The Knocker on Death's Door

The expert on medieval iron had slipped his car into the vicarage drive unnoticed while they were all concentrating on the job in hand, and been directed to the porch by a lurking constable. He came up behind George silently, a thin, stringy individual with mild, shrewd eyes. They had met before, though not over medieval iron; the whole art of the period was his province, and he had once given judgement on a forged lime-wood Madonna ten inches high, in a very different case.

“What you need, George, my boy,” said the expert kindly, “isn’t a medievalist, it’s a ballistics expert. If that isn’t a bullet-hole, then I’ve never seen one.”

“Thank you,” said George gravely, “thank you very much. I’d just come to the same conclusion, only I can take it a stage further. This isn’t merely a bullet-hole—-it’s complete with bullet as well.”

“To be fair,” pronounced Professor Brazier critically, hefting the iron mass in both hands to turn it to the light, “it’s a very creditable shot at a match. Even the style of the local carving and ironwork here do appear to be much the same. A layman would never question it. But actually the knocker is at least a hundred years newer than the latch and lock on the door. That needn’t preclude the knocker having been made for the door, of course, but in fact this iron can be placed pretty accurately in Sussex, and the possibility of its being made there expressly for use here is negligible. It isn’t even likely that it should find its way up here by chance. Nobody’d go far afield for what he wanted, this district had its own smiths, and they knew their business. But I’ll tell you something, George—if somebody did hunt round and buy this piece specifically to cover that bullet-hole, then it was somebody who knows his stuff a good deal better than average. And he probably had to hunt a good long time before he found what he was looking for. You might trace it through the antique trade. Somebody must have sold it to him.”

“Thanks,” said George, “but why go through the entire antique trade? There are thousands of them—there’s only one of him.”

They had to wait two hours more for the report on the recovered bullet. Sergeant Moon had been dispatched home for a well-earned rest and a brief look at his more regular responsibilities, and it was Detective Sergeant Brice who answered the telephone and handed the receiver across the table. “Here’s ballistics on the line, sir.”

“Hullo, what have you got for us?”

“It’s what you had for us,” corrected the cheerful, enthusiastic voice of the distant expert. “We don’t get many fired bullets in that sort of condition. Whoever fired it might have been deep-freezing it for posterity. What did you say it was in?”

“About six inches of medieval oak,” said George.

“Yes—splendid! If you were buried in that, George, you’d be there in good condition to hear the crack of doom and bob up fresh as a daisy. Well, this little job ought to penetrate about three inches of soft pine board at fifteen feet, which makes it pretty clear that it was fired from closer than that in this case—say not more than six to eight feet from the door. It’s a .25 ACP—6.35 millimeters—and fired from an automatic pistol. I think it ought to be good enough to identify the gun, with luck, supposing you ever find the right one out of the thousands there must be running around loose with this type of ammo in—even this long after the war!”

“I take it we’re lucky he—or they—didn’t just dig it out and dispose of it on the spot.”

“Hell’s own job getting it out of that lot. No, if it had to be covered up, then the knocker was probably the easiest way, as well as the most thorough. I bet your boy didn’t have any easy work recovering it. But odd, in a way, going to all that trouble, when you consider that this little fellow never was guilty of anything except being fired into a door.

No crime there—except maybe retaining a war souvenir without any legal right.”

“No,” agreed George, “no crime there. Yet we’ve got a couple of ’em now, murder and attempted murder, all because people got too inquisitive about that bit of misdated camouflage. Thanks, anyhow! Let us have it in writing when you can.”

“Right away. So long, George.”

George hung up, and sat back in his chair. “All right, then, that’s it. Come on, we’ll pick up Reynolds and make a move. The way things are developing, it’s high time we paid a formal visit on Robert Macsen-Martel, and took an official look at that cellar of his.”

CHAPTER 8

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He had been relying on Dinah to be present and equal to the occasion, as sisters should be when welcoming possible future sisters-in-law, but he had still refrained from telling her any more than that he was fetching a Miss Trent from Birmingham to volunteer some important information to the police, and might— might!—be bringing her home for tea later on. Not a word about how important the lady and the occasion were to him. So he could hardly complain when he found no Dinah in the house to greet them. Earlier in the day he had felt that he would need her as a guarantee of his seriousness and respectability; but when it came to the point, Alix and he were so relaxed and so close, after fulfilling their public duty, that they had no need of any third party or any guarantees.

Dinah, as was her habit in such circumstances, had left a note to explain her absence, written on the white card round which a new pair of stockings had once been folded inside its plastic envelope, and propped on the kitchen table, so that he could not miss it when he went to make tea.

“Gone out,” she had written unnecessarily. “Robert M.-M. rang up and asked me over to tea. Very pressing! Something fishy, or why pick the day Hugh’s away? Must go, if only out of curiosity.

Hugh called. Pipped for first place by just two points. Shame!

Dinah.”

“Something wrong?” asked Alix, observing the slight frown the note called up.

“Oh—no, not really, I suppose. Unusual, though!” On impulse he gave her the note to read; provided she chose to be, she was already as good as one of the family. “Of course, they did break the ice by asking her over to dinner a few days ago, but that was with Hugh. What can he have to discuss with Dinah that wouldn’t have waited until Hugh gets home tomorrow? Unless it’s about Hugh! And there’s no mention of the mother.”

“M-M.—that’s this Macsen-Martel family?” She was almost completely in the picture now, she knew who Hugh was, and what were his relations with his mother and brother. “Still, you know, they are his people. Maybe the elder brother feels bound to make an effort to be social.”