Superstitious Death

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘And while we are discussing the allocation of actions, I require a couple of teams to revisit Harman’s Farm because we are still seeking grave-digging tools which may have been concealed afterwards. Those farm buildings are an ideal hiding place and some discreet further examination of Burholme’s machines might not be amiss, bearing in mind the marks on the girl’s body and clothing. It might be wise to recruit the further services of the Task Force – Inspector Newton, who is sitting at the back of the room to the right, will give every assistance, I am sure. Now, I shall personally interview Mr Burholme in depth at a later stage, so you need not worry about that action just yet. I have operational reasons for delaying that interview, reasons I shall not divulge at this stage of the enquiry. Next, Detective Sergeant Wain?’

  ‘Sir?’ responded Wayne Wain.

  ‘You are keen to consult that cattle dealer called Cooper from Carston, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then that is your next task. When doing so, consider that the deceased might have been walking past, or even through, the field which contains his cows. Was he around at the time? If so, did he notice her? Where was she heading? Was she alone? Cycling? Carrying anything? Where are her haversack and her anorak?’

  ‘She might have come to Crickledale particularly to visit Harman’s Farm, sir,’ suggested Wayne Wain.

  ‘I cannot see her wishing to hire any of his machines, Wayne, and Eric Burholme says he has never seen the woman and does not know her,’ countered Pluke. ‘Of course, he has based that assertion upon our description of her rather than a photograph or any personal inspection of the body. I do intend to show him a photograph when one is available.’

  ‘He would deny knowing her if he had something to hide, sir, so can we believe him? He might still deny knowing the girl even if shown a photograph. I accept he might not know her personally, but she might have sought shelter in his barns and, well, to be blunt, he might have tried his hand with her.’

  ‘He is eighty, Wayne!’ Montague sounded appalled and slightly embarrassed by Wayne’s suggestion.

  ‘So what does that prove, sir? He’s a fit old devil, by the look of things. I bet he hasn’t lost the urge. I hope I’m as fit when I’m his age – but I do keep in practice, sir, one has to. Use it or lose it, that’s my motto.’

  ‘There is a considerable age gap between you and Mr Burholme, Wayne, but quite clearly, in view of what you say, Mr Burholme is in the frame, as we tend to phrase it. Nonetheless, I need a little more evidence, or lack of it from other places, before I present him with any indication that he is a prime suspect. You could be right. She might have been heading for Harman’s Farm for one of several reasons or she might have come across the farm by chance and made use of its available facilities to shelter in a storm. But if she was deliberately making for the farm, why would she be going there? She does not seem the sort of woman to want to hire a forage harvester or anything else, especially not all the way from wherever she has come. And why would Mr Burholme deny knowing her? Only he can answer that – but let’s keep him dangling on our hook for a little while longer. I would like Mr Burholme to think we are interested in his buildings as possible hiding places, rather than being interested in him. I will elaborate on that statement later,’ Pluke said with an air of mystery. ‘Now, to return to Detective Inspector Horsley. Mr Horsley, we need to interview the finder of the body, Mr Wardle, and we need to do so in considerable depth for the usual elimination purposes. Check his background, will you?’

  ‘Yes, no problem.’

  ‘And don’t ignore his sexual proclivities, his movements immediately prior to finding the grave – you know what to look for.’

  ‘Of course, Montague.’

  ‘Then we need full house-to-house enquiries in and around Crickledale, especially along the various routes the girl might have used. I shall be visiting Mrs Cholmondeley later in the day when photographs of the deceased are available, and if she confirms her identity, then we need to find the girl’s missing white anorak and black haversack. Sergeant Tabler?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Photographs and fingerprints. What time can we expect them?’

  ‘Lunchtime at the latest, sir.’

  ‘Officers on house-to-house enquiries will benefit from a photo and perhaps an artist’s impression which includes a white anorak and black haversack. But that might come later. There is another task for someone, Mr Horsley – tent pegs and tent poles. Can we obtain a sample of every type of tent peg and tent pole in an effort to establish that one of them could have caused the wound in the girl’s temple?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Horsley, making rapid notes of all the specific enquiries being demanded by Pluke.

  ‘And,’ continued Detective Inspector Pluke, ‘we need to establish whether anyone in this part of the world possesses a crossbow. To my knowledge, there have been five murders with crossbows in this country in recent years. I know there are restrictions on their purchase but do ask at the sports suppliers. If there are crossbows in use in this district, then someone somewhere will supply their owners with bolts and spare parts. We need to trace any crossbow users and establish their movements on Friday and Saturday, and we might have to confiscate a bolt or two for forensic comparison. And finally, the press has published some details of this case, so the public is aware of what we are doing.’

