Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “Could I speak to His Worship the Mayor, Mrs Checkland …?”

  Herle’s look of distress as he listened to the reply was comic.

  “Accident …? Indeed … I’m sorry, very sorry. Please convey my regrets and my sympathy, Mayoress. Last night …? How did it happen …?”

  More information, whilst Herle clucked and tut-tutted down the mouthpiece. Finally he hung-up, very gently, as though he might disturb the sufferer at the other end.

  “The mayor can’t come. He’s in bed. After you left last night, Superintendent, it seems someone telephoned you, and the mayor, knowing you’d hardly have reached the street, hurried after you to tell you to take the call. Someone had left a packing-case lying about and he fell over it. A pretty heavy fall. Shook him up, and he’s got a black eye. He’ll be out tomorrow, his wife says.”

  Upshott laughed loudly again.

  “A black eye! That’ll upset his mayoral dignity a bit.”

  Herle didn’t like it.

  “Upshott, your jokes are out of place at present. Please behave properly …”

  “I’m sorry. It was the black eye tickled me. I wonder if Mr. Checkland’s changed since we were young fellows together. He was solemn and slim then. He’s probably still solemn, but he was the type who’d grow fat with prosperity …”

  He turned to Littlejohn.

  “Well, Superintendent, will that be all? Do I spend the night in a cell instead of a church, this time?”

  “No, Mr. Upshott. But you’ll remain in Carleton Unthank until we say you can go. There are some comfortable hotels here. No doubt you’ll know them. Which shall it be?”

  “If you put it that way, the Barley Mow. I always liked the old Barley Mow.”

  “Very well. And please don’t try to leave town. I have your word?”

  “Of course, if you say so. But don’t keep me here long. I’ve lost all interest in Carleton nowadays.”

  “You’d better collect your hired car. The local police have brought it here. Don’t try to make off in it, or we’ll have to bring you back.”

  “As if I would!”

  “Very well. You may go, for the present, Mr. Upshott.”

  Upshott bade them all a polite good-bye and went away very casually.

  Herle’s face was a study.

  “Do we put a man on to tail him?”

  “I don’t think he’ll run for it, but it might be as well. Your man can report what Upshott does with himself in his spare time.”

  “Don’t you think it would have been better to arrest him?”

  “On what charge? We’ve not a trace of a case for holding him for murder. Sleeping in a church doesn’t merit our detaining him. No, he’s better loose.”

  “Why?”

  “A sprat to catch a mackerel.”

  Herle still didn’t understand and thought Littlejohn was talking in riddles to cover up his own incompetence.

  10

  THE TRIBULATIONS OF MR. CHECKLAND

  LATE ON Saturday afternoon, news arrived from Scotland Yard about Bracknell’s affairs in Australia. There was nothing sensational about them.

  The Equitable Bank of Australia, Perth, gave the information that the monthly remittances covered interest and repayments of a mortgage taken by Bracknell from the purchaser of his property. There had been a payment down of £5,000 and the rest had been the subject of arrangements for gradual liquidation by instalments. As regards Bracknell’s life in Australia, this seemed quite unspectacular, too. His former lawyer and the bank again had briefly stated that he had farmed and prospered there, accumulated considerable capital in his farm, and seemed settled and content. Then, suddenly, he had evinced a passion for visiting England, where he stated he had landed property in the Midlands. He was uncertain when he left whether or not he would remain in England and had made all arrangements for the disposal of his Australian farm in the event of his deciding not to return. He had left Australia in the autumn of 1954 and almost as soon as he arrived in England had instructed his lawyers to put his farm up for sale and remit the proceeds to him at Carleton Unthank. Bracknell, during the whole time the informants had known him, had led an industrious quiet life and he had been well thought of by all who knew him.

  And that was that. Nothing helpful in the case at all.

