Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “Yes. She came down to Freake’s Folly when we were there looking it over.”

  “Taking a look at her inheritance, eh? She’s quite a good-looking girl.”

  His face wore the same kind of mysterious, lecherous smirk as that of Lucas when Marcia Fitzpayne had been discussed. Checkland rose and re-filled the glasses. The window at the end of the room looked full across the river. The curtains had not been drawn and lights were visible along the river promenade and beyond.

  “A nice outlook from your window, Your Worship.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I don’t like to draw the curtains. It’s so pleasant looking out at all the lights and the river, there, and on the extreme right, you can see the square and the Corn Exchange. We floodlight the Corn Exchange at times. It looks very fine …”

  He handed Littlejohn his drink and stood over him. Then he touched him on the arm.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed a bit bad-tempered tonight. It’s these damned crimes have got on my nerves. There are heavy public responsibilities on my shouders. I’ve my duty to the public as mayor, you know. No hard feelings.”

  “Of course not, sir. I appreciate your position. It’s good of you to give me so much of your time.”

  “I haven’t been much help. You see, if we knew that Bracknell had any enemies in the town, it would be easier. But nobody knows anything about him intimately. He was a bit of a mystery.”

  “There is, of course, his past life, sir. Perhaps he made enemies during his spell in Australia. Could it be that some visitor from over the water called on him, quarrelled with him, and killed him? I wonder.”

  The mayor looked upset. His large hands began to tremble.

  “You don’t mean to say that there’s some stranger at large in the town, a newcomer who murdered Bracknell? That complicates the issue, by jove! The man might be anywhere. He might be on his way back to Australia now that he’s done what he came for. It gives one quite a turn to think how easy it is for a murderer to get away. Here’s a man from anywhere in Australia, calls here, kills one of our people, and then vanishes into the blue. Just like that …”

  He snapped his fingers. “It makes one …”

  “I only made the suggestion, sir. I didn’t say we’d any reason for thinking it actually happened.”

  “I do hope you’re not long in getting a lead, Littlejohn. As I said, it makes things bad in the community.”

  Littlejohn rose.

  “Another glass of whisky, Superintendent? Then, I’ll drive you back to the Huncote Arms.“

  “It’s very kind of you, sir, but I’d rather walk. It’ll give me a breath of fresh air before bed.”

  “All right. It’ll be no trouble, you know …”

  They descended the stairs and the mayor helped Littlejohn into his coat and handed him his hat.

  The clock in the hall chimed and struck ten, and half-way through the strokes the telephone bell rang in the library above.

  “I’ll see you to the door and then answer it, Littlejohn. They ring me up at all hours of the day and night …”

  The front door closed and Littlejohn found himself in the courtyard of the buildings again. The lamps were still on over the front door and in the passage which led to the street. It was a fine night and the moon kept appearing and vanishing behind scudding clouds.

  Littlejohn walked briskly with his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe. Turning the corner into the square, he saw the light go off in the passage leading to Checkland’s house. The mayor was shutting up shop for the night. Beyond the Corn Exchange the building in which Marcia Fitzpayne lived was illuminated from top to bottom and two cars stood at the front door. Perhaps there was a party on …

  The windows of the Huncote Arms were still fully lit-up on the ground floor. Littlejohn pushed open the door. The place was quiet. All the parties ended, all the guests apparently in bed.

  Russell was in the office and rushed out as soon as he saw Littlejohn. He was half drunk.

  “We’ve been trying to get you, Super. I just rang up the mayor’s where they said you’d gone, but Mr. Checkland said you were on your way back, so I said I’d let you know when you got here. I didn’t tell the mayor. It didn’t seem right till I’d told you …”

  Russell’s breath smelled of brandy and he’d a job to sort out the words as they came to his tongue.

  “What is it, Mr. Russell …?”

  But before Russel could reply, the answer came from the void. A journalist staying at the hotel was apparently in trouble with the other end and raised his voice in the phone box until it rang round the hall.

