Superstitious Death

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘That is a very distinct possibility, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘It is a starter theory,’ Pluke smiled. ‘I think it is good enough for me to launch a murder-type enquiry and set up an incident room.’

  ‘I would think so, but I need to examine that wound in laboratory conditions. It is a most peculiar wound, Mr Pluke, and we must not lose sight of the fact that it could be accidental. It doesn’t look like a bullet wound to me.’

  ‘And it cannot be self-inflicted,’ suggested Pluke. ‘The instrument is not here, not with the body.’

  ‘I agree with that. Now, let’s consider her clothing. Blue denim jeans, white trainer shoes, white socks, a pale blue blouse with short sleeves. Inexpensive, I’d say, mass market stuff, not designer clothing. Once she’s undressed, I can give you the manufacturers’ names so you can check the retail outlets. No jewellery around her neck, no ear-rings, no spectacles, but there is a watch on her left wrist…’ and he lifted that arm from its resting place. As he did so, the earth around it fell away and revealed a small pink plastic-framed hand mirror, the sort a young girl might use in her bedroom. It had been lying close to the fingers of her left hand.

  ‘A watch,’ continued Meredith, ‘still functioning, a Timex – inexpensive, I would say, in keeping with her clothing – plastic strap. And this mirror. Pink plastic frame and handle, round glass about three inches in diameter, cheaply manufactured… Would you think the mirror is relevant, Mr Pluke, or has it been lost by a child on a picnic here and got mixed up in the earth which was eventually used to fill the grave?’

  ‘It could be very relevant,’ said Pluke with due solemnity. ‘It must be retained.’

  ‘Really? What do you think is its relevance? People do have picnics here, don’t they? Someone could have lost it. This quarry is beside a popular public footpath.’

  ‘People rambling and hiking do pass by this way on a regular basis,’ admitted Pluke. ‘I believe the route is one of the most popular in this area and I am sure some will enjoy picnics among those trees, or even down here in the quarry, or at least around the edge of the quarry.’

  ‘Quite, so we should not attach too much importance to that mirror. I do not want it to deflect us or mislead us in our enquiries. We could waste hours examining the mirror and trying to discover its source when it may have no relevance whatsoever. It might have been lost by a camper.’

  ‘It was found beside the body, Mr Meredith, and as the investigating officer I consider that to be of some importance. Perhaps you know that in some cultures, even today, it is customary to place objects in the grave, objects which might be useful in one’s long and uncertain journey to the Hereafter.’

  ‘I don’t think that is done in any civilised society, Mr Pluke. But a mirror? Why would a mirror be relevant? This is England, remember, not a primitive country where logical things like food, tools and travel requirements are buried with the dead for their journeys into eternity! And I would venture to suggest that this girl is English – her clothing, her watch and her general appearance would suggest that.’

  ‘Nothing is impossible, Mr Meredith – but even if she is English, her killer might not be. Furthermore, the person who buried her might not be English either – the killer might have had an accomplice, and either of them could be foreign. That is why the mirror is relevant, even in England.’

  ‘I will note what you say, Mr Pluke. The presence of the mirror will be recorded. Now, have we anything else down here?’

  Before asking for assistance in lifting the body from the grave, he removed the loose earth which had fallen down around it, commenting, ‘This is a very shallow grave, Mr Pluke, because the ground below the body is solid rock. Chummy would not have known that when he started to dig. There is every possibility he wanted a deeper grave but circumstances appear to have defeated him. You’ll also note that it is a well-dug grave; it has been cleanly cut with a spade, not scraped out of the earth with stones or even bare hands. Note the clean cuts – and it was cut to the correct size as well. I’d say this grave was well planned and executed, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘I would agree with that, Mr Meredith,’ acknowledged Pluke.

  ‘I will examine her clothing in more detail when I get her to the lab but I do note it is damp,’ continued Meredith. ‘And I will make a closer examination of her injury, internal as well as external. It might have occurred after death, although the presence of blood would indicate otherwise. She might have been exposed to rain around the time of death too, the damp clothing and spread of blood around the wound suggest that. The good state of preservation of the body means she has not been dead very long and has not been buried very long. A very interesting case.’

