Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Nicholson. We’ll treat your information with great discretion. I’m sorry we had to disturb your Saturday evening’s pleasure.”

  “Don’t mention it, Superintendent. Glad to have been of help.”

  He shook hands all round, his eyes, as he said good-bye to Cromwell, expressive of the one word “Cleethorpes.” But Cromwell sadly shook his head and Mr. Nicholson left him in a hurry.

  12

  THE END OF HIS TETHER

  AFTER MR. NICHOLSON had left them, Littlejohn almost wished he’d detained him longer, or, perhaps that he would return with something more to say. It was like the end of a party where the cheerful guests have gone, leaving behind a wreckage of dirty dishes to be washed-up, the reek of brandy and cigars, the paper hats of revelry. Boredom was setting in.

  Outside, it was quite dark and it was beginning to drizzle. The street lamps, visible through the windows of Herle’s office, were surrounded by aureoles of milky mist. The footsteps of passers-by sounded now and then, and a car or two rushed past as if eager to get to their destinations and deposit their contents indoors. All the shops were closed, and opposite, Checkland’s Stores was in darkness. The tunnel and the doorway of the house beyond were illuminated by their hanging lamps. Although it was Saturday, nobody seemed tempted to walk the streets. Even the gangs of boys and girls who roamed about singing and cat-calling on fine nights were silent.

  The depressing weight of ennui descended on Littlejohn, and, judging from the melancholy look on his face, Cromwell was feeling the same. Herle was an unsociable man with little in the way of cheerful small-talk and his expression was one of faint disapproval. He thought Littlejohn either knew something and wasn’t going to let him into the secret, or else that he knew nothing at all and that all his investigations hitherto had ended in total failure.

  “I think we’ll get back to the Arms and see what they have for dinner …”

  That was all there was to do. The cinema, the bar of one of the local hotels, a walk in the dismal streets, or an hour in the salle à manger of the Huncote Arms, where, the waiter had warned them beforehand, they were going to be very busy tonight.

  “It’s Saturday. We’ll be rushed off our feet …”

  “Would you care to join us at the Arms for a meal, Herle?”

  But, no. Even that didn’t raise a gratified smile from the dour Superintendent. He merely sighed and looked pained.

  “I promised my wife I’d be home for seven. It’s half-past now and I’ve a good hour’s routine work to do yet … A policeman’s work is never done.”

  They might have been a pair of casual visitors taking a look over the police-station, instead of colleagues trying to help him! Fundamentally, Herle thought he could manage the case far better himself and he was hoping to show everybody what he was made of before much longer. Even he, however, didn’t know where to start. A pall of desolate inertia had fallen upon the murder cases. They’d interviewed everybody concerned. Result, a blank. They’d worked ad nauseam on the scenes of the crimes. Nothing. They’d spun theories and followed leads. Confusion and dead ends …

  Littlejohn was just stretching his hand for his hat and coat from the bentwood hatstand, when he paused.

  Scuttering feet from across the way, a muffled echoing ring as they passed through the tunnel under Checkland’s property, and then young James became visible running for all he was worth in the direction of the police station. A minute more and he was in the room, panting, wild-eyed, unable to speak until he’d pulled himself together. He wore no hat or coat and was in his house slippers.

  “Come over right away. Father’s shot himself!”

  Herle almost collapsed, too. He rose and held on his desk for support.

  “The mayor! Why …?”

  “Never mind why or where. Come right away.”

  And with that, James Checkland turned and ran out of the place again. His pattering feet rang on the pavement and then through the tunnel, and died away.

  As the three police officers reached the door, a car, obviously a doctor’s and driven at breakneck speed, appeared, braked noisily in front of the passage, and then ran straight through it and to Checkland’s house.

  The mayor had shot himself in his study. Stretched full-length across the carpet in front of his desk, he looked enormous. A service revolver lay just out of reach of the large outstretched hand, as though it had fallen from Checkland’s grasp as he collapsed.

