Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “Was he, indeed …?”

  The mayor smiled, and combined with his black eye and his damaged lip, it twisted his face into a diabolical grin.

  “… I’m not surprised. He looked the sort. And, in that case, you might have another motive. Did one of them kill him out of jealousy, or self-defence, or even anger? Who were the women?”

  Mr. Checkland licked his swollen lip and gently touched his bad eye to confirm that they were improving under treatment.

  “Where’s my wife or Maudie? I expected them up before this. I’ve to have my medicine and have my eye and lip painted with the stuff the doctor gave me.”

  “I’ll ring the bell, sir …”

  Littlejohn rose and was crossing to the push-button at the side of the fireplace.

  “Don’t, Littlejohn. If we get them up, they’ll break up our little chat just when it’s interesting. On second thoughts, perhaps Cromwell wouldn’t mind passing the bottle and spoon from the table in the window there, and bring the green one labelled poison, and I’ll paint my bruises myself.”

  Cromwell not only went for the stuff, but measured out a dose, gave it to the mayor, and then, after soaking a wad of cotton-wool with some liquid from the poison bottle, he gently dabbed the eye and the lips. After all, he trained the members of the Shepherd Market Lads’ Club in first-aid …

  “Thank you … Now what were you saying about these other women, Littlejohn?”

  The mayor was so eager to hear it, that he protruded his tongue to lick his lips, suddenly remembered that Cromwell had smeared them with poison, and drew it in again.

  “When we first arrived and were examining Freake’s Folly, three women arrived. Marcia Fitzpayne to rescue some letters, which she’d already burned when we caught her. After she’d left, a young girl of about eighteen arrived. Lucy Jolland …”

  “Jolland! My God, Littlejohn, you’ve got a motive there if her father got to know about any jiggery-pokery between Bracknell and his daughter! He’s a very straight-laced man with a devil of a temper. He was in court once for assaulting a drover who was ill-treating a beast in the cattle-market. When Jolland interfered, the man got rough, Jolland replied in kind, and half-killed him. What was Lucy after? She’d always seemed a nice kid to me. A good-looking girl, who Bracknell might have made a pass at, however …”

  “She’d been in the habit of calling with the milk, had left her gloves, and came whilst we were there to retrieve them. When I asked her a few questions, she seemed a bit embarrassed by too much insistence on her relations with Bracknell.”

  It was painful to see the mayor trying to indulge in ribald laughter, yet restrained by his injuries. He roared with mirth, screwed up his face, winced, then roared with pain.

  “Damn this blasted mouth! I can’t laugh. But to think of Lucy saying she delivered the milk! What a tale!”

  “She seemed honest enough about it. She’s either very naïve or much deeper than she seems.”

  “Probably a deep one. I don’t need to tell you that all women are deeper than they seem …”

  He gave them a bitter, twisted look and took a good drink.

  “Who’s the other?”

  “The postmistress …”

  “What! Miss Meynold … Ethel … I’m not surprised. She’s very anxious not to die in a state of single blessedness. She chases the eligibles like mad. But chastely, Superintendent, chastely. There won’t be any illicit amours where Ethel’s concerned.”

  “I’m sure there won’t, sir.”

  “Anybody else?”

  The mayor was enjoying himself. He indicated in gleeful pantomime that Cromwell might refill the glasses again. Cromwell replied by negative gestures.

  “No. But Mr. Cropstone, Bracknell’s neighbour on the home farm, seemed to know a lot about him. He said he’d seen women frequently on the way to Freake’s Folly.”

  Mr. Checkland growled.

  “Cropstone would. He’s perhaps jealous. Added to that, he resented Bracknell’s taking over Freake’s and living so near the home farm where he could overlook Cropstone, who liked overlooking everybody else, but didn’t like them to return the compliment. He’s not blameless where women go. He’s got a very fine woman for a wife, but he’s caused her a lot of unhappiness with his philandering. Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  Checkland gave a disappointed grunt. He seemed to expect some big name to enter into the affair and make it spectacular. Instead … A mere milk-girl and the postmistress!

