The Knocker On Death's Door Part 4

The boy was more than a head the taller, elegantly long and loose-knit and athletic, with straight fair hair and blue-grey eyes. His face, too, was elongated, but in suave curves, and with a lot of shapely bone; a high-bridged nose jutted haughtily, and brows level as the pommel of a sword underlined a broad forehead. He was looking straight back at George, well aware of what he must be thinking, and visibly speculating as to whether he would or would not ask. Which made it imperative to ask bluntly or not at all.

"So he's your father?"

"Well," said the boy with cheerful deliberation, "by courtesy he is. And anyhow, I'd sooner be Jennings, than Macsen-Martel."

"Like that, is it?" If the boy was willing to accept the conversation on this level, so was George. "You're the wild oat I've been hearing about."

"I'm one of them," said the boy drily. "When you've been around here a bit longer you'll learn to spot this debased Norman pan."

"He's left more of you around?"

"Brother," said the boy reverently, "he could field a football team." The blue-grey eyes flashed in an impudent but engaging smile. "And probably a netball team as well. You ask Sergeant Moon." He got up, hoisting the shears from where he had laid them. "I suppose I'd really better go and get some wood in for my mother-it's set in for the day, by the look of it." And he walked away unconcernedly through the rain, weaving his way blithely among the graves to take the nearest line to the lodge, and whistling as he went, and George saw in this rear view of him the tall, wide-shouldered, narrow-flanked shape and long gait of the Macsen-Martels, unmistakable in movement where he might have missed it completely in repose. One of the family strays, but one that had found a good home. There was nothing the matter with the relationship between courtesy father and son; and what was further implied was that the situation had been accepted by both of them from the beginning. Ask Sergeant Moon! Not bad advice in the circ.u.mstances.

There was moss wound into the parsley wreath, and there was the grit of soil and the remains of an orchreous moisture in the moss. Better let the laboratory have a go at it, they might be able to suggest the locality from which it had come, and if the spirit-hunters had begun to arrive, that might not be Mottisham at all. Either some superst.i.tious crank or earnest student of the occult had really put it there in an effort to guard the church and the community against evil spirits, or the murderer had attempted a piece of conjurer's misdirection to divert attention from his own solid humanity and his entirely earthly motives. No, on reflection there was, regrettably, the third possibility: someone who enjoyed trouble and chaos had simply added his own contribution to the brew here out of pure devilment. Of that kind of devil even villages as remote as Mottisham have more than enough.

George turned up the collar of his coat and made a dash for it through what had now become a downpour, across the road and into the vicarage drive. In the gateway he collided with a young man who had just descended from the Comerbourne bus and made for the same haven. They steadied each other solicitously with hasty apologies, and recognition was instant and mutual.

"I was just coming to see you, Mr. Felse," said Dave Cressett, hugging The Midland Scene The Midland Scene under his jacket from the driving rain, "I've got something here Mrs. Bracewell asked me to bring to you. And something besides to tell you." under his jacket from the driving rain, "I've got something here Mrs. Bracewell asked me to bring to you. And something besides to tell you."

"Always the door," said Sergeant Moon, late that Friday evening, after they had abandoned the mounds of official reports and statements, and were sitting back relaxed and tired over cigarettes and beer, thoughtfully brought in from the "Duck" by young Brian Jennings. "I'd be ready to bet my job that we were right, it's the door, not the man. He just blundered into something he didn't realise was dangerous- apparently merely by having this feeling that there was something odd about this door he'd once photographed for this magazine article. Now you tell me what dangerous secret there can be about an oak door? Worth killing for?"

"And before he'd even run to earth whatever it was he was after," George pointed out. "A very dangerous secret indeed-show a little too much interest in it, and that's enough, you're knocked off just in case. Yet there was plenty of interest being shown in it-by all kinds of people. It was ceremonially on show. So what was so different about this man Bracewell's interest, to mark him out as the chance that couldn't be taken?"

"He was there prowling around it at night," said Moon, "and alone. A crowd with a battery of cameras was O.K. One man with a torch sneaking back by himself wasn't."

"There was one more thing about him that was different, Jack. He'd seen it before He'd seen it before."

Moon considered that carefully. For centuries the door had hung in the cellars of the Abbey. The house had never been shown; and it was improbable that there had ever been more than one such article about it as the one in The Midland Scene The Midland Scene. It wasn't important enough or beautiful enough; it played too insignificant a part in history. The wonder was that it had achieved a place even once in such a series. That made Bracewell, in all probability, the only person present at the re-dedication, apart, of course, from the family, who had ever seen the door in its previous position.