  “Death and Fear are abroad again to-night in the little town of Carleton Unthank … Have you got that? … Right … The mysterious murderer has struck again. This time it is the beautiful young horsewoman, Marcia Fitzpayne … No, no … Not Dispain … Fitz … F-I-T-Z …”

  8

  A STRANGER IN THE TOWN

  “IF SHE hadn’t happened to leave the milk on the stove in the kitchen and it boiled over and smelled the place out, we might not have found her for days …”

  The little, short-sighted man who looked after the flats and lived with his wife in an attic at the top, repeated his tale to every newcomer.

  Cromwell had arrived on the scene at ten o’clock.

  “We’ve been hunting all over the place for you and the Superintendent …”

  Herle was there already and greeted Cromwell with reproachful discourtesy. He seemed to think that the two Scotland Yard men should be at the stand-to and ready for any emergency, day or night.

  “You didn’t look very far. I was in the public bar all night, after Superintendent Littlejohn left to see the mayor. That would be around eight o’clock.”

  “I sent across as soon as the crime was reported, and Russell said you’d both gone out and he didn’t know where.”

  “If Russell hadn’t put his head in the bar at just before ten, I’d still have been there. He seemed surprised to see me. I’ve left a message asking the Superintendent to come across as soon as he turns in. He’d just left the mayor’s when we telephoned.”

  “Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish. Another murder now.”

  “If she hadn’t happened to leave the milk on the stove …”

  The caretaker was busy telling it all to a reporter who had just arrived.

  Herle didn’t look at his best. He seemed to be starting with a cold and sneezed now and then. Every time he sneezed, he squinted horribly.

  “The crime must have occurred about eight o’clock. The doctor says between seven and eight, he’d put it. But this boiling milk episode Chettle, the caretaker, keeps talking about, puts the time near eight. She must have been getting ready to make some coffee and had put the milk in a pan over a low light on the electric stove. It boiled over and began to stink the place out. Chettle came down, couldn’t get any answer, so let himself in with his pass-key …”

  “If I hadn’t, it might have been days before we found ’er.”

  “I was at the office and Chettle rang up right away. That would be just about eight-fifteen. So there wasn’t much time wasted. We couldn’t get in touch with you.”

  He sneezed again. “I’ve got a cold. It’s through messing about at Turville’s so long …”

  Herle spoke monotonously, like someone in a daze. He seemed more anxious to get his grievances off his chest than to show Cromwell the body.

  It was then that Littlejohn entered and he had to be told the story all over again.

  “Come in. We’ve been trying to get you for hours …”

  Herle’s eyes were glassy and his nose was red.

  “I’ve told them not to touch anything until you arrived.”

  Chettle told him about the milk.

  “We’ve had to move the body, of course. The doctor’s been and gone, and our men took photographs, which you can see as soon as they’re developed.”

  They had marked the carpet in chalk where the body had been found
, half way across the hearthrug.

  “She’d been stabbed with her own bread-knife.”

  The body was laid in one corner under a sheet to await the ambulance. Littlejohn gently raised the cover and looked at the still face. There was no trace of horror on it. The eyes were closed and the colour had remained. Marcia Fitzpayne might have been asleep.

  “The wound?”

  “Through the heart from the back. Whoever did it must have come upon her from behind, the surgeon says. She was dead before she knew what was happening. A dirty business and I’d have said if the maniac hadn’t been dead already, it was another of his crimes. It looks very much as if we’ve another homicidal lunatic at large among us …”

  Herle blew his nose noisily. It gave you the impression that he was weeping about it all.

  “You’ve questioned the other tenants?”

  “Yes. They were both in. A doctor on the ground floor, who was busy writing; and a colonel in the room below this, who was looking at the television programme, which was a noisy one, according to what the doctor says. He could hear it in the flat below. So, you see, nobody heard anything.”

  “And the caretaker?”

  Chettle answered for himself.