  Herle, who gave Littlejohn the telegram at the police station, was obviously out of patience. Everything in connection with the investigation of the murders seemed to have come to a full stop. All the theories about Bracknell’s murder had petered out. There wasn’t even a theory at all about the death of Marcia Fitzpayne. Littlejohn persisted they hadn’t any grounds for accusing Upshott of the crimes. And now, the plain-clothes officer who was keeping an eye on Upshott, had reported that the Australian was calmly eating afternoon tea in the lounge of the Barley Mow, had made friends with a couple of good-looking ladies also staying there, and was thoroughly enjoying himself. Tonight, there would probably be another killing. Herle couldn’t contain himself.

  “Where do we go from here?” he said hotly.

  “I’m just going over to see the mayor. I owe it to him.”

  Littlejohn slowly rose to his feet as he said it.

  “Whatever for? He’s indisposed.”

  “It was partly my fault. He was chasing after me to bring me back to the telephone when he came a cropper. It’s the least I can do to call and ask how he is and, in a way, apologise for the trouble I’ve caused him.”

  “You know your own business best, sir. You might offer him my condolences, as well, and tell him I’ll call myself when I’m not so busy.”

  Herle, with a pained expression on his face, bent and hauled a pile of files from the floor behind his desk, and placed them in front of himself. It was a gesture of impatient dismissal.

  The maid answered the door to the two detectives and at once took them to a small morning-room at the back of the house, overlooking the same view of the river and the country beyond as the one above it in which Mr. Checkland had received Littlejohn when last he called. Mrs. Checkland and her son were there and had just finished tea.

  “It’s most kind of you to call, Superintendent. We’ve just finished tea. I’ll ring for some more …”

  It was said in the form of a question. Mother and son were uneasy, as though expecting the visit to be more than a purely formal one. When Littlejohn declined, they seemed relieved for some reason.

  Mrs. Checkland was wearing a plain expensive black gown relieved at the neck and cuffs by white lace. She was still handsome and vigorous in middle-age and must have been beautiful in her youth. When Littlejohn had met her for the first time earlier in the week, she had been gracious and poised. Now she was nervous and tense. Her son was the same.

  James Checkland bore a striking resemblance to his mother and had the same dark eyes, regular aquiline features, and signs of good breeding. Difficult to think of him as Checkland’s son, too, and his successor to a string of prosperous, high-class grocery shops all over the county. According to local talk, he had just finished at public school and was now about to enter the family business. James did not look too happy about it. There was a trace of suppressed anger about his reception of the two detectives, as though he wondered what they were intruding about.

  “If you’d care to see Mr. Checkland, I think it would please him for you to go up and talk to him for a minute or two. We are worried about him. His heart isn’t too good and he’s had a bad shaking. He fell in the courtyard in front of the house last night after you called, Superintendent. In fact he was hurrying after you to tell you a telephone call had come through for you, when he fell over a packing-case. It seems he’d put out the lights in front as you left and was sure he could find his way after you in the dark …”

  Young Checkland gave Littlejohn another reproachful look. It seemed to explain the doubtful reception Littlejohn and Cromwell had been given. Littlejohn was being held responsible for the mayor’s tumble. After all, the telephone call had bee
n for him.

  “My husband managed to get up and return to the library where he took some whisky and tried to compose himself. When, however, he began to feel faint, he called for me and I found him in rather a sorry state. I’d to send for the doctor, who put him to bed. Of course, Mr. Checkland won’t stay in bed. You’ll find him in front of the fire.”

  “Shall we go?”

  James Checkland seemed in a hurry to be rid of them.

  When his son opened the library door and revealed His Worship the Mayor sitting in a high-backed chair in front of a large fire of logs, Littlejohn paused in surprise.

  Mr. Checkland resembled a boxer who had been knocked out in a heavyweight contest the night before. He was wearing a red foulard dressing-gown and was slumped in his seat, a glass of whisky at his elbow, casting a melancholy look in the fire. He turned to greet the newcomers. He had a black eye, his upper lip was swollen, and there was a large bruise on his forehead. He must have tangled very thoroughly with the offending packing-case.

