Superstitious Death

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘I understand perfectly, sir. I’ll leave you in peace and go down to the control room for discussions with Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield.’

  And so Montague’s big day began to take shape.

  *

  Millicent had managed to locate all the shoggling sticks. After a dusty hunt, she discovered they had been removed to the bell tower along with the parish lawnmower, wheelbarrow and gardening tools, probably by some untutored church helper who thought they were pea sticks or sweet pea canes. It meant that the shoggling ceremony got off to a very good and prompt start.

  During the church service, the vicar spoke movingly about the need for such customs to be maintained and expressed delight at the involvement of the local children, saying that without this kind of unselfish commitment, our appreciation of history would diminish and our sense of heritage would vanish for ever. There was also a word of appreciation for the generosity of Eric Burholme in providing a complete set of shoggling sticks of superior quality and design. Burholme, a tall, slender man with a head of thick white hair, was in the congregation and signified his pleasure at the vicar’s oration.

  The vicar next praised Montague Pluke for his diligence and public-spiritedness in reviving the ancient shoggling custom, then after the final hymn – ‘O Holy Tree, O Mighty One’ – the congregation moved outside. They walked in solemn procession to the green where they assembled in a wide circle around the famous hawthorn. Beneath it, someone had positioned a small dais upon which Mr Pluke could stand to make his annual speech to the assembly. Standing beneath the blossom-laden branches, Montague spoke movingly about the origins of the custom, reminding the assembled citizens how, around AD 1127, a demented man had ridden post-haste into Crickledale from a distant town with the sole intention of burning down the wooden, thatched church of that time.

  Word of his intentions had preceded him, however, and the Crickledonians were waiting with sticks and pick-axe handles, but the man dodged them and fled. He managed to find refuge in the heavily tree-covered common which then occupied the centre of the town. All the stick-wielding citizens entered the woodland and began to poke the undergrowth with the intention of flushing him out. It was during this manhunt that some stick-wielding children began to prod the slender trunk of a young hawthorn with their angled sticks. They pushed and pulled at the slender trunk, soon treating it as a game with the unspoken challenge of making it sway. Eventually, due to their combined efforts, the hawthorn did begin to sway backwards and forwards, the impetus making it sway so powerfully that a man tumbled out. He had secreted himself in the thorny branches high above the ground but had been unable to withstand the wild rocking motions.

  Thus the church was saved – and to this day, children surround that tree and, with their shoggling sticks, make it sway backwards and forwards while chanting, ‘Shoggle, shoggle, I’ll be bound, see the villain hit the ground.’ Shoggling is an old Yorkshire word for shaking roughly, hence the name of the custom, although very few shoggle-worthy hawthorns are available in modem times – trees with especially pliable trunks are required.

  With Millicent standing proudly before him, Montague Pluke had almost reached the stage where he was about to call, ‘Let shoggling commence.’ At that crucial moment, he noticed Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain at the rear of the crowd, his height enabling him to tower above their heads. Pluke’s first reaction was that Wayne Wain had decided to attend the ceremony in an attempt to learn something of Crickledale’s folklore and ancient past, but the sergeant was gesticulating towards him.

  Momentarily forgetting the omen of Mrs Cholmondeley’s bay tree, Pluke’s first reaction was to ignore the fellow – he was probably waving at a pretty woman in the audience – for Pluke believed nothing should be allowed to interrupt the shoggling ceremony, particularly at such a critical stage. He therefore continued with his duties and after declaring, ‘Let shoggling commence’ to a ripple of polite applause, he descended from his miniature stage and moved aside to allow the children to come closer. Accompanied by some spirited cheering from the crowd, the children moved towards the thickly blossomed may tree with their shoggling sticks held before them like lances. Placing the angled ends around the trunk, they prepared to push and pull, alternately pressing and pulling as the tree began to sway with its own momentum. It would take time and some florets might be loosened but it was all in a very noble and historic cause.