"But even so, what could there have been about it to make him think he might get a scoop out of it? Something he hadn't noticed until the thing was cleaned up? But then it would be there for everyone to notice. Whatever was queer about it meant nothing to anyone but him."

"And what discoveries can you make about a door, for G.o.d's sake? There it is, a solid block of wood with a lump of iron attached, everything about it visible at a glance." George stretched and yawned. "Well, I'll see this Miss Trent tomorrow, and have another word with Mrs. Bracewell. Who knows, I may hit on the right question by sheer luck, and stir a recollection, or she may have thought of something on her own. We've no choice about pulling out all the stops now, Jack. It took some hard work to get the Old Man to leave it with us, we've got to justify it now or die trying."

"Well, at least we found the camera. Not that I expect the lab boys will get anything off it." And of course it had been empty, the film extracted, and no doubt burned long before this. "There's just a chance he'd have have to take off his gloves to open and close the camera properly, but I'm not betting on it. It's a smooth one to handle. And me with five chaps combing the place for it," said Sergeant Moon sadly, "and it had to be young Brian who found it!" to take off his gloves to open and close the camera properly, but I'm not betting on it. It's a smooth one to handle. And me with five chaps combing the place for it," said Sergeant Moon sadly, "and it had to be young Brian who found it!"

The camera had been half-buried in the debris of dead flowers where old wreaths were dumped, in the most deserted corner of the graveyard. If Brian had not been tidying up the dump that morning, and happened to kick against metal, it might have taken them at least another day to work their way to it.

"It's true, is it," George asked, "that Robert Macsen-Martel-the late Robert, that is-left a trail of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds all round these parts? Brian," he explained wryly, "chose to account for himself. Quite frankly. According to him there are plenty more."

"True enough. But the Jennings family, now, they're a special case. Those three get on so well together, you wouldn't believe. That's what I call coming to terms with reality. You haven't seen the mother, have you? She's only thirty-nine now, and still as pretty as new paint. Linda Price, she was, went as maid to the Abbey-her old man must have been daft to let her. Nineteen, and a stunner, she was then. Exactly what you'd expect happened. Old Jennings, he's twenty years older than her, he was a widower, and he had a soft spot for Linda. A sort of honourable bargain it was, and they've both kept it. He married her, and took on her boy-and gladly, I may say, his first wife never had any, and Linda's never had any since, so it looks as if but for her slip-up he hadn't a chance of getting a son. She's never looked at anyone but old Eb since, she thinks the sun shines out of his high forehead. They got off lucky, all of 'em, they know how to value one another, even if they are a rum bunch. There's many a family round here started off with a romantic love affair, and ended up with squabbling parents and problem children, and here's the Jennings lot starting off with a business arrangement and ending as snug as old lovers, with an only child who hasn't got so much as a complex or an inhibition to his name. Others," said the sergeant sombrely, "weren't so clever. There's fathers round this valley that know their kids aren't theirs, and make them pay for it, and what's more, get it back off the kids with interest. And there's others that don't even know, and might very well do murder if they ever found out."

"Not, however, this murder," sighed George. "Plenty of reason for nursing grudges against the Martel clan, but what had this poor devil done?" He pondered for a moment, and human curiosity got the better of him. "Any special cases in mind? Locally?"

Sergeant Moon turned towards the window. Faintly through the wet trees beamed the distant lights of "The Duck", and a mere murmur of music drifted in from the jukebox in the garden bar.

"Some time," he said, "when you're at leisure, go and take a good close look at n.o.bbie Crouch."

"They're taking the copper off guard tonight," Saul Trimble said, flicking a beer-mat accurately in front of Joe Lyon and dumping a levelled-off pint of homebrewed on it without spilling a drop. He deposited his own pot carefully, for the corner table tended to rock slightly, but he knew his territory so well that it was no hazard to him. "Got to give the lads a few hours off in the end, and nothing's happened so far, has it? I reckon even the spooks are bound to have a bit o' respect for the English week-end. Back on duty a' Monday." He had an uncanny instinct for choosing the role that would most surely provoke whatever strangers he had hooked for the bar's entertainment. Everyone had taken it for granted that the earnest researchers who had taken rooms at the hotel would carry their inquiries, after opening time, into the bar of "The Sitting Duck." The natives did not use "The Martel Arms." The reason was beer rather than caste, but the aliens were not to know that. They came slumming, and it was a wonder they didn't bring their tape recorders with them, so quaint and primitive was Sam Crouch's antiquated-and profitable-bar, and so renowned its characters. The visitors being believers, Saul had become a sceptic of the bleakest kind. He believed in nothing he could not touch, smell or drink. He deposited his lean rump in the red pulpit-cushions of the corner settle, and winked at Dinah Cressett across the crowded bar.

