Upshott’s face suddenly changed. His features tightened, he began to take interest in what was being said, and then he produced a little pocket diary and a pen and began to jot down notes in it.
“It is quite possible that when he made his bargain with Upshott, he also made another with Miss Huncote. He insisted that they should be married right away. Within a month, Miss Huncote became Mrs. Checkland.”
“Wonderful! You talk as if you’d invented it all yourself. Actually, anybody living in Carleton at the time it happened, could have told you the same …”
“Nobody knew about your theft, Upshott. They only knew that you cleared out, left Miss Huncote apparently in the lurch, and Checkland married her.”
For some reason, it made Upshott start busily writing in his little book again. He even smiled sarcastically as though he’d found a chink in Littlejohn’s armour.
“From time to time, he wrote to Checkland, asking for pardon and to be allowed to return. The answer was always the same. A cable. If you return … gaol.”
“That’s not true! I wrote and offered to pay back the amount I’d been wrong in my books. I’d be the last man alive to grovel to Checkland. He was a swine. However … Go on. This is very interesting. I’ll tell you where you’re wrong later.”
Through the great window of Herle’s room which overlooked the square, they could see the vast stretch of asphalt, shining in the rain with the dim figure of some dead and gone Huncote in bronze in the middle of it, pointing heavenward to emphasise his oratory. Not a soul about. The street lamps had been cut down and only one in three was illuminated. At the far side of the square, the lights over Checkland’s door and in the passage were still burning. A night ’plane buzzed overhead and the noise finally died away leaving the silence deeper than ever.
“Upshott settled down, took to farming, made some money. All the time he was thinking of Carleton. Not perhaps of the woman he’d had to leave behind so much as the man who had brought about his ruin. He hated Checkland more and more, revenge became an obsession with him, and he lived for the day when he could get back and pay Checkland what he owed him, not in cash, but in hate.”
As Littlejohn spoke, Upshott stared straight ahead, his face set, his hands jerking as from some inner tension. Then he awoke.
“You ought to write thrillers, Littlejohn. You make it all sound true.”
“Then, Samuel Bracknell began to take a hand. Upshott and Bracknell had been friends in Australia, where Bracknell was born. They found they’d a mutual interest. Bracknell had inherited some ruined property in Carleton, was getting tired of farming in Australia, and decided to come to England and inspect his patrimony. He seemed to like it over here, settled down, and took up his permanent residence at Freake’s Folly. The only drawback was he was greedy for money. He soon found the way to get some. During his stay with Upshott in Perth, he grew curious about his friend and took the opportunity of having a look through his papers. He found a batch of letters from Mrs. Checkland, then Eileen Huncote. They were love-letters of a very private and revealing sort. Bracknell, a dirty dog at the best of times, saw a chance of blackmail in them. He was proposing to return to Carleton and might seek out the writer and cash in on them if possible. He took them with him. After all, by the time Upshott found them gone, Bracknell would be far enough away. Upshott, however, didn’t miss them. His farm took fire, was burned to the ground, and he thought the letters were destroyed with it.”
Upshott was writing furiously now. What about, they couldn’t guess. Now and then, he raised his face and gave Littlejohn a sardonic smile; otherwise, he showed little emotion.
“Bracknell arrived in Carleton, settled down at the Folly, and started to make it habitable. His money came regularly from Australia and was sufficient for a while. Then it began to run out. He thought right away of the letters. The blackmail started. He put the screw on Mrs. Checkland mercilessly and hard. Bracknell was a ladies’ man, it seems. And he found someone of expensive tastes among the good-looking girls of the town. Marcia Fitzpayne. She seems to have had some idea of the existence of the letters and perhaps she encouraged him in his demands. These eventually became so extortionate that Mrs. Checkland reached the end of her resources. She was afraid if she didn’t pay, her husband would be approached. Somehow, Mr. Checkland had never lost his suspicions of his wife. He fancied she still nursed a love for Upshott. He even suggested that his own son might have been Upshott’s instead …”
Upshott laughed harshly and wrote something else in his book.