  The two detectives were so stupified at the sight that a minute passed before Littlejohn could express his condolences.

  “Superintendent Littlejohn and Sergeant Cromwell to see you, sir. Mother said they might have a minute with you.”

  “I’m glad to see them, son. Come in, gentlemen. James, pour them out a drink.”

  Young Checkland did this as quickly as possible and then seemed glad to leave the three of them together.

  Mr. Checkland was breathing heavily. His usual high colour had been diluted and his hands trembled on the arms of his chair.

  “It’s good of you to call, Littlejohn. I can’t get out and I suppose you’ve come to report how things are getting along. Any nearer solving the case …? Or should I say cases? They’ve told me about the shocking affair of the Fitzpayne girl. Where’s it all going to end?”

  For a sick man, the mayor wasn’t doing very badly. His swollen lip made it a bit difficult for him to articulate, but he still had plenty to say if only he could get it all out.

  “We didn’t call to trouble you with the cases, sir. I came to ask how you are and to apologise for being the indirect cause of your accident.”

  The mayor took a gulp of his drink, swallowed hard, and shook his head.

  “Don’t mention it. How were you to know I’d meet with a packing-case half-way down the yard? Some fool cleared off and left it there. My son says when he finds out who did it, he’ll sack the fellow right away. But it won’t get as far as that. Anybody can make a mistake. I ought to have switched the light on before I came after you.”

  The mayor had his dentures out, too, but didn’t seem very embarrassed by it. The arrival of the police had livened him up and he prattled away as though he’d forgotten his misfortunes.

  “It must have been a nasty fall, sir?”

  “It was. I caught the packing-case with my shins, tumbled in it, and fell with my face on one of the edges. I thought I’d killed myself. I felt bad, I can tell you.”

  He took another good swig of his whisky. If he’d been drinking so steadily all day, it was no wonder he was garrulous.

  “Anything fresh?”

  He looked anxiously at Littlejohn with his one good eye. The other was half closed and the pupil kept turning upwards to the ceiling, like that of an ecstatic saint, and showing nothing but the white.

  “We’ve put our hands on the stranger in the town everybody seems to have been talking about. A man on holiday from Australia …”

  Mr. Checkland’s excitement was such that he turned in his chair to hear more of what Littlejohn had to say. His bruises must have suffered thereby, for he then groaned and sank back on his cushions like one defeated.

  “What happened? Tell me.”

  The mayor drank deeply and coughed because his throat revolted at the weight of fluid. Each cough was accompanied or mixed up with more groans as his injuries tormented him.

  “He told us nothing. A man who left for Australia long ago and had an itch to return to his birthplace, Carleton Unthank. He was not impressed by what he found here. He seems to have visited the places of long ago in secret, sometimes by night, and to have kept himself aloof by day because he didn’t care to meet old friends. His attitude towards the effects of time on human beings is, to say the least of it, cynical.”

  “Damn his impudence! What’s he called?”

  “Upshott.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  And that, coming from so prominent a citizen as Mr. Checkland, seemed all there was to say about him.

  Littlejohn went on to tell the mayor about Upshott’s being found half-way to the Northampton football match and how he was instructed to remain within call until the police gave him a release.

  “I’d have thought you’d have arrested him. A fellow like that. He might have been up to anything. Suspicious, I’d call him. Very suspicious. He might even be the murderer.”

  “He visited Bracknell on the afternoon of his death …”

  “What did I tell you!”

  Mr. Checkland was so excited that this time he forgot his wounds and waved his arms about freely.

  “We’ve no proof of his association with the crime. He also knew Marcia Fitzpayne … The same applies there. We could only arrest him for being on enclosed premises. He slept in St. Peter’s church last night.”

  “He must be a heathen … a hooligan. Yes, a hooligan. Nobody with any decency would do such a thing.”

  “We allowed him on a kind of parole to stay at the Barley Mow and we have a detective keeping on his track. He won’t get far.”

