“It might have been dropped there before or after the crime, then?”
“I suppose so. I think before, or at the time of the crime. Because, you see, I was the first to enter the house after the police guard was removed. I met Gullet at the end of Dan’s Lane and he was a bit talkative and said he was glad the job of guarding the house was over. You had said it was no longer necessary. So, I went to Freake’s, found it deserted, and burned my letters. I took the key from over the door lintel. May I please have the key? After all, the Folly will soon be mine and I promise not to go again till you say I may.”
“That’s all right, Miss Fitzpayne. But it appears, if what you say is true, that the pen wasn’t Bracknell’s, as if someone from Australia, or at least, connected with it, was down at the Folly around the time of the crime. We’d better look into that …”
“I don’t think there’s much more I can tell you, but please come again if there’s anything I can do.”
She shook hands with them both. Her eyes were still red and she looked forlorn.
Outside, the Corn Exchange clock was striking six as they left, and a man in uniform emerged from the town hall, solemnly rang twelve strokes on a bell hanging above the ancient butter market, and marched away. It was the curfew which had been sounded unbrokenly in Carleton Unthank since 1087.
7
HIS WORSHIP THE MAYOR
“EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT, sir?”
Russell, the landlord asked it after every course.
“Yes, thanks. All very nice.”
Littlejohn and Cromwell were dining in the room marked, for some extraordinary reason, salle à manger. Russell was said to have worked in France at a fashionable restaurant on the Riviera, and he thought the label added tone to the hotel.
The place was almost full. It was market-day and many in the neighbourhood took it as a half-holiday. In addition to the couples dotted here and there under little shaded lamps, there was a long table at which the Carleton Law Society was holding its annual dinner, and another which held the remnants of a wedding-party. The latter had been functioning since four o’clock, the happy pair had already left for a secret destination, and the rest were noisily rejoicing.
Mr. Russell was officially keeping an eye on things, although, as usual, Bertha was doing the work. A squad of bald-headed extra waiters had been signed on and looked like a crowd of brothers; well-on in years, resembling the priests in a sacred procession. The youngest among them, Herbert, the regular waiter of the Arms, was looking as black as thunder. He had been prevented from going to see his girl, for it was normally his day off, and, had he not valued his job, would have assaulted the hired maître d’hôtel, who kept picking on him and ordering him about.
Littlejohn and Cromwell were enjoying the doubtful privilege of being honoured with the same menu as the Law Society; turtle soup, sole Mornay, roast duck, and ice cream. Cromwell was disgusted. It was the same fare, albeit much inferior, as that served the week before at the dinner of the Scotland Yard Male Voice Choir, of which he was an enthusiastic bass member.
Littlejohn pointed out Mr. Lucas among the members of the legal party.
“No wonder he’s pulling his nose,” said Cromwell. “This duck tastes as if it was cooked yesterday and warmed-up.”
“Everything all right?”
Mr. Russell poured out their coffee himself.
“The speeches’ll be starting in a few minutes. I’d stay and listen, if I was you. Lucas is proposing the toast of the guests. That’ll be good …”
Telephone, somewhere in the hall. Bertha hurried in. It was for Littlejohn.
“The mayor is asking if you would care to call and have a drink with him after dinner. He seemed quite surprised when I told him you’d almost finished. We started half an hour earlier to-night on account of the Law Society dinner. He’s at home and said would you go there as soon as you liked.”
“Thank you, Bertha.”
“Sorry, old man. The invitation doesn’t seem to include you. I won’t be late and we can have a drink together before bed …”
“I don’t mind, sir. I’ll find the bar where the locals and farmers gather and see if there’s any talk about the murders. It may lead to something. I must say it’s not fair of the mayor. He doesn’t seem to think you’re entitled to any leisure.”
It had been a busy day, starting with Herle knocking them up about Quarles’s suicide and ending just before dinner with a lot of enquiries about the mysterious man from Australia who’d dropped his pen at Freake’s Folly.
