results when both partners go on working after the wedding, with no special end in view except more money. They had rows, plenty of them. Lately she seems to have had occasional men, and he occasional women. But they both stayed jealous. It wasn’t any secret, when they felt like it they told the whole block. She didn’t weep over him, but she wasn’t up to providing much information, either. I’ll be seeing her again tomorrow.”
He closed his notes with a brisk slap, and yawned exhaustingly. “We’ve got a choice. Is this a case about a door, and only incidentally about a man? Or is it a case about a man—this chap Bracewell—and only incidentally about a door? You tell me!”
“I wish I could say the door didn’t matter,” the sergeant owned mournfully, “I wish I could believe somebody simply copped his enemy here by chance, and left us holding a corpse that isn’t ours by right. But something tells me the door genuinely matters. Why should he come back, else? George, I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all.”
“Neither do I,” said George grimly. “And you know who’s going to like it least of all, unless I doctor my report? The Chief Constable. You know him, he takes fright at the drop of a hat, if he thinks we’re in real trouble he’ll yell for the Yard tomorrow morning. And it’s got to be tomorrow morning or never. They’ll curse us to hell if we fetch them in when everything’s congealed like cold mutton fat.”