  As the crowd pressed closer to watch, Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain pushed through them and managed to gain access to Pluke. Taking him by the elbow, he steered Pluke away from the assembled masses and halted at a point where their conversation would be confidential. In fact, their discussion would not be overheard due to the noise and activity around them for the children were shouting with delight as the audience – mainly their parents – echoed their encouragement.

  ‘Sir.’ There was an urgency in Wain’s voice. ‘I’m sorry to have to drag you away at such an important moment, but I must talk to you.’

  ‘Can’t it wait, Wayne? Can’t you see that I am about to conclude a most important and historic local ceremony? Shoggling has commenced and I have to supervise it and then declare it complete at the appropriate time, before we raise our hats and drink a toast to the church which was saved –’

  ‘It’s a body, sir, of a woman,’ Wayne Wain interrupted.

  ‘A body, Wayne? A dead body, you mean? A real human body?’ So the omen of Mrs Cholmondeley’s bay tree was right after all. If a bay tree dies in a garden, it is an omen of death.

  ‘Yes, sir. with injuries. Buried in Harman’s Quarry. Very suspicious, sir.’

  ‘Murder, you mean, Wayne?’

  ‘Almost certainly, sir. There is ample evidence to suggest it is murder. We must leave immediately to visit the scene.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Detective Inspector Montague Pluke, reluctantly accepting that police duty took precedence over his shoggling responsibilities. ‘That means I cannot formally close this ceremony. It will be the first time I have not been present during the concluding moments!’

  ‘I’m sure His Worship the Mayor will stand in for you, sir,’ suggested Wain.

  ‘No, that is not possible. Precedence says it must be a Pluke… I suppose I could ask Millicent, although she is a woman.’

  ‘I am sure that tradition and precedent will find that a most acceptable compromise, sir. After all, she is a Pluke, and an eminent one into the bargain,’ said Wayne Wain. ‘Now we must go. I have a police car waiting.’

  Chapter Two

  It was known throughout Crickledale and district, and within police circles, that Montague Pluke possessed very few driving skills. He was able to propel a motor vehicle forwards but was distinctly incapable of guiding it safely in any specific direction. Likewise, he had problems going backwards and his technique was to avoid reversing at any cost; similarly, he had further problems in rapidly halting a moving vehicle when danger threatened. As a consequence, a succession of police driving instructors, charged with the duty of refreshing Pluke’s motoring skills, had politely described his problem as a dangerous and life-threatening lack of co-ordination between brain and limbs.

  His efforts behind the wheel had caused many driving instructors, both civilian and police, to seek premature retirement. In spite of that, he did hold a driving licence which he had acquired in his more spritely days when the roads were not so busy and when they had fewer direction signs, road markings, traffic lights or a real need to make emergency stops. In a gallant attempt to avoid causing injury and terror to members of the public who might be using the roads, and to maintain the good reputation of police drivers, Pluke always made use of an official driver when engaged on official business, and Wayne Wain was ideal. Pluke found pleasure and pride in having the handsome smart-suited fellow at the wheel, the public perception being that Pluke was a personage of some eminence and that Wain was his chauffeur. On this occasion, therefore, Wain drove through Crickledale and into the countryside with P
luke at his side. They were using an official dark green Vauxhall Astra without any police insignia, a CID car equipped with an official radio.

  ‘So, Wayne,’ asked Pluke once he had settled into his seat. ‘This is clearly a matter of some importance. Can you give me a situation report?’

  ‘We are heading for Harman’s Quarry, sir. It lies on the edge of the moor about four miles out of Crickledale on the minor road to Barughdale. It is disused – years ago, it was a limestone quarry but it has never been active since the end of World War II. It was owned by a quarrying company but when the quarry was exhausted, it was purchased by the owner of the nearby farm, a Mr Eric Burholme.’

  ‘Eric Burholme? Are you sure?’ Pluke’s eyebrows registered some astonishment at this news.

  ‘Yes, sir, positive. Do you know him?’

