Superstitious Death

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘That I cannot say, Mr Pluke. A total stranger. She had hitchhiked into Crickledale, and I do not know from whence she came. She asked if I knew the times and destinations of local buses and when I expressed my ignorance – I do run a new Volvo, you know, I never use buses – she asked for directions to the bus station.’

  ‘What time did she call?’

  ‘Mid-afternoon, Mr Pluke. Three o’clock or thereabouts, I’d say.’

  ‘Where was she going? Did she give any indication?’ He sipped from the glass.

  ‘She spoke very well, Mr Pluke, with hardly a trace of an accent. An educated young woman, I would say. She wanted to know if any buses went to Barrowdale.’

  ‘Barrowdale?’

  ‘That’s what I am sure she said, Mr Pluke, and that’s why I thought the bus station was a good idea. They have printed timetables – the written word is more easily understood by visitors.’

  ‘Can you remember what she was wearing?’ was his next question.

  ‘Yes, I can. Blue jeans, and a white anorak over a pale blue blouse. And she was carrying a small haversack, a black one, over one shoulder.’

  ‘If I showed you a photograph, tomorrow all being well, do you think you could recognise her?’ He drank again, recognising the quality of Mrs Cholmondeley’s superior sherry.

  ‘I will do my best, of course, Mr Pluke. Might I ask, is this an important enquiry?’ She sipped from her glass, her big eyes admiring him as he dominated her lounge.

  Taking his customary care with words, he outlined the discovery at Harman’s Quarry, at which Mrs Cholmondeley sat down open-mouthed but still-tongued as he unfolded the saga of the shallow grave. This would give her something to talk about tomorrow, and he felt she might get out of bed much earlier, in order to do the rounds of her many friends in town, imparting news of a staggering nature. And, he hoped, her efforts might, in return, produce some information of value to him. When he’d finished his account, he took several large mouthfuls of sherry, not quite a series of gulps, but precariously close to them.

  ‘Mr Pluke, what a drama! And you are in charge. My word, Millicent will be proud of you!’

  ‘Until tomorrow, then, Mrs Cholmondeley,’ he smiled. ‘I will call once we have developed our photographs, but I cannot give a specific time. But don’t wait in for me, I will catch you at some stage during the day, probably in the afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid to call late, Mr Pluke. I can always have another nightcap ready for us. I find your company so exhilarating. You are such an interesting man. You don’t have to go just yet, do you? I mean, your life is so full, so packed with matters of great and dramatic moment, and I am dying to know more about your work. I am sure you could make me a very educated and well-informed woman.’

  ‘Sadly, duty calls and I must go, Mrs Cholmondeley,’ and he gulped another huge mouthful of sherry as he rose to his feet. With that gallant effort, he managed to completely empty his capacious glass which he placed on the mantelshelf. ‘You have given me hope!’

  ‘Have I really,’ she oozed, following him to the door.

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ he said, struggling to emit the words while simultaneously tripping over the step as he attempted to leave.

  As he hurried home with his feet persistently interfering with one another, he tried to steer a straight course and did avoid a couple of troublesome lamp standards and a grinning pillar box. But his mind remained alert and it seemed the only discrepancies between Mrs Cholmondeley’s visitor and the girl in the grave were the white anorak and the black haversack. In spite of those minor differences, his keen detective instinct told him this was surely the same young woman.

  He walked home with a bounce in his stride, but fell over his front doorstep and hit his head on the doorbell.

  Chapter Seven

  Responding to the late-night shrilling of the bell, Millicent rushed to the door with just slight apprehension due to the hour; in the glow of the porch light through the frosted glass, she saw the figure of a man. He was leaning against the outside wall beside the door, but the distinctive colouring of his clothing immediately told her it was Montague. Relieved, she unlocked the door to admit him.

  ‘Montague! Are you all right?’

  ‘Yesh, dearesht, I am. I tripped over shomething and shtumbled againsht the bell… I don’t think it ish anything to do with Mishish Cholmondeley’s sherry, merely a momentary lack of conshentrashion on my part. But thank you for your loving conshem.’