  But, as the three officers entered, the sight before them froze them to the spot. Mr. Checkland wasn’t dead. His hands, spread ahead of him on the carpet, his feet, shod also in red leather house-slippers, moved convulsively, like those of a bird, winged by a shot, dying open-eyed and wondering why.

  The doctor was already on his knees beside the body.

  “James … Get an ambulance quickly. He’s not dead. There may be a chance to save him, yet. Get along quickly and ’phone Carleton 3131. Tell them to hurry …”

  Then he muttered to himself, “God knows where they’ll find Lapage on a Saturday night. He’ll be out somewhere …”

  He sounded annoyed that the mayor should choose, of all nights, the one on which the brain surgeon would be hard to locate.

  The doctor filled a syringe, gave the injured man an injection, and then gently turned him over. The eyes were open and terribly alive. Checkland looked straight up to the ceiling with a fixed, puzzled expression, as though struggling dimly in the shadows to make out what it was all about.

  The doctor made a noise like a humourless chuckle.

  “Good job he didn’t know much about anatomy, or firing a gun. The bullet seems to have gone in and out along the top of the skull. It must be somewhere in the room … The walls or the ceiling … It’s passed through …”

  He sounded to be talking to himself, or maybe, lecturing a ghostly crowd of medical students, and as he chatted, he worked, applying gauze and a bandage to the two wounds, feeling Checkland’s pulse intermittently, testing eyes, limbs, reflexes, to make sure of the victim’s condition.

  “He should pull through with a bit of luck.”

  A small, broad, dapper man, calm, skilled and patient. His busy hands moved rapidly here and there and as Checkland lapsed into unconsciousness, he gently settled his body in comfort.

  “Where the hell’s that ambulance?”

  As if in answer to his question, two men appeared carrying a stretcher. Mr. Checkland was borne off to the local infirmary.

  Only then did the rest of them become really aware of Mrs. Checkland’s presence in the room. She had remained calm, unweeping, motionless, staring at the body as though she couldn’t understand what it was all about.

  “We’ll let you know how things go. No use your coming now, Mrs. Checkland. As soon as Lapage has operated, we’ll send for you. Keep cheerful. I think it will be all right …”

  The doctor was off and they could hear his car roaring away under the tunnel and the noise dying in the distance.

  Littlejohn was the first to speak.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Checkland …”

  He pulled up one of the large armchairs and gently led her to it. Then he rang the bell.

  Maudie, the elderly maid, appeared. She had been sent below because her hysterical behaviour in an emergency had been a menace. She was still sobbing in her handkerchief and her eyes were swollen with tears and hardly visible.

  “Please pull yourself together, Maudie. This is no time for a scene. Your mistress needs some tea. Please see to it right away.”

  A firm hand did Maudie a lot of good. She almost ran to do the job.

  Herle looked awkward.

  “I’m very sorry about all this, Mrs Checkland. Do you think …?”

  The mayoress hadn’t spoken. She sat with her head resting against the wing of the chair, her eyes closed, her hand before them.

  Littlejohn glanced at Cromwell and gently and almost imperceptibly nodded his head in the direction of Herle. The s
ergeant and Littlejohn had been together for so long that Cromwell could usually interpret his chief’s wishes without a word being spoken.

  “Would you like us to leave the two of you together for a little while?” said Cromwell. “We could go and wait at the police station until we’re needed.”

  Herle’s eyes almost emerged from his head and rolled down his cheeks. They were actually dismissing him from the scene of one of his own cases!

  “I think it would be better. The three of us will only confuse Mrs. Checkland and she’s obviously in no state to be questioned for a little while. When she’s had a cup of tea, she’ll perhaps feel better. It’s very good of you to offer to leave the mayoress in peace for a bit, Herle …”

  Cromwell was leading Herle away. The local Superintendent was in a confused state. First the mayor shooting himself. Then, he wasn’t dead. Then Littlejohn was talking about Herle himself offering to leave the field … He allowed himself to be tactfully steered off.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Checkland … As the doctor said, everything’s going to be all right … If you need me, I’m just over the way …”

  “Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Herle. It’s most kind of you. I will never forget your sympathy and help …”

  Mrs. Checkland opened her eyes and gave him a faint smile as she said it. It did Herle a lot of good.