  Pluke said, ‘I heed what you say, but in addition, I would like you to note the orientation of the grave, Mr Meredith. East to west. The head is towards the west, the feet towards the east.’

  ‘Is that significant as well?’ asked Meredith, who had not regarded the position of the grave as having any particular relevance.

  ‘That, the presence of the mirror and the careful digging of the grave combine to make me believe the grave was intended to be permanent,’ said Pluke. ‘The person who buried her did not believe she would be discovered. It has long been the practice in many cultures to orientate graves on an east to west axis. I believe the person who dug this grave exercised some thought in its preparation with a degree of permanence in mind, although I was initially puzzled by the fact it is so shallow. That question has now been answered – it has a base of solid rock – but its position so close to a busy footpath means it could be very easily discovered. I fear there are some contradictions here, Mr Meredith.’

  ‘Well, you are the investigating officer. But could the orientation of the grave have happened by pure chance, Mr Pluke?’

  ‘In the investigation of a murder, Mr Meredith, nothing can be assumed to be the outcome of pure chance. Not even cheap plastic-framed mirrors.’

  ‘Touché!’ grinned the pathologist. ‘Now I must remove her from the grave – I need to turn her over to see if there are any other wounds, a bullet in her back perhaps, or a knife wound. Your men can help me, can they?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pluke. ‘You’ll carry her feet first from the grave? All corpses should be carried feet first.’

  ‘I do know your little quirks, Detective Inspector Pluke,’ beamed Meredith. ‘And I can see no reason to contradict your wishes. So, yes, feet first as always.’

  Pluke then called PC Singleton and Wayne Wain to render the necessary assistance. The victim was lifted carefully from her grave and placed face down on a large plastic sheet produced from the pathologist’s case. After a careful examination, albeit without removing any of her clothes, he concluded there were no further wounds on her body and there was no other helpful evidence in the earth which had contained her. Meredith then made a cursory search of the pockets of her jeans but found only a small white handkerchief. There was nothing which would identify her, no wallet, diary, or other written matter.

  ‘She has very few personal belongings, Mr Pluke, which does not surprise me. The killer has done his best to remove identifiable items, I suggest. I think we can remove her to my laboratory now,’ said Meredith. ‘The coroner has been informed, I presume? And have we the necessary transport?’

  ‘Yes,’ said PC Singleton. ‘I have notified the coroner and he ordered a post-mortem. The shell has arrived too, Mr Meredith. PC Browning is the driver, he’ll act as coroner’s officer.’

  The brown plastic coffin-shaped receptacle known as the shell was brought from an unmarked blue van and the remains of the once beautiful girl were placed inside, along with the plastic mirror and the samples of soil secured by Meredith.

  ‘One thing, Mr Meredith,’ Pluke hailed him. ‘Would you care to state whether or not she was killed here? In your opinion, is this the scene of her death or did she die elsewhere before being brought here for burial? And am I right in thinking her death was comparatively recent?’r />
  ‘I cannot be adamant about any of that, Mr Pluke, but my first impression is that there is nothing to indicate she died here. And I think she died within the past forty-eight hours, perhaps less. Sometime on Saturday, early evening at a guess.’

  ‘I tend to agree. Now, you will note that this quarry is used for a variety of purposes and by a variety of people,’ Pluke pointed out. ‘Many people know of it, campers, local lovers, litter louts and the like – and you can see that a number of agricultural machines are stored here.’

  ‘Are they also relevant, Mr Pluke?’

  ‘There could be a link, Mr Meredith. For example, I must consider that a component part of one of the machines might have caused that injury – a bolt, spindle, something of that kind.’

  ‘You’re thinking of some kind of accident followed by an attempted cover-up, are you?’

  ‘It is one of the options I shall be bearing in mind, Mr Meredith.’