  “You’d better be sure of your ground about Lucy Jolland before you tackle her or her father about the murder, you know. As I said, Jolland’s quite a man to reckon with, Littlejohn.”

  “I’ve completely ignored that angle, sir. In the first place, Lucy said her father didn’t know she was friendly with Bracknell. He didn’t even know she went regularly to Freake’s Folly. I believed her. Besides, if what you say is true, Jolland was more likely to go after Bracknell explosively with a shot-gun after putting Lucy across his knee and giving her a good spanking. It would have been a dramatic situation, instead of one of a knife in the back in the night. Don’t you agree?”

  “I must confess I do. That’s right.”

  Mr. Checkland nodded wisely and then winced, for he’d a crick in the neck as well.

  “And that’s all …”

  “That’s all, sir. I’m sure none of the women committed the murder. The blow was too savage and deep for any one of them to inflict …”

  “Don’t you believe it, Littlejohn. An angry woman’s capable of anything a mere man can do.”

  The mayor gave a grumpy nod and slid down among his cushions with a long, ostentatious sigh.

  “I’m fed up with this. Whatever they say, I’m going out tomorrow.”

  Littlejohn and Cromwell rose.

  “We must be going, sir. We’ve talked too long and you must feel quite exhausted.”

  “On the contrary, it’s done me good. Come again as soon as you like. You can ring the bell, please, and Maudie’ll let you out.”

  Maudie answered in a flutter.

  “Sorry, sir, about the medicine. I’d quite forgot it. I’ll give it you now.”

  Mr. Checkland was the sick man again. He looked sorry for himself and gave the maid a reproachful look.

  “I had to ask Cromwell to give it to me. And the lotion, too. He painted my eye and mouth with it.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “No need to be. It wasn’t your job to do it. Mrs. Checkland’s been doing it. Where is she?”

  “She went out, sir, with Mr. James.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Checkland scrambled to his feet in his anger, his damaged lips quivering, his black-eye twitching.

  “Why didn’t they tell me they were going out? This is the limit! Me ill and confined to my room and they off gallivantin’ without so much as a word of warning. When did they go?”

  “Soon after the gentlemen called. There was a telephone call for madam. After that, she ordered the car and her and Mr. James went off together …”

  “But why? …Why did they go off without a word to me? They’ve never done that before. Not even when I was well. What’s been going on in this house …?”

  Checkland gasped, pawed the air, and then sank exhausted in his chair. They gave him brandy this time, but he seemed to ail little except violent temper, frustration, and the ill effects of self-pity.

  “I’m sorry, Littlejohn. Shouldn’t have lost my temper. But you’ll admit it’s a queer trick to walk out on me, and me in my present state, and not even leave a message.”

  “Perhaps they’ve just gone a brief errand and didn’t wish to disturb you, sir.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  They left him still browbeating Maudie and trying to get out of her where his family had gone.

  A policeman was standing in the entry which led into the street.

  “Superintendent Herle would l
ike to see you as soon as possible, sir …”

  Herle was waiting for them with a grim expression on his face.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you during your visit to the mayor,” he said acidly. “There was enough trouble last time His Worship took a phone call for you, sir. But five minutes ago, the man detailed to watch Upshott reported that he’d bolted from the Barley Mow. I thought he might.”

  “Did your man get after him?”

  “No. He dodged him. I’ve men out combing the town. Like hunting for the proverbial needle again. We ought to have found some excuse for putting him in the cells. I was never in favour …”

  “Never mind that now, Herle. What happened?”

  “Upshott went in the lounge of the hotel for afternoon tea. Our man was there having tea as well and keeping an eye on him …”

  Littlejohn could see it all. Upshott was no fool. He’d be well aware what the constabulary-looking man, awkwardly eating cake and drinking tea, was about.