  “I saw nobody. Missus an’ me was lookin’ in at the telly. It was the milk boilin’ over … Awful. I thought the place was on fire. Soon as I opened the door, I saw ’er. Lyin’ half on the rug there, flat on ’er face. Knife stickin’ out of ’er back. I didn’t touch anythin’. I shouts up to the missus and tells ’er to ’phone for the police and I stayed ’ere to see that it wasn’t disturbed. I done right, didn’t I?”

  “Quite right, Mr. Chettle.”

  “Where is Mrs. Chettle?”

  “She’s up in our flat. She went up to get a cup o’ tea, It give ’er quite a turn. Shall I shout up for ’er?”

  “No. I’ll just take a turn round the place and call and see her on the way.”

  The ambulance had drawn up outside and a small crowd had gathered round the main door. They could hear voices, the opening of the ambulance, and then heavy footsteps manoeuvring a stretcher up the stairs.

  Littlejohn strolled round the flat, opening the inner doors, turning over the books and magazines scattered about. One door led into a kitchenette. It was tidy, with a small table with a red plastic top, a little refrigerator, a stainless steel sink, and the electric stove which was the centre of Chettle’s dramatic monologue. The top was still swimming in burnt milk. On the table, the cup and coffee-pot with which Marcia had presumably been concerned when the murderer disturbed her. Another room; this time the bedroom. The usual furniture, rather in miniature, to fit in. A door led into a bathroom, if such it could be called. There was no bath. Just a shower in a surround of primrose-coloured tiles, a washbowl and a pedestal. There wasn’t room to whip a cat round in the place.

  “They’ve moved the body now …”

  Herle was anxious to hear what Littlejohn thought of it all. He trailed about after the Superintendent like an apprentice picking up tips of technique.

  There seemed much more room now the body had gone. Littlejohn noticed the meal half ready on the little table in the living-room. A half loaf, a bread board, a plate with some cheese on it …

  “Mrs. Chettle recognised the knife. It was Marcia Fitzpayne’s own bread-knife. It’s here …”

  He had kept it back for Littlejohn to see. A long, bright, steel blade and a wooden handle. The kind you can buy any day for bread or carving fowl. There was coagulated blood on the blade.

  “No fingerprints. There never are in this case.”

  “You’ll be going through her papers?”

  “We’ve already done it. Roughly, of course. So far, there’s not a thing of interest. They’re all in the top drawer of the sideboard if you want to examine them yourself.”

  “I won’t bother just now, thanks.”

  Littlejohn strolled on the landing. There were no other flats on it. At the end, facing the staircase, another door. It was fastened by a spring lock.

  “Fire escape,” explained Chettle, who was following him.

  “It’s always locked?”

  “Yes. It was locked when this happened. In case of need, it can be opened from the inside by the spring lock. I showed it to the police and they tried it. They searched round for fingerprints and took photos.”

  He opened the door. Outside, a wooden staircase led downwards into the blackness of a yard or entry below. In the distance, the string of lamps on the river waterfront were still alight.

  “And that’s the way up to your flat?”

  It was another narrow staircase to a couple of attics with a landing outside. Light streamed from one of the open doorways. Littlejohn climbed up. The room was clean and threadbare and a small fire burned in an old iron grate. The walls were covered with old fashioned imitation marble wallpaper, once cream and now beige from age. A woman dressed in a sombre frock and with bedraggled grey hair was sitting at a table illuminated by a cheap lamp, drinking from a cup and blowing on its contents to cool them. Littlejohn stood for a moment looking at her. She raised her eyes and met his, all the time calmly drinking. The rest of the room was in the shade. Quietness, a kind of syrupy silence, filled the place as the woman enjoyed her drink.

  At first, Littlejohn thought he had met her before, but then he realised that she was of the usual type which repeats itself so often among charwomen, caretakers and modest seamstresses. Small, thin, undernourished, doing her best to be cheerful and bear-up under life’s shabby treatment. Like many of her kind, too, she wore a frock too large for her and outsize shoes. Someone else’s cast-offs in all probability.

  “Mrs. Chettle?”

