Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “It also has the advantage of being quiet. I suppose anybody sleeping in the anterooms or body of the church on the ground floor might be easily discovered by someone entering and finding him asleep the morning after.”

  “Yes. This place is out of the way. Furthermore, hidden here you could hear the ascending footsteps of whoever climbed the spiral staircase, which, as you will have observed, is made of metal, and rings under the feet.”

  “And why did you send for us, sir? I’m here on the murder investigation, you know.”

  Mr. Blower nodded vigorously.

  “That’s why. I heard of last night’s murder. I could not conceive the murderer calling at a local hotel or at any nearby town or village and asking for a bed for the night. He’d either to flee far away, or sleep where he could, in hiding. So, he chose the church.”

  “The murder was committed around eight o’clock, sir.”

  “I was here until almost eleven, trying out my new composition, which I shall play tomorrow at evening service.”

  Littlejohn was quite aware that under the noise of Blower in B a herd of cattle could have entered the church and gone out again without being heard!

  Mr. Blower started to titter.

  “Excuse me, Superintendent. I was just struck by a strange thought. Suppose the murderer takes up successive lodgings night after night in all the town churches. There are fourteen of them, including the Catholic one and the Pentecostal Wrestlers. The Wrestlers have only a harmonium, but the rest have organs and organ-lofts. I’ve played on them all and some of them are diabolical. It amused me to think of Herle having to post a constable on duty at every organ. If by any chance the policeman were a musical one, he could at least amuse himself on the keyboard …”

  “I’d better report this, sir. There may be useful fingerprints left around.”

  “What you do is your own business, Superintendent. I certainly will have nothing to do with Herle. You can take it that nothing here has been touched or moved. I realised that you would wish it that way the moment I found there had been intruders.”

  “It may have been quite a harmless person …”

  “Come, come, Superintendent. I’m surprised at you. An innocent man wouldn’t have sought out such a dusty secret spot as this. He’d have slept in the vestry or the choir changing-room. Our intruder wanted to hide and also wished to be comfortable. He hauled up the hassocks and the long cushion from the choir.”

  “And nobody saw any trespasser enter or leave?”

  “I really couldn’t say, Superintendent. Perhaps if Herle’s bobbies ask all round the close, someone may be able to help them. Have you any idea whom you are seeking? Have you a description of the murderer?”

  “Yes, a rough one.”

  “Very good, then. I suggest you start at once. The man might have been seen in the precincts late last evening.”

  “It was dark, sir.”

  “All the same, it’s worth trying, I would think. Will that be all?”

  “I think so, sir. I’m very much obliged to you for notifying us. May we lock this loft until the local police arrive.”

  “Yes. I have the key. And now, I must be off. My wife will be wondering where I am. She’ll think I have perhaps been assassinated, too.”

  Herle was furious when Littlejohn called to tell him about the matter at St. Peter’s.

  “The little squirt!”

  But the police hunted all day for clues and fingerprints and found nothing. Herle didn’t take Blower’s joke about keeping vigils in all the churches kindly, either.

  “We’ll search them all by day and have them locked up at night. The old fool’s lost his wits. I never did like Blower. He thinks too much of himself. Him and his bloomin’ organ.”

  “All the same, it is obvious there’s a stranger in Carleton, someone connected with the death of Marcia Fitzpayne. We have a rough description of him and we know, according to Mrs. Chettle, that he is likely to be an Australian. I take it your men are combing the town for him, Herle?”

  Herle smiled with satisfaction.

  “They’ve been out and about at all the hotels and likely places all night. The answer is a lemon. A complete blank. So far, nobody seems to have seen him.”

  “Precisely. He spent the night in St. Peter’s Church. We said he might have arrived here in a hired car. Has any such car been picked up yet?”

  “Our men are on it. The garages weren’t open all night. If he left it at any of those in town or round about, it should have been reported by now. He may have come by train.”