  “First he went in the hall and telephoned someone. Our man kept him in view. Upshott was very casual and returned to the two ladies whose acquaintance he’d made at the hotel, and went on with his tea. Then he took out his case, found only one cigarette apparently, and told the ladies he was going in the bar for more …”

  “And your man fell for it?”

  “How the hell was he to know! He’s not a trained sleuth like your Scotland Yard men. Upshott just walked out of the side door of the hotel and vanished. Our man said he was at the door almost immediately after Upshott, who must have ordered a car or something when he telephoned. Anyhow, he’s gone. He’s given us the slip as I said he would.”

  Littlejohn was slowly filling his pipe, which seemed to annoy Herle all the more. There was a large notice over the fireplace. No Smoking.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Twenty minutes, or so. Our man couldn’t phone right away. He was after Upshott.”

  “What kind of a car does Mrs. Checkland drive?”

  “It’s a Daimler. She doesn’t drive. She has a chauffeur. I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

  “Let’s just try a hunch. You have some squad-cars on the roads?”

  “Yes. Four. One patrolling each of the main highways.”

  “Send out a call and ask if they’ve seen Mrs. Checkland’s car.”

  Herle shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t understand Littlejohn at all. And what the mayor would say about it, he couldn’t even guess.

  “Very well.”

  Herle rang the bell for Drayton, who didn’t reply.

  “Drayton! DRAYTON!!”

  Heavy feet.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why the hell don’t you answer the bell!”

  The squad cars were contacted.

  Number 3, stationed on the Leicester Road, had not only seen Mrs. Checkland’s car; he knew where it was at present.

  “I passed the Marquis of Granby … you know the place … only a couple of minutes ago. The mayoress’s car was standing in the car park there …”

  Herle looked dumbfounded.

  “That doesn’t say we’ll find Upshott …”

  But there was a strange light in his eyes. He cast a sidelong look at Littlejohn as he put on his official cap. It was the first admiring glance he’d yet bestowed upon the Superintendent.

  Littlejohn was slowly lighting his pipe.

  11

  AT THE MARQUIS OF GRANBY

  THERE WERE about ten houses in the hamlet of Fixby, strung along the road in a kind of high street. There was nobody about but at some of the windows of the cottages the curtains trembled and behind, in the gloom of the interior, the faces of curious old women were visible staring out.

  The village inn stood in the middle of the cluster of houses. The present proprietor had taken advantage of its situation on the main Leicester road and converted it into a roadhouse.

  The Marquis of Granby

  Restaurant — Lunches — Dinners

  Fine Cuisine Choice Wines

  Your Host: J. Vivian Wheeler.

  And the figure of a chef pointing the way to the front door.

  A car park and two petrol pumps in front. Behind, a stretch of country, with cattle placidly chewing and watching passers-by, and a couple of horses cantering round and round.

  The police car drew up in front of the hotel.

  “That’s Mrs. Checkland’s car,” said Herle as the three of them climbed out. Young Checkland was sitting at the wheel and when he saw the new arrivals, made as if to leave the car and warn his mother.

  “Stay where you are, Mr. James,” said Herle.

  “But …”

  “I said, stay where you are.”

  The youth was still young enough to obey a firm order and remained where he was with an ill grace, his glance moving from the police to the window of the front room of the hotel.

  Everything was quiet. It was too early for dinner and the afternoon teas had been cleared away. Sounds of preparation for the next meal came from the kitchens behind. There were a few drinkers in the cocktail bar to the left.

  The old character of the place had been spoiled. Modern tinted lighting, contemporary vivid decorations, red rubber flooring and chromium and formica bars. Mr. J. Vivian Wheeler emerged rubbing his hands. He stopped his washing gestures when he recognised Herle.

  “How-de-ye-do, Superintendent. Nothing wrong, I hope.”

  A middle-sized, swarthy man, with dark bloodshot eyes and a large handlebar moustache. He oozed shifty self-confidence.

  “No, Mr. Wheeler. Is Mrs. Checkland here?”

  “Yes. She’s in the private room. There’s a gentleman with her.”