  ‘Know him? He is a most generous benefactor to this town, Wayne, a diligent supporter of many local charities. And he supplied the town with its current complement of shoggling sticks. A very fine man, by all accounts.’

  ‘Well, he is the owner of the quarry where the body was found, sir. He runs a business from Harman’s Farm; he hires agricultural machinery, as I am sure you know. He uses the quarry to store several heavy vehicles like combine harvesters and other large mechanical contraptions when they are not in use. It also houses a number of those rounded bales that all modern farmers seem to wrap in miles of black plastic. Over the years, the floor of the quarry has become covered with grass and campers sometimes make use of it. The old quarry face is now like a small cliff, and although the surrounding fences have been retained, the quarry has been fully integrated into Mr Burholme’s farm. Access by motor vehicle is through the main gate to the farm; once through the gate, the road to the farm forks left and leads into the old quarry.’

  ‘Your local knowledge is impressive, Wayne.’

  ‘I checked some facts before contacting you, sir.’

  ‘And does Mr Burholme know of this untoward development, Wayne?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. He was out when Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield tried to ring him. He wanted to let him know the reason for our impending arrival.’

  ‘He was at the shoggling ceremony, Wayne, but I am sure he will return home in due course. Now, I do have a good knowledge of local footpaths, thanks to my quest for horse troughs, and I can add that there is access to the quarry from the Barughdale road,’ Pluke stated with conviction.

  ‘That’s true, sir.’

  ‘In fact, the whole area is rich with footpaths, Wayne. It’s very good rambling country.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Now it seems that when the quarry was active, there was direct access for vehicles from that road – an unsurfaced track led from the road directly into the quarry. When the quarry ceased to be active, though, Mr Burholme placed a fence across the entrance to effectively close off that means of entry. He incorporated a stile in the fence, however, because the track formed part of a public footpath which leads from the Barughdale to Crickledale road via the quarry to the moors beyond. Today, that path is well signed and in regular use by ramblers. It skirts the southern boundary of the quarry and does not actually enter it. It is one of several public footpaths in that vicinity.’

  ‘And, in your estimation, what is the distance from the Crickledale to Barughdale road to the quarry?’

  ‘Something around a third of a mile, sir. Not far, although you can’t see the quarry from that road.’

  ‘From my own local knowledge, I’d say your estimation was about right, Wayne. And the body. Tell me about that.’

  ‘It is female, sir, about thirty years of age and white-skinned. She was discovered by a hiker who was using the public footpath; he was walking past the quarry and heading for the moors. For some reason, he had diverted slightly from the path and found himself in the quarry. He rang from his mobile phone and was asked to await our arrival; a uniformed constable – PC Singleton, the local village policeman – attended immediately and confirmed there was a dead female body with what appears to be a head injury. The body had apparently been buried in a shallow grave but was fully dressed. PC Singleton secured the scene pending our arrival; the man who found the body has remained with him. I have called out our Scenes of Crime team, a doctor and a forensic pathologist. All are en route – indeed, some may have arrived already but they will not commence their investigation until you have examined the scene and the body.’

  ‘Well done, Wayne. You have acted with your customary professionalism and your local knowledge is impressive. So what else do we know about the body?’

  ‘Not much more at this stage. I have not viewed it. Preliminary accounts from the scene suggest she has not been buried for very long – it might even be a mere matter of hours, sir. There is virtually no decomposition of the body. The grave is new; it is covered with very fresh earth and sods, and it was that which drew the attention of the hiker to it – he noticed the disturbed earth in the old quarry. In fact, it was his dog which began to dig and partially revealed the woman.’

  ‘And the apparent injury?’

  ‘According to the constable who viewed the corpse it looks like a puncture wound. There is not a great deal to be seen and it has not bled a lot, but he says it is in the right temple. Whatever caused the wound appears to have been removed. There is no weapon near the body.’

  ‘A bullet wound, perhaps?’ suggested Pluke. ‘With the missile still deep inside?’