  “If he’s trying to get about unseen, he’s probably travelling by road …”

  Telephone. Herle snatched up the instrument impatiently.

  “Yes?”

  A farmer on the outskirts of the town had found an abandoned car in a spinney on his land adjoining the main road. He described it and the licence on the windscreen. Obviously a hired one from London.

  “If he’s ditched the car, he’s probably still in town, sir. And if he’s in town, my men will get him. They’re combing the place.”

  Littlejohn stood silently puffing his pipe.

  “If you’d abandoned a car, Herle, and knew the stations and all the town were being watched, what would you do?”

  “I don’t know … I’d either disguise myself or get among a crowd if I wanted to get away.”

  “Exactly. You might even muffle yourself in a scarf of the colours of the local football team, mix among the followers of Carleton Athletic, go to Northampton, and sneak away from there.”

  “By Gad! That might be it.”

  Herle shouted for Drayton, his factotum, loud enough to be heard for miles. Drayton appeared at his usual pace.

  “What time did the main rush of football fans go to Northampton, Drayton?”

  “Kick-off’s at two. Some went first-thing for a day out. They’d go on the ten o’clock. There were specials, for football crowds only, at eleven and eleven thirty. Those are road company buses. There’s some charabancs, too. Private, like. Book in advance. They’ve been gone a good half-hour.”

  “It takes roughly an hour to Northampton, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Ten minutes short of an hour …”

  Drayton recited his piece in a dull monotonous voice, scrupulously correct, standing at attention.

  “Get me Northampton police on the phone then, and look slippy.”

  Drayton ponderously left the room and could be heard reciting instructions to someone in charge of the switchboard.

  In five minutes Northampton had been asked to keep an eye on all vehicles arriving at their bus stations and to detain any stranger answering to the description of the man detailed by Mrs. Chettle.

  “What a hope! Like looking for a needle in a haystack! He might have got away on the buses which have already reached Northampton, he might not have gone that way at all, he might have got off half-way there … He might be anywhere now.”

  But Herle was wrong. The net had been cast by the Carleton and the Northampton police over the whole countryside between the two towns. A man wearing a Carleton Athletic scarf had left a ’bus at Brixworth, saying he wasn’t feeling well and had decided not to go on to Northampton. A policeman at Brixworth had seen him get off the bus half an hour before the call went out. Some good local staff work had resulted in Brixworth police finding the man quietly sitting on the station waiting for a connection to London. A police car was bringing him to Carleton Unthank and would be there very soon.

  Two policemen from Brixworth were not long in arriving with the man from Australia. The spokesman of the two reported that their captive had seemed to relish being brought back to Carleton.

  “We didn’t need to handcuff him …”

  Littlejohn laughed.

  “A good job you didn’t. We’ve nothing to charge him with yet, except leaving someone else’s car dumped in a wood.”

  “But I thought it was murder …”

  “We’re in no p
osition to charge him with anything yet. He’s just an important witness. Bring him in, please.”

  The newcomer was calm, even smiling, as though glad to meet the police.

  “Who is in charge?” he asked, looking round at the three officers and the group of constables.

  Herle shrugged his shoulders. He felt he could very well have managed the affair himself, but Littlejohn was his superior.

  “Superintendent Littlejohn.”

  “Thank you. I was surprised when the police arrested me …”

  Herle was furious.

  “You’ve not been arrested yet. You’ve been brought back here for questioning. If you wish a charge to be made, you may have one. Being on enclosed premises …”

  “You mean St. Peter’s Church …?”

  The man was unperturbed. He laughed outright.

  “The church was open. I took a look round, and fell asleep in the quietness of the organ loft …”

  “After eating your supper and making yourself a comfortable bed with the church cushions?”

  The man tallied with Mrs. Chettle’s description. He spoke with an Australian accent and was tall and well-built. He still wore his blue tie, which matched his eyes, and there was the cauliflower left ear, the good head of grey hair, and the bushy eyebrows. His well-cut grey suit bore the traces of his night out.

