‘In fact, there was nothing, sir, except a few cattle hairs. They came from the cows in that meadow, the red ones. We compared some from the barbs with samples from one of the animals. Then we checked with Mr Burholme. A cattle dealer called Cooper from Carston rents that field for his herd of Red Polls. We are satisfied the hairs came from those cows and not from a human being or an article of clothing.’
‘Good. Sergeant Wain, make a note to interview that cattle dealer called Cooper from Carston. Establish whether he was anywhere near the quarry during the weekend, and ask if he has ever seen the blonde girl, with or without a partner, during any of his visits.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Wayne Wain.
Pluke was musing now, as he said, ‘Red cows are very important in some pagan cultures, gentlemen. They are the personification of the dawn, some are said to herald clouds and others to herald lightning…’
‘It did thunder on Saturday, sir,’ smiled Wayne Wain. ‘With rain.’
‘It rained around tea-time, sir, I remember one shower around six fifteen, I got caught in it,’ Sergeant Tabler said.
‘Yes, but was there lightning?’ asked Pluke.
No one knew whether there had been lightning during Saturday’s storm but such thoughts were relegated to the back of the detectives’ minds as Tabler continued.
‘We found nothing else, sir. The burial scene was amazingly clean, surprisingly devoid of evidence.’
‘So we all agree the burial was carried out by someone who took immense pains to cover his tracks?’
‘We do,’ said Tabler. ‘Although it was such a shallow grave, it was done with immense care.’
‘But it was close to that public footpath, don’t forget. Placing it there could hardly be regarded as the work of a very careful planner.’
‘If it was done at night, sir, under cover of darkness by a person unfamiliar with the surrounding area, he might not have been aware of that public footpath,’ Wayne Wain said.
‘A very good point, Wayne,’ Pluke had to concede. ‘Yes, a very good point indeed. Well, gentlemen, incorporate your findings in statements and have the details included in our records. Now, Sergeant Tabler, you are going to arrange fingerprints and photographs of the deceased?’
‘Yes, I’ve fixed a time with Mr Meredith. Tomorrow morning at eleven.’
‘Make sure there are plenty of copies available, I shall require some copies for my own use,’ said Pluke. ‘We need sufficient for circulation within our own channels, but in addition, we need some photographs for press purposes, provided she does not look too dead.’
‘I will do my best, sir.’
‘Well, gentlemen,’ smiled Pluke. ‘Thanks for your efforts. This is an interesting case.’
And with that, they left his office; Wayne Wain remained behind.
‘So, Wayne, what do you make of what you have heard?’
‘I am beginning to wonder if the girl camped in the quarry on Saturday night, accompanied by the man who killed her. I think the killer was a man due to the strength required to make the wound and to manhandle the dead body into the grave. The killer could have used a tent peg, hammering it in with a mallet…’
‘I doubt if she would lie still long enough for that to happen, Wayne!’ commented Pluke. ‘And besides, tent pegs are not usually covered with black paint.’
‘There’s always a first time, sir, like someone using one to stir a pot of paint and then taking it on a camping expedition…’
‘True, true. But I think you will agree that she was not carried over that barbed-wire-topped fence, dead or alive?’
‘Yes, I would go along with that.’
‘So either she was camping in the quarry on Saturday night, died there and was buried on the spot as you suggest, or she was killed elsewhere and brought to the quarry after death, probably in a motor vehicle. Burholme says he heard a vehicle moving about somewhere nearby late on Saturday night but there is no evidence it actually entered the quarry. If she was not carried across the field and through that herd of red cows, she must have come by motor vehicle, which in turn means she arrived through Burholme’s farm, along his roads. If we can trace the vehicle responsible, it will have to be forensically examined.’
‘There is no way of proving a particular vehicle used the farm tracks, is there, sir? We can’t identify tyre marks on those farm roads, they’ve got tarmac surfaces. And there are no tyre marks in the quarry.’