  “Yes. Am I wanted again? I’m not feeling so well after all this. It’s turned me up proper. It’s time all this killin’ was stopped. You don’t know who’s goin’ to be the next.”

  She took another swig of tea. Of uncertain age, perhaps between sixty and seventy. You never know with her type. She was dried-up and her thin grey hair showed the scalp almost bald in parts.

  “I’m from the police. I don’t want to upset you, but you can perhaps help us.”

  “Yes, you’re the London man, aren’t you? I see your picture in the paper this mornin’. And now there’s been two more murders. Quarles and Miss Fitzpayne … Nice, was Miss Fitzpayne, although there were some didn’t think so. I’m broad-minded myself and take people as I find ’em. She was always good to me.”

  Littlejohn sat astride the other chair at the table.

  “How long have you been looking after these flats, Mrs. Chettle?”

  “Two years last December, when they was ready and first let.”

  “Miss Fitzpayne lived here ever since they were made?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Chettle got up, poured out a second cup of tea, and handed it to Littlejohn. It was hot and almost black.

  “If you’re anything like me, you’ll need a cup. I don’t mind a burglary. We’ve had two in the flats since we came here. But when it comes to murder, I draw the line. Sugar?”

  She scooped two large spoonfuls in Littlejohn’s cup.

  “You do the cleaning of the flats?”

  “Yes. The two lower ones I do every day. Nice gentlemen, they are, too. Miss Fitzpayne’s is a little ’un compared with theirs. I did for ’er two mornings a week.”

  “Your husband helps you?”

  “He hasn’t worked for years. His back’s bad. Now and then, when he’s better side out, he might do an odd job or two about the place. But it’s nice to have him around …”

  There was no irony in her voice. She included Chettle and his bad back in her philosophy of life and was content merely with his protection, for what it was worth.

  “You were in when my colleague and I called late in the afternoon?”

  “Yes. I was havin’ a cup of tea when I heard you. She didn’t want to let you in at first, did she? She’s been a bit under the weather of late.
I don’t blame ’er. Her boy-friend, if you can call ’im such at his age, was murdered the other week. Wonder if it’s the same one as has done for ’er, too.”

  She brooded over it cheerfully as though she’d come upon a profound truth.

  “Bracknell, you mean?”

  “Yes. He used to come to see ’er two or three times a week. I think they was carryin’-on, but it was no business of mine. I’ve enough keepin’ the place clean, without interferin’ with the morals of the tenants.”

  She said it all without indignation or resentment.

  “Any other callers?”

  “Now and then. Travellers and the like. Oh, I know what you mean. No. Nothin’ o’ that sort. Not that I see anyhow. I’d say she was true to poor Mr. Bracknell. Why they didn’t get married was beyond me. Silly keepin’ two places goin’ when they could have lived together for the price of one, you might say.”

  “You went downstairs to the flat when your husband found the body. Did you notice anything peculiar?”

  “Such as …?”

  “Anything unusual, disturbed, out of its place?”

  “No. The milk was burnin’. I went in the kitchen and moved it off the ’ot-plate of the stove, while me ’usband was seein’ if she was alive. I could ’ave told him she wasn’t without even touchin’ ’er.”

  “You didn’t hear anyone about below just before the crime was committed?”

  “No. We was sittin’ listenin’ to the telly …”

  She pointed to a small set in one corner of the little room.

  “We ’ire it and if you haven’t got one yet, I can recommend you to ’ire one.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind. Let us get this in order. You were watching the telly when you smelled the burning milk. Your husband went down to investigate, entered Miss Fitzpayne’s flat with his pass-key, found her dead, and called for you …”

  “That’s right. I went down, saw to the milk, we telephoned the police, and then we jest waited.”

  “You didn’t send for the neighbours?”

  “What good would that do? She was dead. They couldn’t bring ’er back to life again, even if one of ’em is a doctor, could they? The doctor’s a specialist on people as has gone off their heads. Much good he’d ’ave been. No, we jest waited.”