Herle had been surprised when Littlejohn arrived at the police station with the new clue which Marcia Fitzpayne had produced. And when the Scotland Yard man had left, he’d given his subordinates, who were supposed to have searched the Folly, a very bad-tempered ticking-off.
First, a message through Scotland Yard to the Australian police at Perth, asking them to find out from the Perth office of the Equitable Bank of Australia exactly by whom the regular payments had been made to Samuel Bracknell’s account in Carlton Unthank.
Then, another request for full particulars of the sender of such remittances, if it happened to be an individual and not a firm of lawyers or bankers. Was he still in Perth? If not, had he set out for England … and when? Then, a description of him and the reason for his trip.
Finally, a request for as much information as possible about Bracknell during his life in Australia.
“You don’t mean to say that somebody’s come all the way from Australia to murder Bracknell,” said Herle, when it had all been attended to. “Why didn’t he come earlier instead of waiting all that time? In any event, there’s nobody from Australia been seen around Carleton lately.”
“Perhaps you’ll enquire if anybody passed through. He may have been in a car and stopped for petrol or to ask the way. The garages and the constables may know something.”
And now the mayor …
“Everything all right?” asked Russell as the two detectives rose to go. He was anxious that the Law Society should notice that he had, for the present, a famous detective staying with him.
There was hardly a soul to be seen as Littlejohn crossed the square on his way to the mayor’s house. It was like a zone of silence. Fear was still abroad in Carleton Unthank. In spite of the fact that news had got about that the maniac was dead, people wondered who’d be the next. Most of them stayed indoors. In the older thickly-populated parts of the town near the river, which flowed behind the Corn Exchange, some young people were abroad and shouting out of bravado, but the square was completely deserted and Littlejohn’s footsteps echoed as he made his way. A policeman at the corner of the High Street looked at him closely as he passed under a lamp, and then drew himself up rigidly with a brisk salute, his hand trembling stiffly with enthusiasm.
“Good night, sir.”
“Good night.”
Checkland and Son’s shop was closed but there were lights on in the café upstairs, where, judging from the noises coming through an open window, they were still washing-up. There was a light under the archway and another over the doors of the mayor’s house. When Littlejohn rang the bell, Mr. Checkland himself appeared. He was breathing heavily as though he’d just run up and down stairs or else hurried at top speed to answer the doorbell.
“Come in, Superintendent. I’d have sent the car for you, but it’s only a cock-stride away, isn’t it? Come in. Hang up your hat and coat … or give them to me.”
He was most affable and breathed a blast of whisky over Littlejohn as he took his hat. Through the tall window at the end of the corridor they could see the string of lights which illuminated the promenade along the riverside.
A maid, tying on her apron, emerged from her quarters at the far end of the passage.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t hear the bell.”
“That’s all right, Maudie. Has Mrs. Checkland gone to bed, yet?”
“No sir. She’s in the library. It’s a bit early …”
As tho
ugh to confirm it, a clock in the hall struck eight.
“Let’s go up, Littlejohn.”
Mrs. Checkland looked more refined than ever, sitting there, a book on her lap, under a standard-lamp, which threw into relief her striking profile and the calm poise of her manner. Checkland himself looked hot and flustered at the arrival of Littlejohn. He was anxious to show-off his position and authority in the town and was doing it so thoroughly that he was sweating with the effort.
“Have you finished your work?”
“Yes, my dear. I’ve been at it an hour and I’ve had enough. I asked the Superintendent to come over for a drink and a talk.”
She rose and shook hands.
“Not another murder, I hope.”
Checkland didn’t allow Littlejohn to reply.
“No, no,” he said roughly, and then toned-down. “He’s on his own and there’s nothing much to do except go to the pictures after dark here. I thought he might like a change. That’s all there is to it.”
She said she hoped that Littlejohn would soon solve his case and then bade them both goodnight. The closing of the heavy door seemed to shut them out of the world. For a moment there was no sound but the ticking of the clock and the cheerful noise of the fire burning in the open grate.