  James had gone with his father in the ambulance. Mrs. Checkland and Littlejohn were alone.

  All the lights were on; about eight of them all over the place. Littlejohn had always seen the room dimly lighted and cosy from the large standard lamp over the desk. Now, it seemed stark, cold and severe. The dark curtains were drawn in front of the windows and the large fire of logs which Mr. Checkland liked so well, was burning busily. Littlejohn rose and switched off all the lights except the table-lamp on the desk.

  “That is better, Superintendent.”

  She still seemed dazed, but was wonderfully self-possessed.

  “Did you find him, madam?”

  “I was dressing in my own room when the shot was fired. I hurried down at once.”

  “There was nobody else in the room?”

  “No. James was upstairs changing for the evening. He was going to a birthday party.”

  “Did Mr. Checkland speak to you?”

  “No. He was lying on the floor when I entered. I called for James and sent for the doctor. James came for you.”

  She was still calm, almost friendly now, as though it gave her confidence to have the massive, kindly man, seated opposite in another winged armchair, to talk to.

  Maudie brought the tea and poured out two cups.

  “Would you be wantin’ the brandy, madam?”

  “No, thank you, Maudie. That will be all. Unless the Superintendent would …?”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Checkland.”

  Sitting there drinking their tea, they might have been old friends. The colour was returning to the mayoress’s cheeks and she was obviously anxious now to take Littlejohn into her confidence.

  “I heard him pacing up and down after he got home. He was very angry with me for going out to meet Mr.… Mr. Mason without telling him. Mr. Checkland is an impulsive man, quick to anger, but very soon himself again and very kind, too.”

  Littlejohn nodded.

  “Smoke your pipe, if you wish, Superintendent. Perhaps I may have a cigarette at the same time …”

  He passed her his case and lit her cigarette. Then he filled and began to smoke his pipe. He did it all quietly, without a word. Then:

  “Do you feel able to answer one or two questions, madam? It would help us greatly if you could.”

  “Yes, I’ll try.”

  “You may find them rather painful and personal.”

  “I’ll try to answer.”

  “Why did your husband wish to take his own life?”

  A spasm of pain shot across her face and she slowly laid down her cup on the desk at her elbow, as though she were afraid of dropping it.

  “Recent events seem to have got on top of him. He hasn’t slept properly since the murder of Bracknell. I’ve heard him pacing up and down in this room until almost dawn sometimes. When he stays up late working, he sleeps in his dressing-room rather than disturb me when he retires. He has slept there since the murder at Freake’s Folly. He has been getting up for sleeping tablets every night and then, when he’s fallen asleep, he’s talked to himself and seemed distressed. He said it was the business of the town which troubled him.”

  “What do you think was on his mind, Mrs. Checkland?”

  She hesitated as though deciding whether or not to confide in him.

  “There are so many things. Myself, for one thing …”

  “You, madam?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice changed and she was deeply moved. She seemed to have difficulty in setting her thoughts in order.

  “Perhaps this isn’t the time, Mrs. Checkland. I’m sorry to trouble you just after such a great shock. I’ll call again in a day or two.”

  She made a gesture with her graceful, well-kept hand, as though to dismiss his arguments.

  “No. Now is the time. Let this opportunity pass and it may never return. It’s a strange thing, Superintendent, but you seem to be the only person I can confide in. James is too young and would not understand me at all. I have no intimate friends left. They have all died or gone. Even my own husband … I could never … I have not been the wife I ought to have been. You understand? You are a far-seeing man of the world and I have no doubt that during your stay here, you have learned very much about us all. What can you tell me? It will ease my own problem of just what to say, if you tell me what you know.”

