Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “Is he a stern man?”

  “Yes. He’s a deacon of the Particular Baptist church in Fenny Carleton. He didn’t like Sam Bracknell and said I wasn’t to come here alone with the milk, and Charlie must deliver it. But Charlie knew Sam and I were friendly and he used to pretend to dad that he brought the milk, just so that I could … well … have a chat with Sam. He’d do anything for me, would Charlie. He often went delivering on his own and then met me later at the top of Dan’s Lane.”

  “Most obliging. I’d like to meet Charlie.”

  “He might not like that. He’s shy. And besides, dad might find out then about me meeting Sam and give Charlie the sack for helping me. I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No. No. Charlie wants to marry me, but can’t pluck up courage to ask.”

  She giggled and sounded very pleased about it. Littlejohn felt he’d like to talk with the self-immolating Charlie, the man who to please his girl-friend, would even cover up her intrigues with another man!

  “Wasn’t Charlie jealous?”

  “Why?”

  “Going off and spending so much time every day with a man like Sam.”

  He almost said ’who was old enough to be your father.’ but he left it at that.

  “What type of a man was Bracknell? Well-mannered? Educated?”

  “Awfully nice. He was very clever. He said he’d help me to be sophisticated like a city girl. He said he’d teach me French.”

  “Whatever for?”

  She looked at him blankly. She couldn’t understand anybody who lived in the country not wanting to be among the lights and pleasures of the city. They were things her father regarded as sinful. She had read about them in novelettes smuggled home and devoured in bed when the house was asleep and she could hear her father’s snores shaking the place.

  “Do you know Miss Fitzpayne?”

  “Yes. She has a riding-school and lives in a flat in Carleton. They say she has money. She paints pictures, too, for a hobby. She’ll never sell any pictures. She showed me some she’d done once. I didn’t know which was the right end up of them.”

  “Was Mr. Bracknell friendly there, as well?”

  “As I said before, she did most of the running. She came here sometimes on her horse. I used to laugh about her. Sam used to own a horse and she came to see about buying it. It was a good excuse.”

  “Any other women in the case?”

  Her mouth tightened. It was almost too dark now to see it exactly, but he could feel it!

  “I don’t know what you mean. He wasn’t that sort.”

  She was either very clever or very stupid!

  “So you were the only one.”

  It was hardly put as a question, and she didn’t answer it, except in a little self-satisfied giggle. Then, as she remembered Bracknell was dead, it ended in a sob.

  “Pstt …”

  Cromwell was signalling from the widow again.

  Another!

  This time it was a bicycle, with its lamp alight, trundling round the corner, carrying a woman of uncertain age, who dismounted, leant her machine against the front wall, and poked her head in at the front door.

  “Are you there, Mr. Gullet?”

  Littlejohn could feel the panic of Lucy Jolland.

  “It’s Miss Meynold from the Post Office. Don’t let her see me here. It’ll be the talk of the town …”

  She said it in a hoarse whisper, approaching so close to Littlejohn’s ear that he could smell the shampoo in her red hair.

  He went to the front door.

  “Gullet’s left. Anything I can do for you, madam? I’m Superintendent Littlejohn.”

  “Oh … I thought Gullet was still here.”

  Another bouncing blonde, of forty more or less, but taller and more solidly built than Lucy. She wore tweeds and had excessively permed hair. She was breathing heavily and as she bent close to Littlejohn to make out who he was in the gloom of the doorway, he felt a waft of scented heat strike his face. She must have been pedalling hard.

  “You gave me quite a shock, coming out like that, Superintendent.”

  Another giggler. Every sentence ended that way.

  “Has it anything to do with the late Mr. Bracknell?”

  “Yes. A letter came from Australia for him. It’s like the others that came every month. He said they contained money. A cheque for some pension or other he drew.”

  “Have any other letters arrived since he died?”

  “One or two. Circulars and such like.”

  She probably knew the contents of all the letters which passed through her hands.