“Draw up a chair, Superintendent. I always think there’s nothing better than a real fire. They can all have their gas and electricity who like. Give me some good logs for comfort …”
He threw on a couple of large ones to emphasise it.
“Whisky, gin, beer?”
The mayor passed his large strong hand, like a celebrant blessing the wine, over a number of bottles set-out on a table.
“Whisky, please.”
The library was cosy, smallish and in modern style. Light walnut panelling, ornamental ceiling, and a lustre chandelier. The name of the room justified simply by two closed bookcases with glass-panelled doors, behind which were assembled on shelves a conglomeration of books of all shapes and sizes, many of them complete editions of English novels. The rest was a glorified office, with a desk, chairs, cabinets and a table in unpolished mahogany. Here was luxury and good taste and it looked as if Mrs. Checkland had again had a hand in it.
The mayor was offering Littlejohn a cigar from a box.
“Help yourself, Superintendent. Take one or two with you. Nothing like a good cigar after a good meal. I hope you’re comfortable at the Arms.“
“Doing very nicely, thanks, Mr. Mayor. Do you mind if I smoke my pipe?”
“Certainly. Tobacco in the blue jar on the table …”
There seemed to be everything!
“Your good health, Superintendent …”
They were settled in front of the fire and Checkland cleared his throat.
“We’ve always been surrounded by a crowd when we’ve met before, Littlejohn. I thought I’d like you to come across for a quiet little chat about things. I’ve lived here all my life and perhaps I might be able to help you a bit about local matters …”
The smooth, ruddy face wrinkled into a smile and the small cloudy blue eyes seemed to sink in their sockets. Mr. Checkland thrust his big cigar aggressively back in his mouth and spoke round it.
“… How’s the case going on? Have you any ideas, yet? Any nearer a solution?”
The mayor said it casually, too casually, and Littlejohn knew at once why he was there. He’d been ‘sent-for,’ politely, of course, to bring Mr. Checkland up to date. In other words, the mayor wanted his reports straight from the horse’s mouth, not through the intermediary of Herle.
“We’ve not got very far, yet, sir. Of course, the Quarles affair has simplified matters, by accounting for two of the crimes, but, as far as Bracknell’s concerned, we aren’t much nearer.”
“No clues?”
“Nothing.”
“H’m.”
It was a snort composed of half question and half surprise. As though Mr. Checkland only half believed Littlejohn. He leaned forward in his chair and spoke earnestly.
“I hope you aren’t going to be long in clearing-up the affair. This series of crimes has shaken the town very badly. The place is dead now after dark. It’s like it was during the war. As soon as night fell you didn’t know what was in store. It’s bad for trade, especially the licensed houses and the cinemas and such. I’ve no authority over the police and hence I wouldn’t presume to order you about, but as mayor of the town, I represent the people and I do hope …”
“But surely, Mr. Mayor, confidence will return now the homicidal maniac is dead. In a day or two, the people will be about again. Bracknell’s case isn’t one of a series. Everybody knows that.”
The mayor plunged about impatiently in his huge armchair.
“All the same, there’s a murderer at large and it’s got everybody on the jump.”
He took a good drink from his glass and gave Littlejohn a reproachful look. The mayor, too, was afraid. He was struggling to keep calm and polite about it all, which was something new for a man accustomed to bully his subordinates.
“Did you know much about Bracknell, Mr. Checkland?”
“Not much. He came here, let me see … four or five years ago. He’d inherited Freake’s Folly. It was a ruin. He made quite a reasonable place out of part of it. Or so they tell me. I was never there. He was born in Australia, I gather, and inherited the property through his mother, who was a member of the Huncote family. The Huncotes were big county people here at one time. Now, they’ve left the hall and let it to the county council for an old folk’s home. Major Huncote lives in the south of France. He’s lord of the manor, officially, but he’s a bad chest and is out of England most of the time. When he’s here, he occupies the dower-house, in the grounds. He’s away at present.”