  ‘I have no doubt you will closely examine all such machinery to see if a part is missing. If you discover anything of relevance, give me a call. I can check to see whether the wound is the same shape and size as whatever part you find, and of course there might be identifiable deposits in the wound. Meanwhile, I shall be carrying out the post-mortem. The sooner the better.’

  Minutes later, the blue van, driven by PC Browning of Crickledale, left the scene cn route to the pathologist’s laboratory. Meredith followed in his Rover as Pluke turned to PC Singleton and said, ‘PC Singleton, Scenes of Crime and the Task Force will now carry out their detailed examination of the scene and fingertip search of the surrounding area. As you know, they will be seeking the murder weapon and the tool used to dig the grave. I shall ask them to examine those machines too. Can you remain here to secure the site against anyone who might try to enter – press, photographers, hikers?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now, Detective Sergeant Wain, we shall talk to Mr Eric Burholme, a preliminary interview at this stage. And our officers will have to examine his heavy machinery, every piece of it, to see if a component part could have caused that odd wound.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Wayne Wain was looking forward to this investigation. A successful outcome, crowned by the arrest of the killer, would enhance his chances of promotion for surely old Pluke was heading for his pension? Soon, there must be a vacancy for a young, energetic, modernised and successful detective inspector.

  As they walked towards the farm buildings, Wain warmed to his task while Detective Inspector Pluke glanced around. The complex was an amazing place, extremely tidy and well maintained but full of colourful decorations and large bold advertisements. Huge lengths of pale blue plastic sheeting with yellow lettering advertising ‘Harman’s Agricultural’ adorned the outer walls of some buildings. Fluttering in the moorland breeze, a large blue flag with a similar message flew from a flagpost at one end of the big house. It was complemented at the other end by a huge weather-vane comprising a golden-headed cockerel perched above a slender arrow which in turn was above the letters which indicated the four points of the compass. The body of the cockerel was painted light blue; the beautiful vane was in excellent condition considering its exposed position. In fact, the entire farm was immaculately maintained with fresh paint on the doors and windows, and not a speck of rubbish in sight.

  The weather-vane, Pluke noted, indicated that the wind, more powerful up here than in the valley, was still blowing from the west. The displays of plastic sheeting and the flag were fluttering noisily, making a sound rather like that of a yacht at sea. Before them was the massive farmhouse; this also had a sign outside, a wooden one above the door saying ‘Harman’s Farm’ in yellow letters on a clean blue background. An array of stone buildings surrounded the house, like a clutch of chicks around a mother hen, and they provided a degree of shelter from the fierce moorland weather.

  ‘A likely place for interesting horse troughs, Wayne!’ said Pluke with enthusiasm as he strode towards the front door.

  ‘Some of these places have been modernised, sir, and all unwanted artefacts removed.’

  ‘Some, but not all, Wayne. Many old farms of this kind, with the original buildings still intact, are the perfect sites for unadulterated horse troughs. There’s none of your modem metal or plastic monstrosities in these places – good old stone troughs serviced by spring water which never ceases to flow.’

  ‘Sir, this is a murder-type investigation. We have rather more serious things to concern us just now.’

  ‘But even murder enquiries are ephemeral, Wayne. Stone horse troughs are not. Now, when we interview Mr Burholme, we will not suggest, at this early stage, that we suspect a piece from any of his machines could be responsible for the girl’s injuries. If it’s flown off a machine at high velocity, we don’t want him looking for it, finding it and getting rid of it when we’ve gone!’

  ‘But he will know eventually because we shall have to examine every one of them,’ Wayne stressed.

  ‘Indeed we shall and we shall also have to search his farm for the tools used to dig the grave. I think you will agree that a person could walk from the quarry and help himself, or herself, to a spade or pick-axe from these buildings without anyone knowing. The doors appear to be left permanently open – they’re open now. Few farmers lock away all their tools or even keep them under cover, but this is an exceptionally tidy place.’