‘Precisely, Wayne. Another example of the surprising lack of evidence in this case. So, you are going to arrange an interview of that cattle dealer called Cooper from Carston, while I examine the information already on file. I need to think carefully about this case, Wayne. It is more complex than at first appears.’
‘Because of the mirror in the grave, you mean?’
There was just a hint of sarcasm in Wayne’s voice, but Pluke silenced him by remarking, ‘That is exactly what I mean, Wayne.’
*
Afterwards, a trickle of detectives began returning to the Plukedom to file their reports in readiness for booking off duty at nine o’clock. They came also for the final conference of the day which would be around eighty forty-five followed by another in the morning before they embarked on tomorrow’s investigations. Much of this paperwork was a necessary chore. It involved filing statements once they had been typed so that teams of statement readers could plough through them and abstract factual details for entry into the computer system. Facts like names, descriptions of motor vehicles, descriptions of suspects, days of the week and a host of other non-contentious data would be entered so that they could be retrieved quickly and processed by computer instead of relying on fallible human memory.
At eight forty-five, therefore, Pluke gathered everyone for his final address of the day. Quite deliberately, he added little to his earlier statements, although he did confirm that photographs of the deceased would be ready for distribution tomorrow, along with her fingerprints. Satisfied that he had done a good day’s work, he bade them goodnight. A small contingent invited him to join them for a drink before going home but he declined, as always excusing himself on the grounds that he was not a lover of alcohol – neither did he believe that senior officers should socialise with their subordinates.
Apart from any other consideration, Millicent would have his supper ready; upon leaving her so abruptly at the shoggling ceremony that morning, he’d anticipated a late session, and said she could expect him home at half-past nine.
Promptly at nine-thirty, therefore, Montague Pluke walked through the back door of his modest home right foot first, wiped his feet on the mat and shouted, ‘I’m home, dearest.’ As he went to hang his commodious coat upon its hook, deposit his hat on the window ledge of the hall and take his jacket upstairs to the wardrobe, Millicent called, ‘Well done, Montague, reliable as always…’ and went to take his meal from the oven. Upstairs, he hung his jacket in the wardrobe, went to the bathroom, washed his hands and face, combed his hair and returned to the dining-room where his meal was on the table, a hot and steaming casserole of flavoured beef and vegetables. It was one of Millicent’s specialities and one of Montague’s favourites after a hard day of detecting crime. He settled on his chair, tucked his serviette into his collar above the blue bow tie, lifted his knife and fork and said, ‘Thank you, Millicent, for being so patient with me in the trials of a detective’s life. I was so sorry I had to rush off this morning and burden you so unexpectedly with the shoggling finale.’
‘I enjoyed it, Montague, truly I did.’ She smiled at him from behind her heavy spectacles, a grey-haired lady of modest appearance. ‘It made me realise how well you cope with some of the pressures of your life, the responsibilities you carry and the high demands that are placed upon you.’
‘Being in charge of the shoggling arrangements is a heavy responsibility,’ he agreed. ‘There are times I wonder how the town will cope when I am no more, and you are no longer at my side. I dread the time when there are no more Plu
kes in Crickledale.’
‘Maybe a distant cousin will appear, Montague. There must be some other Plukes in the world apart from us.’
‘I am sure there are,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps there are distinguished branches of our illustrious family that I do not know about? Some African cousins, maybe? Or Canadian settlers with genuine Pluke ancestory? But we must not be gloomy, there are years of service left in you and me. Between us, we will cope with everything that life throws at us.’
‘So how was the rest of your day?’ She was clearly pleased he was enjoying his meal; it seemed he was extremely hungry.
‘There are certain advantages to my job, particularly when I am away from the confines of my office,’ he assured her. ‘I found a wonderful horse trough,’ and he told her about the splendid and unusual triple example he’d found at Brian Preston’s farm, saying it warranted further examination and exploration with due emphasis upon the source of the never-ending water supply. ‘But,’ he added with caution, ‘I must not make any such approach until I have eliminated him from my current enquiry. One cannot appear to be showing friendship to a criminal suspect.’