This was Sat.u.r.day night, so everyone was there. The general hum of conversation-"The Sitting Duck" was never a noisy bar, they banished the young and loud into the garden pavilion-was constant, drowsy and warm, like the busy signature of a hive of bees. Over this background, dominant voices floated in emphatic moments like soloists in opera soaring out of the chorus, to subside again gracefully without breaking the continuous arc of rounded, communal sound. Not many pubs can command such orchestration and balance, these days.

"The mockers," p.r.o.nounced Eb Jennings, in an unexpected ba.s.s lead-in that seemed to emerge from the cellars under their feet, "the mockers may have blood on their hands by morning. Who took away the wreath that was meant to protect us all?"

On Sat.u.r.day nights the Jennings family went their separate ways, each member with the family blessing on his choice: Eb to the bar of the "Duck," Linda to the Bingo in the infant school, with her friend Mrs. Bowen, and young Brian, on his powerful pest of a motor-bike, to the weekly dance in Comerbourne, replete with beat groups blessed with incredible names, and heady with nubile girls. Brian was a heroic dancer and a Spartan motor-cyclist. His gear was stark, immaculately maintained and without insignia. In transit he looked more like one of Cocteau's symbolic fates pursuing Orpheus than a modern, bra.s.s-k.n.o.bbed, long haired, seedy enthusiast.

Within the memories of the regulars, however, Eb had never taken any active part in the entertainments staged impromptu at the "Duck." Either something had got into him, tonight, or else this was the first occasion that had touched him nearly, and caused him to give tongue.

"In the midst of life," he proclaimed, erect beside the bar like a prophetic angel, even his pint forgotten, "in the midst of life we are in death. Like our brother departed. No one should laugh who is not ready to go."

For one instant he achieved such an impression that there was total silence in the bar. Then Saul said reasonably: "Well, n.o.body who's ready to go is going to feel much like laughing, that's for sure. And anyhow, you tell the police, Eb, lad, don't tell us, we we didn't shift your parsley garland." didn't shift your parsley garland."

"Nor call the coppers off night watch," confirmed Willie the Twig. "After all, they've kept a guard on the church for three nights, and nothing happened. And they need plenty of men during the day on these jobs, they can't wear out a constable minding the scene of the crime indefinitely."

"Anyhow," said Eli Platt sententiously, "lightning never strikes twice in the same place."

"Have it your way, then," intoned Eb, "but I tell you we're not finished yet with this evil. 'Tis in the air all about us. 'Tis lurking there on the scene where the murder was done. I feel my thumbs p.r.i.c.k and my blood chill when I go near that door."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," one of the visitors explained with kindly condescension, "if you approach these phenomena in a scientific spirit. From what you've told us of the past history of the Abbey, this is a very interesting case which ought to be investigated by someone trained in the proper research techniques. What's needed is accurate and detached observation. That's impossible if one is afraid."

Everyone looked at him with the awed respect of the simple villager for the visiting expert. He was a large, slightly flabby man with an egg-shaped skull fringed with reddish hair, and his pale, probing nose was peppered with russet freckles. He was earnest and patronising, and none too free with paying for drinks; but so innocently impervious to all double meanings that Dinah felt it was a shame to take advantage of him.

"I intend," he announced, having drawn all eyes upon himself, "to keep watch myself tonight. Alone!"

He declared himself with all possible ceremony. The effect was pleasing up to a point. Everyone gaped at him with curiosity, speculation, and-he was sure-admiration. He had hoped also for a degree of anxious solicitude, but of this he could be less certain.

"Sooner you than me, friend," said Willie the Twig, with obliging (and quite mendacious) fervour. He lived alone in the back of beyond with his forests, his Land-Rover and a couple of setters, and habitually patrolled by night unarmed, even when he had reason to believe there were wood-or deer-poachers about; and so far no one had been able to identify anything in any real or imaginary world of which he could be said to be afraid.