  “What did you do with the others, Miss …?”

  “Miss Ethel Meynold. I’m postmistress at Carleton Unthank. I handed them over to the police.”

  “Have you this recent letter with you?”

  “No. I left it at the office …”

  She paused, embarrassed. Littlejohn wondered whether or not she was another after the key above the lintel, intent on making a search of the place now that Gullet had ceased to keep an eye on it.

  “Do you think I might just come inside for a moment? Mr. Bracknell was an old friend of mine … He often called at the Post Office and we got on very well together. I would like to see the old place once again before it is sold up.”

  “It’s rather too dark now to see much. Was there anything in particular …?”

  He almost said, ’any letters, books, or gloves left behind?’

  She was evasive, looked away, and hesitated.

  Inside the house, Littlejohn could hear a door close. Lucy Jolland had evidently persuaded Cromwell to hide her somewhere. Then, Cromwell could be heard striking a match and the soft light from the paraffin lamp shone through the window.

  “We’re just going, but if you wish …”

  He stood aside and let her enter.

  She pretended to hesitate, but it was obvious that she was familiar with the place. Once inside the lighted room, she quickly ran her eyes round, searching for something.

  “Ah, there it is. It’s mine. Mr. Bracknell borrowed it from me. He was interested in such things …”

  In the middle of the mantelpiece was an old two-handled loving-cup in white china ornamented in pink and gilt, of the kind exchanged between lovers more than a century ago. It had apparently been specially made for some occasion, for two names had been written under the glaze in gilt. William Meynold and Ruth Busby, tied together by a gold lovers’ knot.

  “I wonder if I might take it back now. I only lent it to him.”

  As there wasn’t another ornament in the room, it was rather clear that Bracknell hadn’t much interest in such things. Probably Miss Meynold had made a sentimental gift of it to him. Now, she was after it again and perhaps had thought to persuade Gullet … Or even purloin it. Another initiate of the hidden key!

  Littlejohn looked at her, as she reached to rescue her souvenir. If she hadn’t been so inclined to coyness and overdoing her hairdressing, she’d have been very attractive to those who liked them bouncing. Her features were clear-cut and handsome, she carried her weight gracefully and, in the light of the lamp, her eyes were almost green and might easily have fascinated a susceptible connoisseur like Bracknell.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave it until the dead man’s affairs have been gone into by his legal representatives, Miss Meynold.”

  “But it’s mine.“

  She was getting angry.

  “Nevertheless, I’ve no power to hand it over.”

  “Very well, then. But I think you’re being very officious. I shall speak to Superintendent Herle about it.”

  “Do that, Miss Meynold. That will be best.”

  “Very good. I will go now. The letter is at the Post Office. I will hand it over to Superintendent Herle …”

  She’d taken the huff.

  “By the way,” she said, as she wheeled out her bike. “I see that Lucy Jolland is somewhere about.
That’s her scooter, I’m sure.”

  She said it in ironic acid tones, as though suggesting that she had interrupted some illicit pleasures when she arrived on the scene.

  “She called to ask about the milk bill and my colleague is dealing with it in another room.”

  The noise she made as she mounted gave him no doubts as to Miss Meynold’s views on the matter.

  “And now, you’d better be getting home, too, Miss Jolland,” said Littlejohn a bit testily when he returned. “What will your father say about this long absence?”

  “He thinks I’m still at the W.I. They’re making jam today and I made an excuse for leaving.”

  She thanked them both for their courtesy and shook hands. She even blushed and giggled again as she did it, as though she wouldn’t object to their kissing her goodbye.

  “That’s enough for one day,” said Littlejohn after she’d chugged away.

  They locked the door, pocketed the secret key, and made their way back along Dan’s Lane to the road and the town.

  There were lights in most of the cottages on the way. The little town ahead of them clustered round the church, with its square steeple still visible in the last of the daylight. Everything was very still and ominous. There wasn’t a soul about. Carleton Unthank was again in its nightly grip of fear of the unknown killer and what was coming next.