  ‘That’s a possibility, sir. We do not know whether there are injuries to other parts of her body; her lower body and limbs are still covered with earth.’

  ‘Has Singleton any idea who she is? He is the local constable, you say?’

  ‘He is, sir, but he does not know her. He’s never seen her around this area. At this stage, we have no idea who she is.’

  ‘And are any women of her description reported missing?’

  ‘Not in our area, sir. Clearly, we will have to search national records if we can’t identify her as a local person.’

  ‘So there are several puzzles to be solved, Wayne.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And those officers who have already gone to the scene – have they been routed via Harman’s Farm?’

  ‘Yes, they have. I thought it best if they did not park on the Barughdale road. Thanks to PC Singleton, Control was able to explain about that route through the farm complex – as I said earlier, it’s the only way to get into the quarry with a motor vehicle. With Mr Burholme being out, we could not notify him of our intention to enter his land, but will do so the moment he returns.’

  ‘Good. Then, to begin, we shall walk along the footpath, Wayne. I need to view the scene from all angles.’

  Under Pluke’s guidance, Wayne Wain parked the Astra at the side of the Crickledale to Barughdale minor road, taking care to leave the vehicle some distance from the stile. They had no wish to contaminate the area around the stile, just in case the killer had made use of that route. He might have left some evidence of his activities, a footprint perhaps or some other useful clue.

  Once out of the car, Pluke stood on the tarmac road surface for a long time as he studied the route to the quarry, examining the verge around the stile and fence. The fence and stile were fashioned from sturdy wooden rails, the top rail of the fence being adorned with barbed wire.

  Beyond was a meadow with the footpath clearly visible as it meandered through the grass. A large herd of red-brown cows grazed in the meadow which rose slightly as it extended from the road until there was a considerable incline ahead, some of it tree-covered. The disused quarry lay out of sight behind that elevated portion, in a hollow which had been created by years of excavations for limestone. The footpath led past the quarry, circling it to the south and passing through a copse of mixed conifers and deciduous trees before heading west on to the moors.

  Pluke absorbed all this, then said, ‘Very interesting. Now we mustn’t keep the others waiting, Wayne, so can you take the car to the scene? I’
ll walk to the quarry. I will see you there. Ensure that Scenes of Crime examine this footpath, will you, especially the stile and the barbed wire along the top of this fence. There may be relevant fibres clinging to those barbs.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ acknowledged Detective Sergeant Wayne.

  Himself wary of the barbed wire, Pluke was unfazed by the cows whose heads turned to gaze upon him as he prepared to walk among them. As Pluke climbed over the railings some yards from the stile, he noted the profusion of mugwort which grew in the lee of the rails. It was not yet in bloom, and he recalled the ancient verse: ‘If they’d drink nettles in March and mugwort in May, so many fine maidens would not turn to clay.’ But some young maiden – was she a maiden? – had indeed turned to clay. With the cows contentedly watching his progress, Pluke continued through the long grass as he noted the wild flowers of the meadow and listened to the skylarks which sang unseen in the heavens.

  The countryside out here on the edge of the moors was so unspoilt and exhilarating. In time, he reached the summit of the elevated patch of ground where he halted to observe the layout of the quarry. From this vantage point, the footpath could no longer be seen as it snaked its way through the copse of hawthorns, birches and conifers to emerge at the far side of the fenced-in quarry. But on the firm floor of the quarry were several large agricultural vehicles, all covered with green tarpaulins as they awaited the time they would be used, while the distant perimeter was adorned with a row of large round bales all wrapped in black plastic. They had been placed end to end until they looked like a huge black pudding or a string of blackskinned, short, fat and gigantic sausages.

  The quarry entrance was at one end of the row of bales and around it there now stood several vehicles, some bearing police insignia. A few policemen and other officials were standing nearby, awaiting Pluke. Wayne Wain had parked his car and joined them. To Pluke’s right, in a soft area of the floor of the quarry, lay the disturbed grave of the young woman with the top half of her body now revealed. No one waited close to the grave.