Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “We’ll all go over for a drink,” concluded the mayor, and they all streamed out.

  The mayor was a large flabby man of around sixty. He had a rosy face of the type they seemed to breed in Carleton, a bald head with a faded fringe of fair hair circling it, and he wore a green tweed suit and brightly polished brown shoes.

  He took Littlejohn by the arm familiarly.

  “Have you found out anything, yet, Superintendent?”

  “I can’t say that I have, sir.”

  “Patience, then. Softee, softee, catchee monkey, eh?”

  And he giggled to himself.

  He owned a chain of grocer’s shops in the district and was quite a personage locally. As they crossed the street to his house, he addressed himself to passers-by, who greeted him respectfully. He even enquired about their wives and children, as though, as principal citizen, it was his business.

  “Excuse me …”

  He took the town clerk aside.

  “That’s Ashby. You might let him know we’ll be along for some shooting next Wednesday …”

  “Certainly, Mr. Mayor …”

  The town clerk almost ran to convey the message.

  “What do you think of the death of Samuel Bracknell, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Eh?”

  His Worship looked surprised at Littlejohn’s question. The Superintendent repeated it.

  Mr. Checkland hesitated and rubbed his chin.

  “I haven’t given the new situation much thought. Herle was telling us all when you came in that the case was completely changed. We’d all thought Bracknell was a victim of the maniac who stabbed the two girls. Now …”

  He shrugged his huge shoulders.

  “You knew Bracknell?”

  “A bit of a mystery man. I’ve seen him about the place. Distantly related to the Huncote family. Spent a long time abroad and then returned to sponge on his relatives here, I suppose.”

  “What did he live on?”

  “What bit he’d accumulated abroad, I heard.”

  It was all in Herle’s files, but it was a good topic of conversation and the Johnny-know-all mayor might reveal some odd scrap of information Herle had overlooked.

  “Here we are …”

  The little party had crossed the road and were now waiting for Mr. Checkland to take them indoors.

  The building in front of which the Coroner’s party had gathered was quite unique in the neighbourhood and some good modern architect had evidently gone to town on it.

  A large Georgian house, which, at some time or other, might have been a combined grocer’s shop and living quarters. Now, it had a broad window on each side of an archway which led into a courtyard. The windows were decked-out to attract the wealthy and fastidious of the district. Continental delicacies, Italian warehouseman’s goods, exotic Eastern dainties, appetising English cheeses, and bacon and hams. Pâté de foie gras, pasta in its many forms, Turkish delight, preserved ginger, wines of all kinds in one window, delicatessen in the other.

  Two doors under the archway led to the separate departments. The atmosphere of the tunnel changed in flavour as the alternative doors opened and closed. Coffee, spices, vinegar and rum from one side; smoked bacon, cheese and butter from the other. From a third door farther along the passage emerged a smell of burnt toast. It led to a high-class café on the first floor.

  The whole floor looked busy and prosperous. Assistants running here and there, a girl ceaselessly punching a cash-register and, in the delicatessen department, two men dismembering a side of bacon like high priests at sacrifice.

  Over the archway, a sign in gilt old-English lettering.

  Benj’n. Checkland & Son,

  High Class Grocers

  “My late father and me,” explained the mayor to Littlejohn, whom he saw examining the building. “When my son leaves college, he’s joining the firm and the sign will be appropriate once again. Him and me. I’ll be glad when he’s finished at college. We’ve twelve branches in the county and I badly need a bit of help.”

  The archway led into a cobbled yard at the far side of which stood the mayor’s house. A modern building on Georgian lines, with a walled garden at the back and, behind it, an open expanse of fields leading to the river.

  Vans were loading and unloading in the yard and on either side were offices, warehouses and garages. A sign with an arrow pointing one way: Administration Offices. Another in the opposite direction: Goods.

  From the front windows of his house, Mr. Checkland could see the whole of his domain. He also pointed out to Littlejohn the view through the archway from the courtyard: the town hall, itself, a Victorian monstrosity with Corinthian pillars and a wide stone staircase.

  “Very handy, eh?”

  As though he were going to remain mayor for ever!