"You're venturing too far, 'tis daring the devil," protested Eb, outraged. "You think you're wise, my friend, but 'tis foolishness to walk too proud in the face of powers more than mortal."

"Call it off till it stops raining," offered Saul sportingly, "and we'll make up a party. How about you, Hugh, lad?"

"Not me!" said Hugh, not without regret. "Sorry, but I'm driving in the Mid-Wales rally tomorrow. Got to get my sleep tonight, I shall be off about five in the morning. Any other time you plan a ghost-hunt, I'll be delighted."

"Oh, ah, that's right, I forgot! Can't afford to risk your chances in the hill run, that's a fact. Anybody else game?"

Facetious offers of help and prophecies of doom came cascading from all directions in bewildering variety. The man from the research society was horrified. These att.i.tudes were the outcome of ignorance, and did untold harm. How could extra-human forces be expected to manifest themselves and communicate where there was derision and noise and lack of understanding? Where no one believed except those who were afraid with the old panic terror, and no one at all had an open mind? He must and would be alone on his watch; it was an opportunity not to be missed. He had brought with him merely a raincoat, a notebook and a torch. His purpose was not to tape-record for his own glory, not to stand off an enemy, but to observe, to report truthfully, and to attempt to establish communication if the opportunity was offered.

"Pity, really, about the Mid-Wales being tomorrow," Hugh whispered in Dinah's ear, "we could have fixed him up with a set of phenomena he'd never forget."

"Hush!" Dinah whispered back, smiling and frowning. "He really means it, you know. In a way there is is something brave about it." something brave about it."

"Brave nothing, love! Insensitive and big-headed! It would be gorgeous," said Hugh, entranced with the prospect, "if he really did see something. I bet you wouldn't see him for dust! Our Porsche wouldn't keep his tail-lights in sight!"

That was what was really occupying his mind, Dinah realised, tomorrow, and the twenty-four-hour rally he had a sporting chance of winning. Ted Pelsall, who was Jenny's brother and their best mechanic, had withdrawn the car a week ago to his own yard, in the ramshackle ex-farmhouse close to the Abbey, and had been working on it lovingly ever since. He always acted as Hugh's navigator, and since they had to make such an early start to reach the muster-point on time, Hugh was sleeping at the Abbey tonight, where Ted would pick him up before dawn. At least his mother would be happy to have him in the house, even if she saw him for only half an hour before retiring to bed. Sometimes, since that strained evening in her company, Dinah thought of his mother with a curious compa.s.sion, detached and mature, surprising even to herself.

"We ought to be going soon," she whispered.

"Yes, love, I know..." But he went on staring in thoughtful abstraction at the physic researcher, who was standing his ground with an obstinacy so publicly declared that now it could hardly be retracted. Yet to do him justice, he must have meant it from the beginning, since he had come provided with a packet of sandwiches and a small flask of coffee as well as his raincoat and torch. Retreat before his own accusing eyes would have been even harder than retreat in the face of all the mockery and terrorisation "The Sitting Duck" was exercising upon him. And perhaps he was as stupidly big-headed as Hugh had said. Whatever his motives, scientifically pure or humanly stubborn, he meant to go through with it. He would would go through with it. go through with it.

"Drink up, then, my fond and fair one! Sure you wouldn't like the other half?"

"No, really, thanks. We promised Dave we'd cut it short."

Hugh held her coat for her, and they withdrew among a chorus of good nights. Everyone who remembered about the rally added fervent good wishes. One or two even had bets on him. They pa.s.sed close by the earnest stranger, who was also climbing into his coat with slightly defiant resolution. The torch he fished out of a deep pocket was truly formidable in size. Hugh eyed it respectfully in pa.s.sing.

"You need that to see the ghosts, or what?"

"They don't like light," said Eb Jennings mysteriously, as if, had he wished, he could have given this amateur a lot of valuable tips.

"He's right, you know," said Hugh seriously. "Much better leave it behind. You're taking this whole thing too lightly. In for a giggle, in for a thrill, if the monks don't get you, the devils will!"

"You're awful!" said Dinah, as they darted through the rain to the car, the everyday Mini they used for general transport. "You just don't give a d.a.m.n for anybody!"