  “Your name?”

  “Walter Upshott.”

  “You are Australian?”

  “By adoption. I emigrated there years ago.”

  “Where did you live in Australia, Mr. Upshott?”

  “Perth.”

  The man was still smiling. He answered Littlejohn’s questions without hesitation.

  “Were you born in England?”

  “Yes. In Carleton Unthank …”

  If he’d said he was born on the moon, it couldn’t have startled them more, and Upshott enjoyed the sensation he’d created.

  Littlejohn nodded. A gentle trickle of smoke rose from his pipe. “When did you emigrate to Australia?”

  “Eighteen years ago. I lost my job, so I thought I’d try my luck abroad.”

  “And you’ve done well?”

  “Not bad. I’m a farmer.”

  “And what made you return here? Homesickness?”

  Upshott grinned again, baring his clean strong teeth. Now and then, Littlejohn came across men in a case who understood him thoroughly, never missed a humorous or ironical quip, never misunderstood the implications of a question. Upshott was one of them.

  “Call it that if you like, Superintendent. Let’s say I wanted to see the old places. I’d earned a holiday, I took it, spent a few days in London, and then came here to see if it had changed much.”

  “So you passed the nights exploring it in the darkness, and disappeared during the daytime?”

  “Not particularly. I took a quick look around and then decided I’d had enough …”

  “Instead of finding an hotel and sleeping there, you went to St. Peter’s instead.”

  “I was locked in. I went there after dark. It was lit up. I had a look round, listened to a man playing the organ, and when it came time to go, I found I couldn’t get out. I didn’t want to break out and damage the place. It has some happy memories for me. So I made myself comfortable in the organ loft. It was the cosiest spot. I’ve been used to roughing it out in Australia. It was like the Ritz up there when I think of some of the places I’ve slept in.”

  Although he was still smiling, there was something intense, serious, watchful in the look he gave Littlejohn now and then. He was full of self-confidence and replied to the questions amiably and politely.

  “Why did you abandon your hired car and try to make a break in a football coach?”

  “I didn’t. I just wanted to see the Northampton match. I used to follow the local team when I was a boy. If you wonder why I got off the bus, I was faint. I hadn’t had a proper meal after my night in the church. That’s all.”

  “You were found sitting on Brixworth station after enquiring for the London train.”

  “It was quiet. I bought some sandwiches and went there to eat them. I asked a porter if trains for London went from Brixworth. I was being matey. I didn’t buy a ticket.”

  He’d an answer for everything. And the way he said it was persuasive and prompt. He seemed to wonder what all the fuss was about.

  “Do you know many people in Carleton? Any of your old friends left?”

  “One or two. I’ve seen a few familiar faces about. I didn’t speak to any of them.”

  “Why? I’d have thought a re-union would have pleased you after coming all that way.”

  “We’ve all changed. It’s nice to see the old places, such as are left. But when you seek out old acquaintances after so long, it’s unpleasant. You find those life hasn’t treated well eyeing you up and down almost jealously and showing all the signs of defeat and disillusionment. Those who’ve got on look you up and down just the same, sizing you up and comparing your progress with theirs, and looking self-satisfied with themselves, with all the bloom of their young days worn thin through self-satisfaction and greed. It’s not worth doing it. It leaves you sad and upset.”

  “So you kept out of their way. Did you know the mayor of Carleton?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Mr. Checkland.”

  “Ben Checkland? Sure I do. We went to the same school. Carleton Grammar. So Ben’s mayor, is he?”

  “Yes. I think you might like to meet him. It’s a wonder he isn’t here if he’s heard we’ve made some progress in the murder case …”

  The smile vanished and the face grew serious.

  “What’s that? Murder case? Look here, Superintendent, I don’t mind suffering all this rigmarole for sleeping in a church or behaving a bit queerly when I visit my home-town, but I draw the line at murder. What’s all this about?”

  “Where were you on the night of September 29th, Mr. Upshott?”