  “What kind of a feller is he? A roughneck?”

  “Far from it, sir. He’s very gentlemanly and polite. He seems anxious to help all he can.”

  “All the same, he ought to be under lock and key. Meanwhile, who was he and what did he do before he left Carleton?”

  “He says he was a clerk in a company long defunct and left for Australia to better himself.”

  Mr. Checkland relaxed with another cry of distress and looked sourly in the fire.

  “I hope we don’t have another crime tonight, Littlejohn. It’s getting very serious, you know, all this murdering.”

  Mr. Checkland gently touched his eyes and his lip to test their condition.

  “It’ll not be long before I’m out and about again. I’d like to see this imposter from Australia. That’s what he probably is. An imposter.”

  He turned his eyes, one bright from his drinking, the other half-closed and glaucous, appealingly on Littlejohn.

  “And you’ve no theories, no suspects yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Pity. You’ve my sympathy. It must be a hard job with no clues to go on and half the town yapping like dogs for an arrest.”

  Mr. Checkland took up a box of cigars from the table beside him, offered them round, and then tried to light one himself. The task was too much for his damaged mouth and he finally flung the cigar back in the box in disgust.

  “Have you got a cigarette, Superintendent? There are some in the desk there, but I can’t get up …”

  Littlejohn gave him one and lit it. Such a small object thrust in the mayor’s large face and deformed mouth looked out of place. It was difficult to decide whether the situation was tragic or comic.

  Littlejohn and Cromwell had already been there more than fifteen minutes and the Superintendent expected at any time that young Checkland or his mother would arrive to terminate the interview, in view of the state of the mayor’s health. However, nobody came and he seemed loath to part with them.

  “Have you any idea why the Fitzpayne woman was killed?”

  Mr. Checkland seemed to want to plough the same furrows over and over again.

  “No, sir. Unless, of course, Bracknell shared some secret with her which whoever killed him was afraid might come to light. She and Bracknell were very intimate, you know.”

  Littlejohn looked uneasily at his watch. If one of the family was not coming
to terminate the interview, then they would have to leave without them. The mayor, Mrs. Checkland had said, was unfit for a long visit.

  “Well, sir, we’ve taken up far too much of your time. You have orders to rest, Mrs. Checkland tells me.”

  The mayor elevated the white of his ill-treated eye to the ceiling and then turned the other on Littlejohn.

  “Just have another drink for the road. Your visit’s done me a world of good. I’m normally a very busy man, and forced inactivity bores me. Help yourselves and get me another cigarette from the box in the top drawer of the desk.”

  Littlejohn obeyed, mixed three more glasses of whisky and soda, and lit their three cigarettes. The mayor, a habitual cigar-smoker, puffed hard at his cigarette and disposed of it in half the time of the others.

  “You knew Bracknell, sir? I think you mentioned it when first we met.”

  Mr. Checkland looked meditatively in the fire.

  “I didn’t know him very well. He didn’t mix, you know. I believe he was a customer in the shop, and, well, people talk. There’s not much goes on in Carleton that I don’t hear about. News travels fast in these small communities.”

  “What kind of a man was he?”

  “I’d call him a bit of a roughneck …”

  It seemed to be Mr. Checkland’s favourite term for a certain type.

  “A roughneck … A bit of a backwoodsman, if you get what I mean. When you saw him about town, he looked as if he’d come up from the back of beyond. I guess he continued down at Freake’s the type of life he’d lived in Australia.”

  “Was he much of a drinker?”

  “I don’t know. He might have indulged in it at home. All I can say is, he never misbehaved in the town. Otherwise he’d have been before the Bench, of which I’m chairman …”

  “Women?”

  “Well, as you know, he was very friendly with the Fitzpayne girl who owned a riding-school. It was common knowledge.”

  “I was thinking of others. He didn’t seem satisfied with one woman. He was friendly with several more, to say the least of it.”