“Did you ever meet Bracknell, sir?”
“Of course, I did. He lunched at the Barley Mow two or three times a week. I go there sometimes myself. We used to pass the time of day. He also did some of his shopping at my shops. I didn’t like the fellow. Most unsociable, and he had an impertinent, often sarcastic way with him. As though he looked down on most of the rest of the world because he fancied himself as local gentry. When all the time, his mother married a farm labourer. There are still Bracknells related to Samuel living in Fenny Carleton, and they’re not much to speak of. He never associated with them, either.”
Mr. Checkland was annoyed at the very memory of Bracknell’s lack of respect for His Worship. He made a disgusted gesture, quarrelled with his cigar, and flung it in the fire.
“Have you got a list of suspects?”
What a question! The mayor must have noticed Littlejohn’s surprise, and he was as surprised himself when the Superintendent pulled a used envelope from his pocket and consulted it.
“Is that your list?”
“No; it’s just a few notes I scribbled. Here’s one. Ladies’ man, with a question-mark. Was Bracknell a petticoat-chaser, Mr. Checkland? And might his death not have been a crime of passion?”
There was nothing on the envelope but the address, but Littlejohn was determined to give Mr. Checkland his money’s worth. Already the mayor was interested. He cut himself a new cigar and lit it.
“More whisky?”
He was smiling again and poured out two good helpings.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that were the case. He was good-looking, well set-up, single fellow. The kind of chap who takes the eye of a certain type of woman …”
“Such as …?”
The mayor looked surprised again.
“You remember, sir, you offered to help me on the strength of your local knowledge.”
“Yes, but affairs of the kind you’re thinking about are usually kept in the dark, aren’t they? Discreet, that’s the word … Discreet …”
He repeated it to himself, quite pleased with it.
“Do you know Marcia Fitzpayne, sir?”
The mayor’s eyes narrowed, as though he half suspected Littlejohn of trying to catch him
out.
“Yes, I do. She runs a riding-school just outside the town. What’s she got to do with it?”
“Isn’t it true that there’s talk around the town about the relations of Bracknell with Miss Fitzpayne?”
The mayor removed his cigar and looked hard at the white ash. Then he took a gulp of his whisky and spoke as he swallowed it. “Listen, Littlejohn …”
And then he had to stop to assimilate the rest of his drink.
“Listen. I don’t deal in gossip and scandal …”
He weighed his words pompously and paused now and then.
“Nobody can accuse me of scandalmongering. I deal in facts. It’s necessary that I should do so. I’m head of the local bench and mayor of the town. I’ve my integrity to consider.”
“It doesn’t seem that this is gossip, sir. Bracknell’s will hasn’t been proved, yet, but I believe he’s left all he has to Miss Fitzpayne …”
The mayor’s face was a study. He was obviously annoyed that someone hadn’t told him about it.
“Who told you that?”
“Mr. Lucas, the lawyer.”
“He’d no right … Well, if it helps you with the case, I don’t begrudge you the information. It’s no business of mine. Lucas always was an indiscreet gasbag.”
“It’s about the only piece of substantial information we’ve obtained about Bracknell’s affairs since we began to investigate them. That, and the fact that he had some business connections with Australia.”
The mayor thumbed his broad chin.
“Yes. And it gives us a suspect. I don’t know how much Bracknell was worth. I wouldn’t say very much. But he owned the Folly. If the Fitzpayne girl knew about the will, she might … Well, she’s not much money of her own, I can tell you that. I own the property on the right of the Corn Exchange and she’s a tenant in one of the flats there. She’s been behind with her rent quite a bit from time to time. She’s invested all her money in her riding-school and I’ve no doubt borrowed for it, as well. If she’d set herself up in a flower-shop or something where her good looks would have attracted custom, she’d have done far better. Have you met her?”
Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 8