  4

  DEATH AT TURVILLE’S GROUND

  AT HALF-PAST SIX in the morning there was excited knocking on the door of Littlejohn’s bedroom.

  “Superintendent! Superintendent! It’s Mr. Herle and he wants you right away.”

  Littlejohn put on his dressing-gown and went outside. Cromwell was already on the landing.

  It was Bertha, the manageress of the Huncote Arms. She must have been roused in a hurry, for she was wearing a fur coat over her nightdress. She was as fresh as a daisy, however, although she hadn’t had time to put on any make-up. Russell, who was hanging about in nothing but his pyjamas, looked awful. He’d been put to bed drunk, as usual, the night before, his hair stood on end like a scrubbing-brush, and his eyes were almost closed by large bags like balloons.

  “What the hell’s the matter at this time of the morning?”

  Herle was in the dining-room stamping with impatience.

  “I’m glad to see you, sir. There’s been another development, another death …”

  There was a loud cry and a thud and Bertha fell in the room in a dead faint. She’d been listening behind the door and the news, coming on top of a sudden awakening, had been too much for her. Russell, still in his pyjamas, appeared and contemplated the body as though he couldn’t believe his own eyes.

  “Take her away and get out of this!” shouted Herle.

  “How?”

  Bertha was too big for him. He tried to take her under the arms and drag her out of the room. Then he had to give it up, shrugged his shoulders, and cast his bleary eyes on Herle as though expecting an act of violence. Cromwell helped him carry the limp body upstairs. They could hear them shuffling and bumping their way into the upper regions.

  “Quarles, of Turville’s Ground, has hanged himself.”

  It was such an anti-climax that Littlejohn was irritated. He was half-dressed, unwashed and unshaved, and here, apparently, was a development quite unconnected with him.

  “What’s that to do with the case we’re on, Herle?”

  “His wife arrived at the police station on an old bicycle at half-past five. Her husband had hanged himself over the cellar steps. We hurried back with her. The body was quite cold. Then she returned with us and came out with the queerest tale you can imagine. It seems …”

  Herle was, as usual, driving him hard, and Littlejohn wasn’t having any.

  “Is she still there?”

  “Yes. That’s why I came for you. I want you to hear what she has to say, first-hand.”

  “Couldn’t it have waited for another hour, or so, until we’d had time to get up, make ourselves fit to meet the public, and eat a bite of breakfast?”

  “Well, I suppose it could. But time’s precious and this affects the case very specially …”

  “All the same, I’ll go back for a wash and a shave, and then I’m going to have some breakfast. We’ll both be down at the station in an hour.”

  Herle’s turn now to look nettled.

  “If that’s the way you want it, sir …”

  “It is.”

  It took him quite a time to thaw out when, an hour later, Littlejohn and Cromwell met him again. He was sitting in an office which badly needed decorating. Heavy furniture must have been recently removed; there were two or three places on the walls where the paint hadn’t faded owing to the protection of some large piece.

  “Quarles farms Turville’s Ground, as you no doubt have heard. His wife’s in the other room and you can see her when you feel inclined …”

  He said it ironically, still nursing his grievance.

  “They were a queer pair of birds. You can judge for yourself when you meet her. He was the same type. Thin, withered, stringy, mean … The body’s in the mortuary. You’ll see it. They’ve been at Turville’s about six years. Came from the eastern counties, near Norwich, I believe. Turville’s is a small farm between Freake’s and the road. Stands back from Dan’s Lane, hidden from view by neglected bushes. Quarles encouraged the hedges to grow thick. He and his missus were a secretive couple. Never bothered with anybody except when it came to selling their stuff. They kept hens, a few cows, a market-garden, and a large orchard, and just scratched a living together. They had no friends and I don’t know anybody who’s ever been in their house. If you called you did your business at the door.”