“It would never have done for him to get hold of the letters. Mrs. Checkland had promised never to write to Upshott again. But the strain made her break her word. She wrote to him, told him what was happening, and presumably accused him of disposing of her letters instead of returning them. The letter settled matters for Upshott. He decided, Checkland or no Checkland, gaol or no gaol, he was returning to Carleton to find out what Bracknell’s game might be. Since I’ve known Upshott, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t think, too, of claiming a share of the loot …”
“Thank you, Littlejohn. I appreciate your good opinion. By the way, cut it short. It’s getting late … Nearly half-past one. It’s time I got back to the Barley Mow. They’re respectable in Carleton, you know. Not like London, where it doesn’t matter what time you turn in …”
“One thing was uppermost in Upshott’s thoughts, however. He was going to take his revenge, somehow, on Checkland. He turned up here just as Carleton Unthank had receded from the newspaper headlines. A maniac had killed two local girls, but some little time had passed and the news had ceased to be hot. The first thing he did was to call and see Mrs. Checkland. She told him about Bracknell. He gave her some advice, which seemed sensible enough. He told her to tell her husband. She should have done so in the first place and risked the consequences. As it was, when she did tell the mayor, he treated the matter of the letters very lightly. He said he’d see Bracknell, however, and put a stop to the whole business. Upshott had arranged for Mrs. Checkland to let him know how the mayor reacted. It sounded a reasonable request. After all he was an old friend, anxious for her welfare. Actually, he wanted to know exactly when Checkland was going to Freake’s Folly, because it was part of his plan for revenge.”
Suddenly, Upshott’s voice broke in.
“I’d prefer you to say all this in front of a lawyer, Littlejohn. You’re making accusations against me. It’s not right. I want proper advice, because I’m going to make you eat your words later.”
He was as white as a sheet now. His nostrils were pinched and his features drawn, but he had enough energy to charge his words with menace.
“You can have a lawyer later, if you want one. As you say, it’s getting late. I’d better finish as quickly as I can.”
One of the constables arrived with tea. Six large, thick cups full of dark brew which he gingerly dispensed.
“There’s at least one gentleman among us …”
Upshott never missed a chance of being nasty. The constable blushed to the roots of his hair and looked at Herle as though he expected a rebuke. Instead, Herle smiled sadly at him. He was feeling dazed. Dragged out of bed, bewildered by events, wondering what was coming next, he blew absent-mindedly on his tea. He was out of his depth.
“… It must have been on the morning of Bracknell’s death that Upshott arrived in Carleton in his hired car. As I said, his first call was on Mrs. Checkland. He avoided the mayor himself, otherwise Mr. Checkland might have sent for the police and Upshott might have found himself involved in a defalcation case many years old. Next, he called on Bracknell. It was after dark, for, as Mrs. Checkland had told him either over the telephone or in some other pre-arranged way, the mayor could not get down to Freake’s Folly until about eight o’clock. Now, the subtlety of Upshott’s move becomes apparent …”
Littlejohn plodded on and on, speaking rather rapidly now in an earnest quiet voice. As he spoke, Upshott regarded him with a hostile, snee
ring look. He made more notes, but he didn’t interrupt. He seemed in a mood of absolute self-confidence.
“… He planned to murder Bracknell and make it appear that Checkland had done it. He had previously, it seems, during his visit to Mrs. Checkland, asked her to leave Mr. Checkland and return to Australia with him. That would have paid for all! It would have made the mayor look a public fool and settled the account. But Mrs. Checkland refused. She preferred her husband to the returned embezzler whom time had not improved.”
Upshott sprang to his feet.
“Really, Superintendent Herle, are you going to allow this. I’ve not been arrested or charged with murder. Nobody can prove I murdered anybody. I simply came over here in response to an appeal for help from an old friend. Now, Littlejohn heaps every kind of crime on me. Murder, violence, attempting to seduce another man’s wife. I’m innocent of the lot and I’ll prove it later. But I won’t stay here and be insulted any longer. I’m going back to my hotel.”
Cromwell didn’t give Herle any time to reply to the appeal. He rose and pushed Upshott back in his seat.
“Shut up, Upshott! Or else I’ll handcuff you again.”