  Wheeler’s poached eyes lit up dimly.

  “We’ll go in.”

  “Shall I tell them you’re here?”

  “No.”

  “May I serve you with drinks while you’re there?”

  “No. Please don’t let us detain you. We’ll look after ourselves.”

  “Nothing wrong, I hope.”

  “You said that before, Mr. Wheeler, and I said there wasn’t.”

  Herle’s bad manners had their origins in something unpleasant in the past. A matter of drinking after hours, and another about cruelty to a dog. Wheeler shrugged his shoulders and sidled off.

  The place was hot and had an unhealthy atmosphere, as though shady goings-on were frequent there. There was a smell of sage and onion stuffing preparing for the chickens for dinner.

  Littlejohn, whose head almost touched the ceiling of the passage, could see the door of the private room indicated by Wheeler, at the far end of the dim corridor. Without saying anything more, he walked to it and opened it. Mrs. Checkland and Upshott were inside, sitting quietly at a table, with glasses of what appeared to be gin-and-tonic half-full in front of them. There was a log fire burning at one end of the room in a large old fireplace.

  It all looked very nice and peaceful. No dramatic scenes, no compromising situations. Just the pair of them calmly talking over their drinks. The room, apparently set aside for small private parties, held half a dozen small round tables of light oak, with chairs to match. A sideboard, a clock, a carpet on the floor, and old coaching prints on the walls.

  Littlejohn strolled to the fire and stretched out his hands to the flames. He kicked a pile of ash lying in the hot embers under the large logs.

  “Been burning something?”

  Upshott rose hastily and, for a minute, lost his temper.

  “What the hell’s it got to do with you what we’ve been doing? Am I a criminal that the blasted police must be following me all over the countryside prying into my affairs? I managed to shake off that flatfoot you put on my heels, and now the whole force is here …”

  Before Littlejohn could reply, Mrs. Checkland laid a hand on Upshott’s arm.

  “Don’t, Walter. You’ll only upset yourself. It’s natural that they should try to find you if you gave their man the slip.”
r />   She spoke to him like an old friend.

  “Was your name Walter Upshott when you were here years ago?”

  Littlejohn’s voice had a chuckle in it, as though he found the situation humorous.

  Upshott had cooled down. His anger had vanished at a word from Mrs. Checkland, whose tranquil dignity dominated the whole situation.

  “I left my old surname behind when I went abroad. I shook it off with the dust of Carleton Unthank. It’s quite legitimate. I did it by deed-poll.”

  “What was it before you changed it?”

  “Mason. Walter Mason.”

  “I see. What made you give us the slip and telephone Mrs. Checkland to meet you here?”

  “I knew her in the old days. She was the only one worth renewing an acquaintance with. As I couldn’t meet her in the town without causing a local uproar, I phoned and asked her to see me here.”

  The couple smiled at each other as though completely in accord. Mrs. Checkland was pale and her face drawn. She was obviously keeping calm under considerable strain. Now and then her eyes strayed to where the car was parked outside the hotel. Littlejohn admired her perfect control of herself and all the evidence of good breeding she manifested. For the existence she led—the tolerance of the bumptious ill-bred mayor, her duties as the great lady of a small conservative community, the cares of family life—she was wonderfully preserved and dignified. Littlejohn had a feeling that if he could penetrate her shield of invulnerability, she might help him in the present case. But that would be difficult. Her sang-froid was not only her own protection, but that of her companion as well. Without her, Upshott might easily break down.

  Upshott emptied his glass. Littlejohn noticed that he was wearing light chamois-leather gloves. The idea of paying for his drinks had evidently struck him and he removed that on his left hand, but not that on the right.

  “Please remove the other glove, Mr. Upshott.”

  The man looked surprised and then made a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth, either in disgust … or it may have been in admiration.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Superintendent Littlejohn …”

  Herle’s mouth sagged. He wondered what Littlejohn was at. Cromwell, in the background, seemed to be enjoying himself.