  He did appear to be somewhat unsteady on his feet and she helped him over the threshold where his feet performed some strange gyrations before he stomped along the entrance hall. Although his speech was rather different from usual, he was able to stand upright without hanging on to anything. She did not think he was drunk, although he was perhaps just a little tiddly? Unless he was dreadfully tired? He had been working so hard lately. To be frank, Montague was not the sort of man to get himself drunk nor even to indulge in the over-consumption of alcohol – and apart from anything else, he’d not had sufficient time to drink a lot. Unless Mrs Cholmondeley had spiked his drink with something? Something potent and secretive with his seduction in mind? Millicent was aware of the man-eating reputation of Mrs Cholmondeley.

  Oblivious to her concerns, Montague disrobed, smiled charmingly and said, ‘I think a nightcap would be an exshellent idea, dearesht.’

  ‘As you wish, Montague. I think it had better be cocoa.’

  ‘Under the shircumshtancesh, yesh, that will be fine.’

  As she went to prepare the drink, he settled on the settee in his lounge. The room did appear to be revolving ever so slightly but not enough to prevent him considering the information imparted by Mrs Cholmondeley. If her visitor had been the deceased girl, then it seemed she had arrived in the district with some objective or destination in mind. She knew where she wanted to go. The fact that she had asked about buses to Barrowdale might support his belief that she had a particular reason for her journey. On the other hand, it could suggest she was completely lost because there was no Barrowdale in this part of the world; of similar name, there was a Borrowdale near Lake Derwentwater in the Lake District but that was more than a hundred miles away, and no regular buses serviced that route from Crickledale. Surely the girl was not looking for the Lakeland Borrowdale?’

  On the other hand, mused Pluke, the girl’s lack of knowledge of local pronunciations could have disguised the fact she was en route to Barughdale because that was pronounced Barfdale. Barrowdale might be her erroneous way of pronouncing Barughdale. People did make such mistakes. He recalled a Japanese visitor at Heathrow Airport who asked for directions to Turkey and found herself in Torquay, while many English place-names did present difficulties, even to the English. For some odd reason, Londoners pronounced Holborn as Hoeburn and plenty of Yorkshire tourists had problems with Wass, Sleights and Ruswarp. On one occasion, Pluke had tried asking a Yorkshireman the way to Yockenthwaite…

  So far as Barughdale was concerned, however, buses did run twice every weekday from Crickledale, and three times on Saturdays, although he was not sure of the exact times. In contemplating those buses, he could not ignore the fact that Harman’s Farm and the adjacent quarry were situated between Crickledale and Barughdale along Barughdale lane. Precisely upon the bus route in fact. As the girl’s visit had been during the middle of the afternoon, there might not have been any buses; they tended to run at times convenient to office workers and shoppers rather than tourists.

  So had she been hitch-hiking along that road when she’d met her attacker? Or was she walking due to the absence of a convenient bus? Or had she decided to camp overnight in the quarry? But Mrs Cholmondeley did not say the girl had carried anything as large as a tent or sleeping bag. According to Mrs Cholmondeley, she’d carried nothing more than a small haversack. An added factor, of course, was that when seeking help from Mrs Cholmondeley, she had been alone. Mrs Cholmondeley, whose house stood beside the main road out of town, had not ref
erred to the girl having a companion of any kind and this compelled Pluke to think the girl was rather naive, for hitchhiking was not suitable for an attractive young woman on her own.

  ‘Was your visit to Mrs Cholmondeley of any value, Montague?’ Millicent returned to the lounge bearing two mugs of steaming cocoa and a plate of biscuits. The room had ceased to revolve now and he accepted a mug and some biscuits from Millicent, after which she settled on her own chair and smiled at him. ‘She must have been very generous towards you, Montague, you are quite flushed.’

  ‘It wash a mosht fruitful ekshperience,’ he agreed. ‘I am encouraged by the poshibility that Mishish Cholmondeley both shaw and shpoke to the victim. Tomorrow, I shall show her a photograph which might help determine the matter.’