“Very well. Now I’m being manhandled by the police. Right. It’ll be my turn soon …”
Littlejohn knocked out his pipe at the grate and began to fill it slowly.
“Before Mr. Checkland arrived at Freake’s Folly, Upshott was there. I don’t know whether or not he’d seen Bracknell before …”
“I had. In the afternoon. The only time I called at his place. I wasn’t there the night you mention.”
Littlejohn didn’t seem to hear it. He went on with his tale.
“… He called at the Folly in the afternoon, found Bracknell out, and was told by a passer-by that he might be at Marcia Fitzpayne’s flat. He went there but found it locked up. That night, Charlie Space, a farm-hand at Pinner’s Close, went to Freake’s with his girl to retrieve a pair of gloves she’d left there. They found Bracknell in, and there was a man answering to Upshott’s description with him, as well. They were quarrelling. The time was about seven-thirty. Charlie and his fiancée went back to the farm. Charlie returned alone about eight o’clock. Bracknell was stretched out on the floor. knifed and dead. The visitor had gone. Charlie hurried away, scared and without the gloves. But, before he got away, he had to hide to avoid meeting another visitor. It was Checkland. The mayor didn’t report the crime but left it for the next caller. Checkland not only feared he would be accused of the murder; he also didn’t wish to stir up a hornets’ nest which would involve his wife and her letters. He was the mayor and had to preserve his dignity.”
“I wasn’t near the place that night. Besides, how could the farm labourer and his girl know me. They couldn’t identify me. It might have been anybody. This is just another trick to involve me in the whole shabby affair.”
“Let me get on with the story … Upshott didn’t bring away Mrs. Checkland’s letters. Neither did Checkland. Upshott and Bracknell must have quarrelled about them. They may have come to blows and Upshott, the less robust of the pair, used a knife …”
“This is fantastic! All lies! All lies!”
“In any event, he spoke to Mrs. Checkland again. He told her Bracknell had said he hadn’t the letters with him. They were in the bank for safe-keeping. That wasn’t true. Bracknell had told Marcia Fitzpayne about them. She was his mistress and he was in the habit of confiding in her, especially when he was drunk and maudlin. She knew of the letters and where they were kept. After Bracknell’s death, she went to Freake’s Folly and took them from their hiding-place. She couldn’t wait to put the squeeze on Mrs. Checkland. She wrote to her at once and there began again the blackmail Bracknell had started.”
Upshott was now sitting so rigidly in his chair that he looked as if he’d been turned into a block of wood. He gave Littlejohn a stupified look and started to write furiously again.
“But Marcia wasn’t aware that Mrs. Checkland had told her husband and Upshott about the blackmail. Here was a supreme chance to underline Checkland as a murderer with an obvious motive. The mayor quietly fled from the Folly after finding Bracknell’s body. Nobody reported seeing him and he left no trace. That wasn’t what Upshott wanted. He prepared a repeat performance, only this time in a block of public flats where the mayor’s visit was sure to be seen. The same plan was unfolded. Mrs. Checkland, having told her husband, sent another message to Upshott that the mayor was going to see Marcia Fitzpayne about the letters. Again, the mayor was keeping matters dark because he didn’t want to tell the local police and make a fool of himself to his underlings …”
Herle didn’t like the word and gave Littlejohn a nasty look.
“Upshott saw Marcia in the flat. How he got in without being seen, I can’t say. But he did. Nobody saw any visitor entering Marcia’s flat that night. He must have seized his opportunity and been lucky. He got the letters from Marcia, either by threats, promises, or force, and then killed her. Then he left her body for Checkland. He forgot one thing. The mayor owns the flats and has a key for the door of the fire escape. So Checkland, too, got in and out without a soul seeing him. Upshott had taken all his trouble for nothing! He turned to his second line of attack. He began to beg Mrs. Checkland to run away with him again. In his frenzy for revenge, he tried to prove himself a better man than her husband. He produced the letters when they met for what Upshott intended to be a final talk, at the Marquis of Granby. He hoped she’d be grateful to him, despise Checkland, and go to Australia with him. He could never bring himself to believe that she’d ceased to love him and hate Checkland for forcing them apart and compelling her to marry him. Instead, he found that she’d grown at least to respect her husband, and refused to leave him. Just before we arrived at the Marquis of Granby, Mrs. Checkland burned the letters, the ashes of which were visible in the fire when I examined it.”