  Herle was now in full spate. His eyes glowed with enthusiasm and he’d forgotten his huff at his previous treatment.

  “We’ve had a bit of trouble a time or two with the pair of them. For instance, Quarles hated the Milk and the Egg Boards. He got so awkward about his bit of milk that the Board served a summons on him. He fired his shot-gun at the process-server and there looked like being a siege. However, Gullet managed to make him see sense … Then, when the apples were ripe and some of the roughs from the town raided his orchard, he loosed-off his gun at them, too. A good job he was a bad shot … That’s the kind of man he was. A bit crazy.”

  Herle seemed to sense that Littlejohn was wondering what it was all about and when it was going to end.

  “I’m only telling you this to give you some idea of the kind of people we’re dealing with.”

  He rang a bell, and a heavy mournful constable entered and stood at attention.

  “Bring in Mrs. Quarles now, Drayton, and be quick about it.”

  Drayton retired slowly without a word and the next thing was the sound of a thin, nagging voice, protesting in the lobby.

  “I don’t have to tell it all over again, do I? Because it’s not good enough keeping me here all this time. The cows want milking, the hens feeding, and now that Quarles isn’t there, it’ll all fall on me. Besides, how do I know what the police will be doing while I’m away, wastin’ my time with you lot? They’ll be into everything and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was things missin’ when I get back …”

  Drayton finally re-appeared making shovelling gestures to get the woman in the room. Once there, she spotted Herle and repeated all her complaint to him as well.

  A small, scraggy, middle-aged woman with dishevelled grey hair, grimy lines of weariness and overwork on her face, and wearing an old coat and hat which must have served her for twenty years or more, judging from their style.

  “Tell us what happened and then you can go.”

  “Do I have to go through it all again?”

  “Yes. These two officers are on the case and are from London.”

  “Can’t you tell ’em?”

  Herle rose heavily, a look of exaggerated patience on his face.

  “Look, Mrs. Quarles. You don’t want to be here all day, do you? Well, tell us what happ
ened and then we’ll send you home in a police-car.”

  The woman was obviously completely bewildered and didn’t know where to begin. Littlejohn drew up a chair.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Quarles. I’m sorry to hear of the ordeal you’ve been through in the night. Just tell us briefly all about it.”

  “It wasn’t much of an ordeal, as you call it. Quarles has tried to do away with himself a time or two before. Threw himself in Freake’s Pond twice, but the water wasn’t deep enough once, and the other time, he must have changed his mind. He came home wet through. Then he tried hanging himself twice, as well. The hook came out of the beam and he fell on his face at the first go; the other, I got to him before he passed-out and cut him down. He’s managed it at last, now.”

  They felt that had he materialised then and there, she would have congratulated him on his final success!

  “Not that he didn’t have good reason for trying harder last night, with his brother lying dead under the manure-heap in the yard …”

  Littlejohn leaned in her direction incredulously and Herle gave a triumphant nod of his head. That would teach them to insist on washing, shaving, and eating their breakfasts before listening to the night’s sensations!

  “We’ve found the body! It’s the man who murdered the two girls. It was Quarles’s brother who escaped from an asylum near Lincoln!”

  Herle rattled it out with gusto. Mrs. Quarles took it all quite calmly, as though she was used to all her husband’s mad antics.

  “If you’re going to tell ’im the rest, I’ll be on my way.”

  She rose and pulled her old coat round her bony body.

  “Here, wait a minute. Go on with what you were saying.”

  Littlejohn looked at the thin, tired face and the wild mad eyes of Mrs. Quarles. Her dirty little claws of hands moved convulsively as though she were taking hold of something from the thin air.

  “Has she had any breakfast?”

  “I had a boiled egg and some bread before I came to tell the police.”

  Littlejohn imagined her cutting the bread, boiling the egg, sitting down and eating them, perhaps even blowing on her tea to cool it, whilst her husband was swinging cold and dead over the cellar steps.