"Those people burn me up. Coming to a place they know nothing about, and feel nothing about, where if they had sense they'd sit and listen, and put out feelers until they understood at least the language! I can't stand phoneys!"

"I'll drive," said Dinah, slithering behind the wheel, for she had, in any case, to drive herself home from the Abbey after dropping him. They threaded the roads between autumnal, leaning trees, streaming and gleaming with rain. She drove well; both Dave and Hugh had had a hand in teaching her, and her vision was phenomenally sharp and her reactions naturally rapid and decisive. "Take me as navigator," she said suddenly, "I mean next time. Ted wouldn't mind, just for once."

"Ted wouldn't mind anything you suggested, and you know it. Ted dotes. Sometimes I'm downright jealous. You sure you want to run yourself into the ground on a stint like that?"

"I could do it," she said confidently. "I bet I can stick out anything you can."

"If only it hadn't got so d.a.m.ned professional these days, we'd do the Monte together. I'd love it! Dinah, Dinah..."

"Hey, cut it out!" protested Dinah, unexpectedly kissed behind the left ear and-by mistake on a curve-in the left eye. "You'll have us in the hedge!"

They turned into the Abbey drive. There were lights in the drawing-room.

"Good, Mother's still up." It was not much after nine o'clock. "She's got a bit of a cold, Rob said, but it probably won't be much. Anyhow, I'll go and give her your love, shall I?"

"Yes," said Dinah, "do that." It wasn't love she felt, but it was something outgoing and grievous and urgent, and the word love would do for want of one more exact. She was sorry for everyone who was old and lonely, and narrow, and cold.

Hugh kissed her, now with a more a.s.sured aim, and at leisure. "See you some time Tuesday morning, then."

"Give me a ring when the results are out, I'll be waiting to hear how you got on."

He promised, and disentangled himself reluctantly.

"And go to bed as soon as she does," ordered Dinah, as he got out of the car, "or you'll be dropping tomorrow."

He mouthed one more promise and blew a kiss back to her, and was gone. Dinah turned the car in the broad stretch of unkempt gravel before the door, and drove back home. The rain continued, steady, soft-voiced and impersonal, a curtain of pearl-textured sound against the stillness of the night.

The Sat.u.r.day night dances in Comberbourne ended, in deference to the English sabbath, at midnight, but in practice no one actually left before half past twelve, even if the extra half hour was spent in gossiping and finishing up the last drinks after the band had gone. Consequently it was regularly after half past one in the morning when Brian Jennings roared back into Mottisham, accompanied by the hearty curses of all the residents he disturbed in pa.s.sage. Brian considered he was ent.i.tled to one anti-social moment in his week, and this was it. He admitted he could have made his machine quieter if he'd cared to, but he just loved the music it made. At about twenty to two on this particular Sunday morning Dave, whose bedroom overlooked the road, heard him thunder by on his way home. About ten minutes later the offence was aggravated by a second disturbance, just as Dave was drifting into sleep again. A handful of gravel rattled sibilantly down the window. Dave rolled out of bed and flung up the sash. "What the h.e.l.l do you think..."

"Don't shoot, Dave! It's me, Brian Jennings..." There was the slender black figure, anonymous as a skin diver in the P.V.C. overalls he wore over his good suit. As if he felt the need to identify himself beyond question, the boy hurriedly hauled off helmet and goggles, and tilted upwards a tense, wide-eyed face.

"Let me in, will you, please, I've got to use the 'phone. Honest, it's urgent. I didn't want to knock up the Rev., and there's no copper there tonight..." His voice was a strenuous whisper, and conveyed just enough of shock and excitement to restrain Dave from argument. Reactions were quick in Mottisham these days.

"What's happened now?"

He kept his voice down, too. Dinah slept on the other side of the house, no need for her to be disturbed.

"There's another one copped it," said Brian tersely. "Only this one isn't dead-not yet..."

"I'll come down," said Dave, and vanished from the window.

Brian was pressed against the jamb of the door by the time Dave reached it, and slid inside as soon as it was opened. He was quivering gently, but more with a terrier's excitement in the hunt than with superst.i.tious alarm. "Sorry about this, I'd have gone straight to the police, but this is the one night there's n.o.body there... I'd better get the doctor first..."

"Who is it?" asked Dave, steering him towards the office.

"One of those new chaps-the spook-hunters..."

"In the porch, like the other one?" Dave hoisted the telephone from its rest. "Here you are, go ahead, it's your story."