  ‘Do be careful if you drink any more of her sherry, Montague, especially if you have to walk home afterwards. You are not very experienced in the skills of drinking strong liquor…’

  ‘I do not think Mishish Cholmondeley’s sherry ish a danger-oush shubstance or a nokshious fluid, Millishent,’ he said. ‘It ish merely a meansh of oiling the wheelsh of social intercourshe. But if I do call tomorrow, I shall be on duty and in that cashe will not be able to acshept any drink from her. Now,’ he continued, ‘one fearful point hash preshented itself to me.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean you have to go out to work at this time of night, does it? I have already put the hot water bottle in your bed.’

  ‘No, it doesh not mean going out at thish late shtage, but if Mishish Cholmondeley did shee our victim, then she ish probably the lasht pershon to shee her alive. That meansh, Millishent, that I musht treat Mishish Cholmondeley ash a shushpect for murder.’

  ‘Montague, no! Surely not!’

  ‘It’sh a fact and really, I should not have acshepted that sherry, not from a criminal shushpect…’

  ‘Oh, Montague, don’t be silly! You know she is of aristocratic ancestry; she would never kill a young woman or anyone else for that matter. And she does attend the Church of England.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ he mused as the room executed another minor wobble, ‘shomeone at the bush shtashion might have sheen her afterwardsh, that’sh if she called there. Yesh, that ish a poshibility too. Tomorrow, I musht have enquiriesh made at the bush shtashion. If she wash sheen there, it will remove a lot of shushpishion from Mishish Cholmondeley.’

  ‘You do have a lot to think about, Montague.’ Millicent sipped her cocoa as she admired her husband. ‘It is no easy job, being a senior detective.’

  ‘One ish highly trained over many yearsh in order to qualify for high office,’ he assured her as he munched a biscuit. ‘Well, I think it ish time for bed, Millishent. I shall shleep shoundly tonight in the knowledge that my enquiriesh are prosheeding very well indeed.’

  ‘Yes, you must get some sleep, you have a busy day tomorrow.’

  ‘For the poleesh, Millishent, every day ish bishy. There ish no relief from the relentlessh fight againsht crime. Now, ish the housh locked?’

  ‘Yes, dear, you go to bed and I will put out the lights,’ she smiled, wondering what had really transpired between Montague and Mrs Cholmondeley. His face was definitely more ruddy than it had been for a long, long time and he did seem inordinately cheerful. It reminded Millicent of that time Mrs Cholmondeley had cornered that tea salesman — Millicent had arrived just in time to save his reputation.

  *

  Next morning, Tuesday, Montague climbed out of his single bed at the same side he had entered; he had no wish to get out of bed at the wrong side and remain bad-tempered for the whole of the coming day. In so doing, he took care not to slip his right foot into his left slipper or his left foot into his right slipper because that would bring bad fortune. He did not have a headache, so Mrs Cholmondeley’s sherry must have been of the finest quality, and the room was no longer swimming around him. After his blood-free shave, ablutions and vigorous session of teeth cleaning, he went down to breakfast. Millicent had prepared a healthy meal of cereals, toast and honey and, on this occasion, black coffee in case his head was aching after banging it on the doorbell last night.

  But Montague was in fine fettle. He ate his breakfast with enthusiasm, kissed her farewell and cheerfully embarked on his morning walk to the police station. As it was a Tuesday, he had no fears about meeting a left-handed man although he was careful not to sneeze, because to sneeze on a Tuesday meant he might have to kiss a stranger. Today was also the feast day of St Yves, a French saint well known for his interest in forensic expertise and legal knowledge, another good omen in Fluke’s continuing quest for justice.

  As usual, his passage through the town was met with lots of goodwill and greetings to which he responded with his own voluble good mornings, accompanied by added hat raising if the person before him was a lady. One ill-mannered man did lower the tone of things, however, by calling, ‘Saw you sneaking away from Mrs Cholmondeley’s late last night, Mr Pluke, with a happy smile on your face. On form, was she? Did she ask for a look at your truncheon?’ But Montague, being a man of sound principles, responded with, ‘She was helping me with my enquiries,’ at which the man raised his eyebrows and laughed. ‘A likely story, Mr Pluke. A likely story! A good one, though, yes, a very good one.’