  The little party of officials slowly shuffled across the yard, not quite sure what all the fuss was about, but intent on being courteous to the principal citizen of the two Carletons.

  In the hall of the house, Mrs. Checkland, in a dark silk dress, met the guests with sophisticated smiles and handshakes. A woman very different from her husband. As Cromwell later remarked to Littlejohn, she must have married Checkland for his money. There was very little else in common between them. She was tall, dark, grey-haired, and had refined aquiline features. She must have been beautiful in her prime. Evidently a woman of good taste and upbringing, too, who was treated with respect by the local guests who knew her. None of the familiarity and bonhomie with which her husband treated everybody. Even Mr. Dommett grew extremely polite, almost gallant. Someone later told Littlejohn she was a member of the Huncote family. Not the Midshire branch, but a much more powerful one, the Trentshire Huncotes …

  The entertaining rooms of the house were at the back facing the fields and the river.

  “Bar on the left, gentlemen,” said Mr. Checkland.

  On the right they could see through the open door of the dining-room an exquisite Sheraton table and Hepplewhite chairs. Probably the choice of Mrs. Checkland, for the place they now entered was peculiar to Checkland himself. It was panelled in heavy mahogany and that was all there was nice about it.

  “Bought the panels from an old Spanish battleship,” he was telling Mr. Dommett, who, however was only interested in the bar.

  A long counter, lighted by a string of coloured lamps which Mr. Checkland at once switched on. This vulgar illumination revealed rows of bottles of every conceivable drink. Modern tub-shaped chairs and little tables scattered about.

  “Now, son, help serve some drinks.”

  Mr. Checkland addressed a young man of sixteen or so, who was standing by the window looking self-conscious, probably at his father’s idea of entertainment. He resembled his mother, with hardly a solitary trace of the mayor himself. He seemed to know everyone except the two Scotland Yard men, to whom Checkland introduced him. A well-mannered, pleasant fellow, anxious to make them all feel at home, in spite of difficulties.

  There were one or two others there waiting for them, too. A couple of magistrates, the judge of the county court, the borough treasurer … The little world of Carleton Unthank.

  Everybody was talking at once. Mr. Dommett held a large glass of whisky and soda, and was addressing his hostess.

  “I’ve been Coroner in this county for more than thirty years and this is the first time I ever heard of Turville’s Ground. Who was Turville anyhow …?”

  His face was flushed and he was showing his long teeth in what might have passed for a sociable smile.

  Herle looked uneasy. He disapproved of wasting time with the case unsolved. He steered a slow course in Littlejohn’s direction. He drank the last of his Dubonnet and put down his glass. Young Checkland immediately refilled it and handed it back to him. Finally, Herle spoke.

  “There’s something I wanted to show you. Not that it’s much interest to the case, but …”

  He took out an official-looking foolscap envelope bearing an Australian stamp and passed it
to the Superintendent.

  “Miss Meynold, the postmistress, handed it to me this morning. In the rush of the Quarles affair, I forgot all about it.”

  Littlejohn extracted the contents of the envelope. A letter from the Equitable Bank of Australia, Perth, enclosing a draft for fifty pounds. That was all.

  “Where did Bracknell keep his local banking account? Had he one?”

  “I don’t know. We found nothing to guide us among his papers.”

  “We’d better enquire right away. It’s not three o’clock yet.”

  “Let’s ask Major Kite … He’s manager of the Home Counties Bank here.”

  He indicated a tall lean man with a silver moustache, talking with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, who were treating him with deference. Major Kite, O.B.E., T.D., J.P., banker to the corporation of Carleton, was important enough to be invited to the mayor’s party, although he’d arrived late and hadn’t been introduced to Littlejohn in the scrimmage.

  Kite proved to be a nice fellow. Modest and anxious to be helpful, he hadn’t any idea where the murdered man had kept his account. His business, formerly that of Webb, Tribe and Gore, private bankers, was the most extensive in the district and he had to confess he didn’t know the names of all his customers. He’d soon find out.

  “Might I use your telephone, James?” he said to young Checkland.