  As they crossed the neat forecourt towards the house, Mr Burholme emerged from the front door. Framed in the opening, he appeared to be exceptionally tall and upright with a splendid head of pure white hair and a very fresh, pink complexion. His slender body was casually dressed in a patterned green shirt and light slacks. He appeared to be in prime condition for he walked without the aid of a stick and without any sign of a stoop. He could be in his late sixties, Pluke guessed, a fine specimen of manhood and living confirmation of the ancient belief that a luxuriant head of hair was an indication of life and vigour.

  ‘Ah, Mr Pluke. They have sent you!’ His crisp well-spoken voice held just a trace of a North Yorkshire accent.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Burholme. Yes indeed, I am the investigating officer and this is my deputy and my assistant, Detective Sergeant Wain.’

  ‘So the call of duty dragged you away from the shoggling ceremony, Mr Pluke. A shock for us all, but how can I help?’ and Burholme extended his hand in a gesture of warmth and hospitality. Pluke and Wain shook his hand, each noticing a very strong, dry grip.

  ‘May we come inside?’ suggested Pluke.

  ‘By all means, how discourteous of me,’ and Burholme turned and led the way towards his kitchen. Inside, it was spacious and light with a tiled floor and oak-panelled walls; a large table on which lay a plate, cup and eating utensils dominated the centre of the room while a wood-burning Aga worked ceaselessly in the background, casting its heat about the entire house. A kettle was singing on one of the hot plates, its lid bubbling up and down as steam puffed into the room. The place was immaculately clean, with every kitchen utensil in place and no dirty pots in the sink, although Pluke did notice the absence of fresh flowers. The woman’s touch was missing.

  ‘I trust we are not interrupting your lunch or your family meal?’ Pluke indicated the used plate.

  ‘Not at all, I have just had lunch. I live alone in this great barn of a place. I have seven bedrooms, one for every day of the week,’ he smiled. ‘But can I offer you a drink of something? Tea, coffee? Wine? Fruit juice?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Pluke even before Wain could express his delight at the prospect of a cup of coffee. It seemed they would not get any lunch today: when interviewing suspects, Pluke regarded offers of food and drink as potential bribes and rejected every one.

  ‘As you wish, Mr Pluke,’ and Pluke then noticed the intensity of the cool blue eyes of this handsome farmer.

  ‘We shall not detain you long, Mr Burholme,’ continued Pluke. ‘Now, I know you are aware of our activity in the quarry – your quarry, I believe?’


  ‘Yes, PC Singleton explained. He said a body had been found by a hiker, buried in my quarry.’

  ‘It is the remains of a young woman.’ Pluke exercised considerable care in presenting the information, conscious of the fact that this man was his second suspect until he had been eliminated. ‘She had suffered a head injury and was buried in your quarry, not far from the public footpath. The body has now been removed for a post-mortem to be conducted, and my officers are undertaking a careful search of the quarry and surrounding area. We have to search for a potential murder weapon and any other material evidence.’

  ‘You are saying she was murdered?’ A frown appeared on Burholme’s face.

  ‘That is a distinct possibility, but it has not yet been determined,’ Pluke said. ‘But I must be frank and say that this has all the hallmarks of a suspicious death. We are treating it as murder until the contrary is proved. That means we must question you, Mr Burholme, about your movements, about people you might have seen on the farm or in the quarry, whether or not the girl is known to you…’

  ‘Of course, I understand perfectly, inspector. Please feel free – I wish to help all I can. Do sit down.’

  Pluke and Wain each eased a dining-chair from beneath the table find settled upon them, with Pluke beginning the questioning.

  ‘Your full name, sir, to begin with?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Eric Burholme, just Eric, and this is Harman’s Farm, as I am sure you realise from the displays outside. The postal address is Barughdale, as I am sure you know. I am a widower – my dear wife died fifteen years ago this very week, and I have no children. An old war injury, you understand. As I said, I am alone in this huge place, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘You still work, though?’

  ‘I need to keep myself fully occupied. But you think I am too old to work?’ He smiled at the detectives, those bright blue eyes laughing with pleasure. ‘I am eighty years of age…’

  ‘Eighty?’ Pluke expressed genuine surprise. Burholme could have passed easily for someone ten or even twenty years younger.