‘A criminal suspect, Montague? Oh, of course, you were called to a suspicious death, weren’t you? Is it serious, Montague?’
Normally, Montague Pluke never discussed with anyone outside the office the finer or more confidential aspects of his work. Not even Millicent, his utterly faithful spouse, was privy to his workaday secrets. But ever since the omens of death which had surrounded the bathtime saga at the Druids’ Circle, he felt that Millicent, through her contacts within every stratum of Crickledale society, might from time to time have something to offer in the way of assistance with his enquiries. Not that he would interview her in any kind of formal manner, rather would he listen to what she had to say after her day mixing with the town’s most prominent ladies. For this reason, he felt he could tell her just a little about the events in Harman’s Quarry.
‘I was called to Harman’s Quarry,’ he told her. ‘That’s along the Barughdale road. A body was found upon land within a farm owned by a businessman called Burholme. Eric Burholme.’
‘Eric Burholme? How odd,’ she exclaimed. ‘Especially with today being the feast day of St Eric!’
‘By Jove, so it is!’ He expressed surprise that he had not appreciated the significance of that small fact. ‘He is an Eric and our shoggling ceremony is always on the feast of St Eric! What an odd coincidence.’
‘He is such a kind man, that Mr Burholme,’ enthused Millicent. ‘Generous to a fault. He provided wonderful support to the Town Hall Entertainment Fund and to lots of other local causes. People say he is rather old-fashioned, Montague, a bit straitlaced in some ways, according to one or two of my friends.’
‘Old-fashioned, Millicent?’
‘Well, honourable is perhaps the better word, Montague. He is very proper in his conduct; he always maintains a discreet distance from the ladies, you know, he never gets familiar, never takes advantage of anyone…’
‘He did love his wife dearly, you know. He thought a lot of her…’ A fleeting memory of her burial came to him, but he could not recall the precise circumstances of her funeral, except that it was somehow different. If it was at this time of year, of course, he’d have been extremely busy with arrangements for the shoggling ceremony – and fifteen years ago, it was the very first of the current series. With such demands on his intellect and time, it was not surprising he could not recall the details of Mrs Burholme’s funeral.
But Millicent was talking. ‘So what was the body, Montague? Are you engaged in a major murder investigation? If so, my friends will be so impressed.’
‘I am engaged upon a very difficult enquiry featuring a very suspicious death,’ he explained. ‘But you must not inform your friends of any of the confidential details that I might impart during our conversations…’
‘Of course not, Montague, you know I would never dream of betraying a confidence.’
He decided he could relate to her the facts as given in the news release and accordingly provided Millicent with a fairly brief but factual account of the day’s activities, including a description of the dead girl. She listened intently and when he had concluded with a statement of his intention to have the girl identified, she said, ‘Montague, that is very odd, very odd indeed. You know Mrs Cholmondeley’s bay tree died for no accountable reason?’
‘I am very aware of that fact, Millicent,’ he said. ‘A sad occurrence by any standards – as you know, it is said to herald a death, either of a royal person or someone within the household in whose grounds it grows, or of course some other person unknown who might have associations with the tree or its owner. Bay trees were planted to protect the household against lightning, you know, that is why they were regarded as very important assets.’ And then he remembered the Red Poll cows along Barughdale lane. They heralded lightning. So had Mrs Cholmondeley’s bay tree been struck by lightning? Surely, that was impossible…
‘That’s just what Mrs Cholmondeley said when I had a cup of tea with her following the shoggling ceremony, and she wondered who it might be. She has no family, you see, her husband died five years ago and there were no children.’
‘Perhaps it was the omen associated with the quarry girl’s death,’ commented Pluke as he chewed a piece of gristle.
‘Well, that is why I think it is most odd,’ said Millicent. ‘When Mrs Cholmondeley was telling me about the tree, she said she’d had a young woman in the garden, a stranger wanting to know local bus times. She had seen Mrs Cholmondeley watering her borders and had come into the garden to ask about buses. The girl commented on that bay tree, in fact she stroked its trunk and said it didn’t look very healthy…’
‘When was this?’ asked Pluke.
