The Knocker on Death's Door

They would have given him anything he asked, to the limit of what they had, but all he wanted was the loan of the company Mini, which was partly his in any case. He did not stop to eat anything, or to wash, but swerved away to where the little car was stabled, at a purposeful walk which in a moment became a headlong run.

“I’ll call you, love!” he yelled at Dinah through the window, and was away out of the yard at speed, and heading for the Abbey.

Robert came down the stairs slowly and wearily after the doctor’s car had driven away down the drive. George was waiting for him in the doorway of the drawing-room.

“Is it possible for you to leave Mrs. Macsen-Martel alone for a little while? I quite understand that you must be free to make what ever dispositions are necessary for her care, and I’ll curtail our dealings accordingly at this stage, but it’s time that you and I had a preliminary interview.”

“My mother is asleep again,” said Robert. His voice was flat and drained, but he was in complete control of himself. “I’m at your disposal.”

“Shall we make use of this room, then? With your permission, of course.” Sergeant Collins was already installed in an unobtrusive position beside the window, half screened by the curtains, with his notebook on his knee. Robert sat down in one of the big leather chairs, and George closed the door and came over to face him.

“We’ve reached a stage when I should like to get some answers from you. But first it’s my duty to caution you that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so. But if you do, what you say may be taken down in writing and given in evidence.”

“Does that mean,” asked Robert, “that you are going to charge me with something?”

“No, it does not. Not at present, certainly, and not necessarily at any future time, either. The caution is routine even before questioning which may not result in a charge. I have issued it, and you have heard it. You know your rights.”

“Yes,” he agreed composedly, “I understand.”

“By now I believe you must know, like everyone else, the gist of the statement I’ve issued to the press. But I’ll repeat it for your benefit. Under the floor of your wine-cellar we have found the remains of a man’s body. The press has not, as a matter of fact, been told where we found him, but I am telling you. I am not yet in a position to give more details. You, on the other hand, may be able to tell me a good deal more about him, if you will.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Robert. “It’s known, of course, that the abbey had rather a bad reputation in its last years, and there are a number of stories of brawls and stabbings among the few brothers left in the community.” His voice was so laboured and slow that he might almost have been falling asleep there before George’s eyes, and small wonder if he did, for almost certainly he hadn’t closed his eyes all night. “Very regrettable, I admit, to find a body on these premises, but perhaps not all that surprising? The house may even be over a part of the old cemetery that was private to the brothers.”

“I admire your gallantry, but I hardly think you’ve accounted adequately for our find. You think he may be a relic of the final disorders of this house in the sixteenth century, do you?”

“It’s the first thought that occurs to me,” said the weary voice steadily.

“In brown laced shoes, made in Leicester not ten years ago? With a fibre-glass suitcase full of clothes on top of him? Try second thoughts!”

“I can’t help you. I’m sorry!”

“Oh, come, you can do better than that. This is your house. We have been excavating in your cellar. The outside world can hardly break in here to bury its bodies. Very few people have access here.”

Silence.

“Do you know who this man is? And how he got here?”

Silence.

“You can do yourself no good by withholding information, we’ve recovered sufficient personal possessions to identify him ten times over. It’s merely a matter of a few days’ work, why not tell us now?”

“I can’t help you,” said the voice, with carefully husbanded and curiously restored strength, as if George had said something inadvertently encouraging. And maybe he had. A few days, he had said. Maybe a few days was salvation. Or at least the bare hope of salvation.

“We are dealing with a death not many years old, with a man who apparently entered your house bringing a large suitcase of clothes with him, and did not leave again. Are you suggesting that this could happen without your knowledge?”

“I am not suggesting anything. I have nothing to say.”

“Then how do you account for such a discovery as we have made?”

“I don’t account for it. I have nothing to say.”

The voice had found a dead level of stoical endurance from which it did not intend to be moved.

“Very well, we’ll leave it at that for the moment, but I must ask you not to attempt to leave the house.”

Surprised, Robert looked up out of his entrenched and undramatic misery with a sudden gleam of life; he had not expected a respite once the questioning began. “I have no intention of leaving. In any case I couldn’t while my mother is in this state. I spoke with my employers yesterday, they will not be expecting me.” He said “my employers” quite naturally and simply, like any other clerk obliged to request leave of absence because of family illness.

“Please believe me, I sincerely hope your mother’s condition, at least, will soon cease to be any bar to your freedom of movement.”

Robert had turned towards the door, but he halted for a moment and looked back; it seemed that he was about to say something, and by the sudden impulsive movement of his lips something a little less guarded and defensive. But after all he swallowed the words unspoken, and went quietly out of the room.