“This is all theory, mere fiction. You’ve not uttered a word you can prove. I’ve noted down all your fallacies and when I see my lawyer …”
Cromwell yawned.
“You’ll be given a chance. Listen to the Superintendent. It’s rude to interrupt.”
“We don’t know where Upshott lodged during his stay here and before we found him. On the night Marcia Fitzpayne was killed, he didn’t return to his hotel. He thought he’d better be off. He slept in a church and slipped away in a football bus, lost in the crowd and, in the hope that if the worst came, he’d not be traced. He got off the bus at a station on the route instead of going to Northampton. He ditched his hired car which he feared to use in case it might be recognised and stopped. I think he intended making for London, persuading Mrs. Checkland to join him there—for, you recollect, he still had the letters he’d taken from Marcia in his possession. If Mrs. Checkland had met him in London, he’d have tried again to persuade her to return with him to Australia. He just couldn’t believe she’d grown to prefer the mayor to him. The years didn’t seem to count. He still thought he was the better man and Mrs. Checkland could be convinced that it was true. Brooding on the matter, alone and far away, had driven him a bit dotty …”
As if to confirm this opinion. Upshott laughed. It was like the baying of a dog at the moon. He consulted his book.
“All through this crazy story, Littlejohn, you’ve treated me as the guilty party, and you’re wrong. You’re off the beam. My lawyer’ll make mincemeat of all you say. And why? Because I never committed any crime. I was in London at my hotel the night Bracknell was killed. I told you so. I’d no alibi. I was at the Piccadilly Hotel. It’s so busy that none of the staff would remember me, I’m sure. I went out for a meal, returned about eleven, and went up to bed. I’d kept my room key in my pocket as I expected to be back in an hour and didn’t want the fuss of handing it in and asking for it back again in such a short time.”
“I see. Did you go up in the lift?”
“No; I walked up. I was on the second floor and didn’t wait for the lift.”
�
��Unlucky for you, Upshott.”
“Perhaps. But as I didn’t commit any crime, you can’t need an alibi. It’s as simple as that. You can prove nothing.”
“You were here the night Marcia Fitzpayne died. We know that. In your thirst for revenge, you couldn’t keep away. You had failed once; you were going to try again.”
“Nothing of the kind …”
“Why did you sleep in a church, instead of in your hotel as before? And why did you sneak off by bus, get off it half-way, and wait for a London train in an obscure little station? You began to feel guilty, that’s why. In spite of all your protests you felt like a murderer. Guilt was beginning to press on you. Constant thinking about the murders prevented you from being sure that your own guilt was quite unknown. You began to behave like somebody guilty, when, all the time, an out and out lie would have been accepted as the truth. If you’d driven up to an hotel in the hired car you abandoned, told them you were a commercial traveller, spent the night, and left early in the car, you’d have been on the way back to Australia now. But you temporarily lost your head and behaved like a criminal, sleeping out, trying to cover your tracks, and, when the police found you, you adopted a smiling cocksure attitude and overdid it. You’re overdoing it now. There’s guilt written all over you. If the mayor had died tonight, one part of your scheme would have been a success. But he’s going to get well …”
Upshott rose to his feet.
“I’m glad he’s going to get well, for the sake of his wife. All your theories are cooked-up and my lawyer will soon put you where you belong. On the scrap-heap of also-ran detectives. And now I’ll be going, if you please. We’ve heard enough.”
“Your lawyer will have to face the testimony of Mrs. Checkland, before whom, in your vanity, you burned the letters you’d got from Marcia Fitzpayne when you killed her. Charlie Space and his fiancée will describe the man they saw at Freake’s Folly just before Bracknell was killed. Charlie will give Mr. Checkland an alibi, too, if he needs one. All your comings and goings will be gone into, the reason for your return to England, the strange death of Bracknell almost as soon as you arrived, your past association with him and, finally, the story of the blackmailing of Mrs. Checkland and how you were involved in it.”
Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 19