‘Friday,’ said Millicent. ‘Friday afternoon. The girl had come to Crickledale by hitch-hiking and was wanting to know the bus routes and times in case she did not get a further lift. She asked Mrs Cholmondeley the way to the bus station, or if she knew local bus times.’
‘Where was she going, that girl?’ Montague Pluke was so excited that his fork wobbled and he dribbled some gravy down his serviette.
‘Oh, I have no idea, Montague, you’d have to ask Mrs Cholmondeley. She said the girl spoke very nicely and was most pleasant; she was blonde and quite a big girl, in her late twenties or early thirties, according to Mrs Cholmondeley.
‘This could be our victim!’ cried Pluke, coughing on a piece of potato. ‘Even though I am off duty, I must speak to Mrs Cholmondeley without delay.’
‘At this time of night, Montague? Do wait until you have finished your meal, dear,’ advised Millicent, and Pluke decided his enquiries could wait just a few minutes longer. ‘And whatever you do, don’t invite Mrs Cholmondeley to the house. Once she gets into a house, she’ll never leave until she’s drunk all the sherry.’
‘Then perhaps a telephone call to open our discussions?’ suggested Pluke, and Millicent thought it was a fairly good idea. At least she would not have to find sufficient sherry to accommodate Mrs Cholmondeley’s drinking habits.
‘On second thoughts,’ said Montague, ‘I might visit her at her home.’
‘Make sure she doesn’t get you tiddly, Montague,’ said Millicent. ‘I know it is getting late, but she will be in, she always watches Nexus at Ten with a nightcap.’
‘I think I can justifiably interrupt her news viewing on a matter of such importance,’ beamed Montague, cleaning his plate and wondering what there was for afters.
When he knocked on Mrs Cholmondeley’s door with her highly polished brass knocker in the shape of an eagle’s head, she called through the letter box, ‘Who’s there?’ and when he identified himself, she admitted him. She was a substantial lady of sixty-five years at least, with a head of iron grey hair tied back in a bun, and thick, horn-rimmed spectacles perched on a rather large red nose. She always wore dark clothes, spacious dresses and cardigans which tended to disguise her height, width
and depth. She was probably six feet tall, he reckoned. He wondered if she’d been a shot putter at some stage of her life.
‘Oh, Mr Pluke, what a surprise, and at this time of night too… I was all locked up and almost ready for bed, just watching Nexus at Ten with my nightcap. Will you join me in a nightcap? It is very seldom I get gentleman callers so late in the evening, so very seldom indeed…’
Because it was possible that a large sherry might persuade her to provide him with the information he sought, he decided a nightcap would be in order for him too, particularly as he was not on duty. He did not think it would impede his line of enquiry; rather, it might enhance it.
‘A sherry would be very acceptable…’ he began. ‘A dry one.’
‘Large of course, Mr Pluke. One must not be too abstemious on such occasions… Now, what can I do for you at this time of night?’
There is little doubt that his unexpected arrival had generated some excitement deep within Mrs Cholmondeley and that she was very curious about his motives. The papers had warned attractive women about opening their doors to strangers but Mr Pluke was no stranger. After all, he was Montague Pluke, a middle-aged man of distinction in the community, and hardly the sort to take advantage of a lonely woman, whatever her attractions. But, being a woman, she knew that still waters ran deep. Very deep in some cases. Was there just a hint of passion in the deep and meaningful Montague Pluke?
‘Millicent said you had a caller at the house on Friday,’ he began as she led him into her lounge. ‘A young woman, a blonde.’
‘Indeed I did, Mr Pluke. A very handsome young woman too, if I may say so.’
She poured him a huge glass of sherry, more of a tumblerful than a small schooner.
‘Who was she?’ he asked, noting that his line of questioning had stemmed the flow from her tongue while she helped herself from the same bottle.
Superstitious Death Page 9