  Upshott gave him a quick look.

  “Where were you?”

  He smiled blandly at Littlejohn.

  “I’m not being impertinent. But can you tell me, just in a moment, where you were at a certain time on a certain day?”

  “You were here in Carleton Unthank?”

  “Wait a minute. Was that the night of the crime? I wasn’t here, that’s definite. Come to think of it, I was in London. I only spent one night here, last night, in church. I slept at the Piccadilly Hotel on the 29th. I’m sure the staff would confirm it. Of course, if you’re going to suggest that I shinned down a water-pipe after I’d retired to bed, hurried here, and killed somebody, I’m sunk. Nobody can give a proper alibi in a case like that. But I do assure you, I’ve nothing to do with murder here.”

  “You knew Samuel Bracknell?”

  “Ah, now we’re coming to it, Superintendent. Yes, I did. So that’s it. Sam’s murder. I read about it in the paper and I was damned sorry. Sam was a decent chap. The last man I’d think of killing.”

  “And yet, you pretended you knew nothing about a local murder. You knew all the time the police were hunting for his murderer.”

  “I knew he’d been murdered, but it just slipped my memory …”

  “Did it? I’m surprised. There was another murder last night. Whilst you were in church, or supposed to be, Miss Marcia Fitzpayne was stabbed to death. Did you know her?”

  “Fitzpayne? No.”

  “She knew you, I believe. You called at her place once, but found she wasn’t in. I think you were out hunting for Bracknell.”

  “Oh … Fitzpayne. Was that her name?”

  “You asked the caretaker of the flats she lived in for her, and you gave her name.”

  “It had slipped my memory.”

  “Again?”

  Upshott was still polite and smiling.

  “Yes, again. She was of no account to me. A farmer near Bracknell’s place mentioned that Sam might be at her flat and gave me the name and address. When I found he wasn’t there, I
forgot all about it. It’s quite a natural thing to do. She was of no importance.”

  “When was that?”

  “The afternoon of September 29th.”

  “You’re quick to remember it.”

  “Four days after I arrived at London airport. Easy.”

  “You saw Bracknell then?”

  “Yes. After I left Miss Fitzpayne’s I tried Bracknell’s again. He’d just got in. I had tea with him and a talk, and left for London about seven in the evening.”

  “You were friends?”

  “We knew one another in Perth for years. Sam ran a farm not far out of town. We met once in a pub and got talking. It turned out he’d roots in Carleton. We became friends.”

  “Did Bracknell express any fears to you when you were with him. Any fears of someone who might be out to kill him?”

  “No. Not a thing. Why should anybody want to kill Sam Bracknell?”

  “He might have been indulging in a little blackmail.”

  Upshott laughed loudly.

  “Sam! A blackmailer!! Come off it. Sam was the straightest man I ever came across.”

  Judging from Herle’s expression, he was almost ready to tear his hair. Here was a suspicious character, a so-called friend of Bracknell’s, who knew Marcia Fitzpayne, whatever he said, and yet he’d answers for everything. And he hadn’t an alibi for anything either. He wondered when Littlejohn was going to charge him on suspicion.

  “Didn’t Bracknell mention Marcia Fitzpayne?”

  “He might have done. He did talk about women at one time in the conversation. He was rather fond of them. He mentioned one or two. But their names went in at one ear and out of the other. I wasn’t interested in women I’d never met.”

  “So you’ve told us. Is that your property?”

  Littlejohn passed the pen with the Perth advertisement to Upshott.

  “Where did you find this? I thought it had gone for good. Not that it’s worth much, but it’s useful.”

  “It was found on the floor of Bracknell’s house.”

  “I must have dropped it when I was there. May I keep it?”

  “Not just now, Mr. Upshott.”

  “A vital clue …?”

  “Call it such if you wish.”

  Herle was busy telephoning. He was ringing up Mr. Checkland’s house. His voice softened, it was almost mellifluous as he addressed whoever was at the other end.