  “That you loved Walter Mason when you were young and intended to marry him? That he turned dishonest and had to flee the country, and that you married Mr. Checkland …?”

  “He has been a good husband to me. And I haven’t deserved it.”

  “Because you didn’t love him when you married him? That is no sin, Mrs. Checkland. It is a commonplace of marriage. How many people, men and women alike, never get the one they consider their ideal partner, the one they love first and best. It’s human to be content with second-best then …”

  It sounded a bit trite, but he was trying to comfort her. And as he spoke, he felt gratitude rise in him for his own happy marriage and the way it had influenced his life.

  “Walter Mason was a cashier in Mr. Checkland’s office. He was wrong in his books. It was obvious … I wouldn’t try to hide it … that he’d stolen money to pay his debts. Mr. Checkland said unless he left the country and started a new life elsewhere, he would turn him over to the police. Walter had to go. Two or three times afterwards in the course of the years, he wrote to my husband asking to be allowed to return. Mr. Checkland always told me. ‘Do you want him back?’ he would say and would show me his reply. It was always a telegram with the same brief message, Return and be Arrested. As soon as Walter was away, Mr. Checkland proposed to me and insisted on our immediate marriage. It was as though he feared Walter would return willy-nilly and carry me off. A fortnight after Walter left, we were engaged. I was afraid at the time that if I didn’t do as he wished, Mr. Checkland would have Walter arrested and brought back for prosecution. My parents, too, pressed for the marriage. They said it would steady me. They had been against my attachment to Walter and my father threatened to disinherit me …”

  She spoke in a slow, detached voice, as though telling someone else’s story.

  “Eight months after our marriage, James was born, prematurely. Some incendiary set fire to my father’s house one night. My parents were burned to death. I was actually there spending the night with them. I saw them die before my eyes on an upper floor. Next day, James was born and we’ve never been able to have children since. And …”

  She paused, as though bracing herself for the next disclosure.

  “And, for years, Mr. Checkland doubted if James was his child. He wanted proof tha
t he wasn’t Walter’s. Of late, now that James has shown certain traits which could only have belonged to the Checkland family, as well as a considerable likeness to his father, my husband seems really convinced. The return of Mr. Mason revived his old suspicions and accusations. They were quite untrue.”

  She poured out two more cups of tea. It was almost cold, but she didn’t appear to notice.

  “Then, five years ago, Bracknell arrived. We didn’t know him until he’d been here almost two years. One morning, he came and asked to see me. In some way, he had come by a bundle of letters … They were love-letters I’d sent to Walter Mason. I thought them long ago destroyed. I must say, they were not the kind I would have wished anyone else to see. In fact, as I read the one Bracknell brought as a sample, I wondered however I’d been mad enough to put on paper all the intimate thoughts of my heart. Certainly, it would not have done for Mr. Checkland to see them. He was jealous enough without adding fuel to the fire. He always said I’d never loved him. I admit, I didn’t … Not in the way I’d loved Walter Mason. But I did love him in another, more reasonable and solid way. To have lived with him so long, shared his life, born his son, enjoyed his company … yes, enjoyed, for he was quite a character and a kind and considerate man, in spite of his strange way of doing things sometimes. Now, I would not change Mason for him. All the love I had for Walter died long ago. Life goes on and we adapt ourselves. One can’t be perpetually weeping and harrying one’s self for a lost love …”

  “You bought the letters from Bracknell?”

  “Some of them … He sold them one at a time. He was a dreadful man. Hard, merciless, mercenary, cynical …”

  “Five thousand pounds?”

  “There were over thirty of them … His price increased. He had a scale of prices … He was loathsome … The passionate ones, the ones which read like pages from a novelette, cost me more. I heard of his death with joy. I even laughed and thanked God. You see, I thought some maniac had done it and that I was free. I was mistaken …”