  By contrast, one or two people with a more responsible attitude did pass comment about the discovery in the quarry, saying, ‘I see you’ve got a big job on your hands, Mr Pluke,’ or ‘I hope you catch the killer, Mr Pluke,’ or ‘We’re all relying on you, Mr Pluke. This is a safe town, I hope you’re not going to let this develop into a crime wave.’ Through comments of this kind, Detective Inspector Pluke knew that the suspicious death had been featured in the morning papers and on local radio.

  These exchanges also proved that the Crickledonians had great faith in his detecting ability. Full of fresh air and bonhomie, therefore, he arrived at the police station in a good mood with no sign of a headache, crossed the threshold by leading with his right foot and, as usual, paid a visit to the control room where he found Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield in charge.

  ‘Good morning, sergeant,’ greeted Montague Pluke.

  ‘Good morning, sir, not a bad morning by May standards.’

  ‘A very pleasant morning, sergeant. As they say, “A May wet is never kind yet” although another belief goes, “The haddocks are good if they’re dipped in a May flood.” But, weather apart, what has transpired overnight?’

  ‘Overnight? Not a great deal, sir. One incident of car breaking, a radio stolen by smashing the driver’s window. A travelling thief, I think, hardly the sort of thing a Crickledonian would stoop to. That’s all. Already this morning, however, we have been busy, thanks to reports in the newspapers. Several people have rung in with suggested names for the girl in the quarry.’

  ‘Excellent. Are any of them positive leads?’

  ‘I didn’t examine them, I passed the list immediately to the incident room, sir.’

  ‘Good, then I shall proceed to the incident room. You can contact me there if there are any truly dramatic developments.’

  ‘As you wish, sir,’ and Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield returned to his work.

  A quick visit to his own regular office showed there was nothing which demanded Montague’s urgent attention; Mrs Plumpton was quite capable of handling the routine enquiries and dealing with the mail, and so he adjourned to the incident room. Already the Plukedom was humming with activity, many of his detectives having arrived early in order not to miss any developments.

  He found Wayne Wain leaning over a red-haired secretary, deep in conversation about the means by which a virile man can help a shy woman to develop a good singing voice. Montague decided not to interrupt him because the young lady seemed genuinely interested in what Wayne was suggesting, a curious means of clearing the air passages, and in any case, it was not yet nine o’clock, the official starting time for today’s duties. Apart from those considerations, Pluke would inform Wayne of Mrs Cholmondeley’s d
evelopment at the same time as he told the others.

  He busied himself for a few minutes with minor administrative matters and then with a perusal of possible identities for the blonde. A final check of the duty rota showed that everyone was now present. Thirty detectives with their supervisory officers plus the necessary civilian staff had assembled in the incident room and he called for the conference to begin.

  ‘Good morning, all,’ he began, to which they all replied, ‘Good morning, sir,’ in the manner of a class of schoolchildren at morning assembly.

  ‘There has been an important development overnight,’ he told them and outlined what had transpired between Mrs Cholmondeley and the visiting blonde, although he did so without making any reference to the informalities which had transpired between himself and Mrs Cholmondeley.

  An enlarged map of the town and surrounding district was displayed on one of the walls; upon it, he indicated the location of Mrs Cholmondeley’s house in relation to the town, the bus station and the road out to Barughdale. Now it was time to allocate specific duties.

  ‘Detective Inspector Horsley,’ he addressed the officer in charge of the incident room. ‘You need to allocate actions which will enable further in-depth enquiries to be made throughout the town. In particular, I want enquiries at the bus station to see if anyone recalls seeing the blonde woman there on Friday after, say, lunchtime, or even on Saturday morning, asking about bus times, destinations, routes, or even boarding a bus. And I need to know whether anyone saw her hitching a lift or walking along the road to Barughdale around those material times. There must be some regular users of that road. And we shall need enquiries making in Barughdale itself, to see whether anyone in the village was, or is, expecting a visit from a blonde woman. Furthermore, we need to know whether that lady ever arrived in Barughdale. Barughdale is a small village, Mr Horsley, it has a mere two hundred inhabitants, therefore someone should know the answer.’

  ‘Right, sir.’