  “Not going to change the Bank Rate at this time in the afternoon, are you, Kite?” bellowed the mayor after him, and Tweedledum and Tweedledee choked over their drinks, until they caught Mr. Dommett’s eye.

  Kite was back.

  “Yes. Bracknell kept his account with us. Sorry, we’ve so many, you see … My deputy, Mandeville … well … ahem …”

  He almost said Mandeville ran the place!

  “… Mandeville’s been there all his life. Knows the business from A to Z.”

  Young Checkland re-filled his glass.

  “Anything more I can do?”

  “I think we’d perhaps better have a word with Mr. Mandeville.”

  “I’ve left him hanging-on the ’phone in case you … I’ll tell him you’re coming and to help you all you want. In confidence, of course. Strictest confidence …”

  Littlejohn and Cromwell were glad to get away and, after apologising, they made off to the bank.

  Cromwell, who hadn’t said much since lunch, apologised.

  “Sorry, sir. I don’t seem to be much use on the case so far.”

  “You’re keeping up my morale, old man. I’m glad to get away and make a start on our own.”

  It was a start, too!

  Mr. Mandeville was a small, keen-looking man who occupied a dark office, in which a light burned all day, next to the sumptuous quarters of Major Kite. As the Major had already given full instructions about receiving Littlejohn affably and helpfully, he greeted his visitors with unusual cordiality, offered them cigarettes, and at once sent for the file and the account-sheets of the late Samuel Bracknell. Then he sat in his armchair and indicated that he was ready to be questioned.

  “Did Bracknell keep much of an account with you, sir?”

  “Not a very active one …”

  A careful glance through the account-sheets before him.

  “But carrying a substantial balance. Over ten thousand pounds!”

  Mr. Mandeville sat back and enjoyed Littlejohn’s surprise.

  “But I thought he came over here to settle in his inherited property because he wasn’t doing very well in Australia.”

  “So did we, Superintendent, so did we. He’s accumulated all this money since he arrived here. Let me see … About four or five years ago. I could, in confidence, give you the details. They really ought not to be divulged without an order giving us the protection of the Court, but as this is a murder and we’re anxious to put a stop to the reign of terror which has existed in Carleton for so long, I’m going to take the risk. In confidence, I said. I have your assurance …?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Mr. Mandeville then began to go through the items to credit of the account. It wasn’t very difficult. It had not been copiously used.

  “He drew about ten pounds a week to live on. Then, of course, he’d a monthly cheque from the Equitable Bank of Australia. Fifty pounds monthly. I remember his telling me when he made his will, that it was some instalment or other. Capital someone was repaying him.”

  Littlejohn lit his pipe and puffed it thoughtfully.

  “But that wouldn’t account for the accumulation of such a substantial balance. The annuity wasn’t enough to meet his regular monthly needs.”

  “No. The credit balance was mostly accumulated in cash. I’ve told them in the office to let me have the details. The account was started with a draft for £5,000 by an Australian bank in London. I remember Bracknell opening with us, and he told me at the time that the draft was for some property and other things he’d sold-off when he decided to come and settle in Carleton Unthank … Ah, here we are …”

  A clerk entered with some paying-in slips which he placed in front of the deputy-manager. Then after a keen glance at Littlejohn, in order that he might tell his fellow clerks in the office what the famous detective from London looked like, he quietly withdrew.

  Mandeville was turning-over the slips.

  “All in five-pound notes, over the past three years. Six payments, roughly at six-monthly intervals, as you’ll see …”

  He passed the credits across to the Superintendent.

  Five thousand pounds in regular instalments and, judging from the dates of the slips, another payment was about due.

  “It might easily have been blackmail, Superintendent,” said Mr. Mandeville. He spoke in a hushed tone, like one who stumbles across something horrible and most unusual.

  “It certainly might.”

  Littlejohn handed back the slips.

  “We might need to borrow those, sir.”

  “Of course. Let me know.”

  “Any chance of tracing the notes?”

  “Not at all, Superintendent Littlejohn. We don’t take records now of five-pound notes. In these days so many of them are used, we couldn’t possibly …”

  “I see. They’d all be put in circulation again?”

