Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3)
Page 24
For generations, the Plukes had enjoyed positions of influence in Crickledale — Josiah Pluke (1803—81) had established the King’s Head as a premier coaching inn, while Beaumont Pluke (1832—1914) had been the town’s first head constable. There had been a long line of eminent Plukes in Crickledale, and records showed that Sir Wylyngton Pluke had occupied the Manor House in 1422, although a Wortham Pluke (1349—93) had been a wandering minstrel. Montague was not totally sure of the social status of a wandering minstrel at that time, but it did suggest that one branch of the family was musical. His favourite ancestor was Justus Pluke (1553—1609) who achieved national distinction for his futuristic design of carved animals’ heads upon the inlets to stone horse troughs.
On that Wednesday morning, however, illustrious ancestors were far from Montague’s mind as he continued his thoughtful way to work. The police station, a former mansion with original beams and fireplaces, was located on an elevated site near the church. The handsome building was highly suitable for the accommodation of a Pluke, but this one served as offices for the other police of Crickledale as well.
As he continued his walk along Cornmill Lane, he tried to recollect the last time he had encountered either of the Crowthers. He hadn’t seen Cyril for some time, although May’s presence could be noticed most days; she’d be working in her garden, doing the shopping, visiting friends, working with her voluntary groups, helping those in need, or pottering across to the church to put fresh flowers on the altar.
He’d seen her a couple of weeks since and she’d looked fairly fit, but by Crickledale standards that was quite a long time ago. In such a small town, people saw one another on a much more regular basis. So had Cyril been ill recently? Perhaps he was in hospital? Montague hoped neither would be the victim of the grim reaper, but you couldn’t tamper with fate. That crow had forecast a death, so perhaps they had friends or family staying at the house? That was a possibility, he mused, realising that neither of the Crowthers was compelled to be the victim.
In considering the fate of the Crowthers, Montague Pluke felt proud of his detailed professional knowledge of the town and its people. It was a knowledge acquired over many years without the slightest hint of direct prying, but in this case he was secure in the knowledge that he could regard the Crowthers as friends. Or to be precise, the Pluke—Crowther relationship was as close to friendship as the life of a police officer would permit. Police officers, especially senior ones, had to be circumspect in their choice of friends and social acquaintances. They had to be above criticism; they had to set a good example to the rest of society.
The Pluke—Crowther relationship arose because May Crowther was on the Church Flower Rota and shared watering duties with Millicent — Mrs Pluke. They were on the same Local History Society committee and were members of many other clubs and societies; they even shared tea-making duties at the Over-Sixties Club. Not that either Millicent or Montague was over sixty — but both of them did work very hard for those citizens who were less fortunate than themselves. The Plukes and the Crowthers were good neighbours to lots of people.
As Montague walked on, the crow remained in position. It bowed up and down as it croaked defiantly on the ridge of Cyril’s and May’s bungalow, its bedraggled plumage resembling a dismal undertaker in baggy trousers and a loose jacket. It was quite alone too. In vain, Montague searched the skies, the chimney pots and the nearby roofs for a second crow. The presence of two crows meant that something happy was about to occur, such as a wedding or even a birth, therefore two crows on that roof at the same time would have presented a totally different message to the world. But the menacing creature was utterly alone and Montague knew that he was powerless to prevent the drama which was about to engulf the Crowther household.
It was no good chasing it away or pretending he hadn’t seen it. The crow had landed and its message was beyond dispute. As a consequence, it was with a feeling of impending gloom, coupled with just a little personal anticipation, that Montague continued his walk towards the police station. Bidding his smiling but frequently automatic good mornings to people on his left and right, and doffing his panama to the ladies, he did consider returning to the Grove for words of advice with the Crowthers.
He could urge them — or their guests — to take great care in their daily routine, especially when crossing the road or fixing plugs on electrical appliances, but realised his well-meaning action would unsettle and disturb them. No one liked being told that any carelessness on his or her part could be fatal. Worse still, it would be a waste of time. Any such intervention would be fruitless. Nothing could halt the inevitable. Death was imminent at No. 15 Padgett Grove, Crickledale.
When Montague left the house for his walk to work, Millicent settled down to her routine. After making the bed and washing the pots she would consult her diary to check her daily appointments. Hadn’t Amelia Fender hinted at something strange happening at the Crowthers’ bungalow? But the Coffee Club meeting was tomorrow, Thursday. So who else was likely to be that well informed?
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