"Right up against the door on his face, just like the first..." Brian's hard young finger dialled rapidly and without error. Somewhere distant at the other end of the line a furious but controlled voice addressed him. Doctors are used to being called out at night, and used, moreover, to making the rapid decision as to whether to come or not on the evidence given, On public business Brian talked with the efficiency and authority of one sure of his ground.

"We've got a bad case of inquiry here at the church at Mottisham, I think it could be a fractured skull-head injuries, anyhow, and he's unconscious. Should I call the ambulance or leave it to you? No, it wasn't an accident, it looks like the last time. I know know, I am am getting on to Sergeant Moon as soon as this line's clear...If you think I'm fooling, I'll give you Mr. Cressett to talk to if you like. -Right, thanks, I'll be standing by till you come." He held down the rest and began to dial again, flashing a fiery glance at Dave. "They don't trust anybody, do they? ' getting on to Sergeant Moon as soon as this line's clear...If you think I'm fooling, I'll give you Mr. Cressett to talk to if you like. -Right, thanks, I'll be standing by till you come." He held down the rest and began to dial again, flashing a fiery glance at Dave. "They don't trust anybody, do they? 'Is this a hoax, young fellow?'" he mimicked savagely. "If you're under twenty they think you're missing on one cylinder."

He misdialled ip his haste, and swore, and started over again. The sergeant's voice, only slightly furred with sleep, came over the line.

"Brian Jennings, here, Sergeant, speaking from Cressett's garage." Brian had tensed from head to toes in concentration. "There's another casualty here at the church, same place, same style-I found him about six minutes ago. He isn't dead-at least, he wasn't-I've called the doctor, he's on his way. It's one of those chaps from London, the psychic research blokes... And, sergeant-I saw the chap who hit him-only a glimpse, it was raining, and black as a bag there, but I saw someone dive out of the porch and make off in the trees. Look, you're not going to like this," said Brian apologetically, "and I don't know that I care for it much myself, but it's gospel-What I saw looked for all the world like somebody in a long brown habit, like those old monks used to wear."

CHAPTER 6.

History had repeated itself with phenomenal exact.i.tude. The position of the p.r.o.ne body was a copy of Gerry Bracewell's position when found, one hand crumpled down from the sanctuary ring. The second absentee from the now gap-toothed border of white stones along the edges of the gra.s.s had been dropped in almost identically the same place as the first. Under the unconscious man lay a large torch, gla.s.s and bulb broken, instead of a battered briefcase. By all appearances he had been examining the door at close quarters when he had been hit from behind. It was certainly proving very unhealthy to show too much interest in that door.

The bald skull was lacerated and bleeding, but Brian had made no mistake; the man was alive. The doctor, kneeling over him while the ambulance attendants stood by with stretcher and blankets, p.r.o.nounced it as his opinion that the victim was in no danger of dying, and that the attack must have been made only very recently, which confirmed Brian's story of interrupting it at the crucial moment, and suggested both to George and Sergeant Moon, though neither of them said a word, that the boy's arrival had in fact prevented the completion of this duplication of death. The victim laid out helplessly, the stone coolly positioned for the second and final blow, and suddenly Brian running across the road from the vicarage, an apparition in black P.V.C. He might look like one of Cocteau's demons, but he had been a guardian angel to this harmless, intrusive crank whose name, according to the papers he had on him, was Herbert Charles Bristow.

Unless, of course, George thought, un.o.btrusively studying Brian's interested, impa.s.sive face, unless Brian himself had been the one who picked up the stone and laid out the inquisitive stranger at the foot of the door. No apparent reason why he should, but then there were no apparent reasons as yet why anyone should. A cool young card, this boy, and the timing would fit perfectly, in addition to the great convenience of not having to believe, in that case, in the elusive figure of someone in a long brown coat or robe, like a monk, who had vanished at speed among the trees. But if Brian had both provided the tableau and instantly reported it, then there had been no intention to murder, but only to remove the intruder from the scene without being identified.

Concussion, probably fairly bad, the doctor said. Don't expect to get anything much out of him for two or three days, and don't expect him to know much about whoever hit him even when he is coherent again. That was fairly obvious advice. Nothing was more certain than that the victim's attention had been concentrated avidly on what he was examining, and the victim's back solidly turned on the world. If he had heard steps and turned, even at the last moment, the blow would not have been positioned so accurately at the very back of his head.