  “Perhaps. The very soiled ones would be withdrawn, but even those we couldn’t trace. I’m afraid we can give you no help whatever on that score.”

  “You mentioned Bracknell’s making a will. Did he make it here?”

  “Not exactly. You see, I happened to mention one day that if he ever thought of making a will, the bank would be very happy to act as his executor. We’ve a special department for such matters, you know. Bracknell didn’t seem to have any relatives or close friends, and I suggested our services would be the very thing. He quite agreed.”

  Mandeville hesitated.

  “This is a confidential matter, too. The will hasn’t been proved yet and I really oughtn’t to divulge … However, I’ll take a chance. Confidentially, of course. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “One of the local lawyers made the will. Incidentally, he tried to persuade Bracknell that his law firm would be much better than the bank as executors, but Bracknell was loyal to us. He brought in the will with the bank as executor.”

  “May I ask to whom he left his money? He’d no relatives, had he?”

  “No. Confidentially, the lot goes to Miss Marcia Fitzpayne.”

  6

  A PRESENT FROM PERTH

  “OF COURSE, if you wish to, there’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t tell her. None whatever. She’ll inherit around ten thousand in cash and the property of Freake’s Folly …”

  Littlejohn was sitting in the office of Mr. Athelstan Lucas, the lawyer who had drawn-up Bracknell’s will. Mandeville had given him his address. The first floor in a block of buildings facing the Corn Exchange.

  Mr. Lucas, of Lucas, Freake, Son and Lucas was between seventy and eighty. A medium-built man who had been very dark before greyness atta
cked him. His hair was white and his eyebrows almost jet black, which made them look to be painted in. His striped grey trousers were braced too high and showed his thin ankles, which contrasted greatly with his paunchy figure and gave him an ill-balanced look.

  The room had probably been the same for a century or more. An old table at which the lawyer was sitting in a large Victorian chair, upholstered in black worn leather held in place by studs like leather-covered shillings. Large japanned deed-boxes all over the place; documents yellow with age; law books, most of them out of date, in a heavy mahogany bookcase. Spy cartoons on the walls of judges and lawyers so ancient that nobody had ever heard of them.

  Mr. Lucas earnestly assured Littlejohn that the Freake in the name of his firm had nothing whatever to do with the builder of the Folly.

  “Our Freake was one of the Rutland Freakes. A much more stable and influential family.”

  When Littlejohn mentioned that Mr. Mandeville had suggested he should call, Mr. Lucas made gestures of distaste.

  “It annoys me past telling the way these bankers nowadays poach upon the lawyers’ preserves. Mandeville actually persuaded Bracknell to make the bank his trustee. What would Mandeville have said if I’d suggested Bracknell should open a banking account with our firm? Eh? What would he have said?”

  Mr. Lucas had a long inquisitive nose, which he nervously tweaked from time to time as though he detested it. It was as flexible as indiarubber and seemed a perpetual source of irritation to him.

  “Marcia Fitzpayne inherits the lot. If you want to tell her so, I don’t mind. She ought to have been told before, but you know what bankers are. Mandeville must have feared another will would turn up, in spite of the fact that the one in question was only recently made.”

  “Do you know Miss Fitzpayne, sir?”

  Mr. Lucas pulled his nose again.

  “Yes.”

  And then he smiled to himself, as though amused at his thoughts.

  “Yes. There’s no doubt about it, she was Bracknell’s mistress.”

  “Is she a local woman?”

  “No. Fitzpayne’s a Leicestershire name. I believe she came from Market Harborough way. Been in Carleton five or six years. Opened a riding school here. Did very well, too. Attractive gel. Not out of the top drawer, though. Brought her mother with her when she came. Old lady died a year or two ago. Fat woman who looked like a charwoman, but who kept her daughter in order. No gallivantin’ while the old lady was alive. She hadn’t been dead a month before Marcia took up with Bracknell. Could have done better for herself. Still, there’s no accounting for taste, is there? Wonder why they didn’t marry if Bracknell was fond enough of her to leave her all he’d got. Perhaps he’d got a wife somewhere else. A dark horse, if you ask me.”