  Pluke paused to allow Horsley to complete his scribbling and for his officers to digest his comments, then he flourished the list of possible victims he had received from the public.

  ‘This is a list of girls fitting the description of the deceased,’ he told them. ‘Local girls mainly. In all these cases, the girls have either gone missing from home or have not been seen in their usual haunts during the past few weeks. There are seven names here. One is of particular interest – a Dutch girl called Marijka de Jong, 5’6”, blonde and about twenty-five years old. She came to Crickledale as an au pair and left without warning a week ago. The name of her employer is here – he has not heard from her since, although he has contacted the agency which supplied her, to acquaint them with her absence. Mr Horsley, can we put a team on to checking all these girls? Get photos of them if possible, for comparison with the deceased.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, first, are there any comments, observations or inputs from the floor?’ asked Pluke. ‘It is early days of course, and I do not expect much to have been gleaned from the few enquiries that were possible last night.’

  ‘Just one, sir,’ said a detective constable. ‘I was making enquiries about Mr Burholme’s list of customers, sir, and I discovered one with a secret girlfriend, a big blonde. His name is Hebden, from Pasture House Farm on the outskirts of the town.’

  ‘Do we know anything about this man Hebden?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘Not a lot at this stage, sir, except that he is known as a Romeo, he’s wealthy, travels a lot to agricultural shows, gymkhanas and the like, leaving his wife at home to look after the farm. Whenever he’s away from home, he usually has a blonde in tow.’

  ‘Right, a good suspect to work on. Check him out, will you? And you are?’

  ‘Detective Constable Brett, sir.’

  ‘I’ll leave that in your hands, DC Brett,’ said Pluke. ‘Now, any more comments or queries?’

  There were none, so Pluke dismissed his officers to go about their duties, and turned his attention to Inspector Russell and this morning’s news conference. Pluke had little to add to last night’s news release, other than the possibility that the deceased had been seen in Crickledale on Friday. That would be his theme for this morning’s news conference and he hoped it would be supported by Mrs Cholmondeley when he called to see her later.

  As promised, Detective Sergeant Tabler did have the photographs and fingerprints ready for distribution before noon. Pluke was supplied with sufficient for what he described as his personal requirements; this included Inspector Binn at Interpol as well as repeat visits to Mrs Cholmondeley
and to Eric Burholme. He decided he would undertake the Cholmondeley duty on his way home to lunch. That would enable him to stipulate a reason for not remaining long with Mrs Cholmondeley and her sherry bottle.

  When she greeted him just after twelve thirty, she was as gushing as always and invited him inside.

  ‘Oh, Mr Pluke,’ she said. ‘I do admire you and your work. I saw it in the Yorkshire Post this morning, such a tragedy for a young woman. And what a lovely photograph of you with that spade. I cut it out. I shall keep it, Mr Pluke, as a memento. Now, if I can be of any assistance, any at all, in helping you to catch the man responsible, then I shall be most honoured to assist, most honoured.’

  ‘I have a photograph of the girl,’ he told her. ‘In colour. Now, it is not a particularly pleasant photograph…’

  ‘I do think I shall have to have a sherry, Mr Pluke. A large one. How about you? I do recall from last night that you enjoy a really good sherry…’

  ‘Not on this occasion, thank you, Mrs Cholmondeley,’ He adopted his most firm voice. ‘I am on duty, you see, and cannot drink alcohol until I come off duty. Apart from that, Mrs Cholmondeley, Millicent will have my lunch on the table. I am on my way home, you see, so I dare not linger…’

  While talking to her, he had placed the enlarged colour print of the deceased woman on Mrs Cholmondeley’s table top and she could not take her eyes from it.

  ‘She is dead, is she?’ Mrs Cholmondeley’s voice was hushed and somewhat throaty. ‘She looks as if she is asleep

  ‘She is dead, I am sad to say,’ confirmed Pluke. ‘Now, look at her carefully. Consider her face, the colour of her hair, her clothes… She has no anorak, you will note, nor have we found any haversack, but, Mrs Cholmondeley, is this the young lady who called at your house on Friday last to ask about bus routes and destinations?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Pluke, yes it is, that’s her. Oh, the poor dear… what a dreadful thing to happen…’

  ‘One of my officers will have to come to take a formal statement from you, Mrs Cholmondeley,’ he told her. ‘In the meantime, can you try and recall if you have seen this woman anywhere else? In town perhaps? Walking in the street? Shopping? In Crickledale on another occasion perhaps, recent or otherwise? Alone or with someone? If this picture does trigger a memory, Mrs Cholmondeley, perhaps you would acquaint my officer with the circumstances when he arrives. We do need to trace her movements and all possible contacts in town.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Pluke, I never thought I should be of valuable assistance in a murder enquiry – and to think I was one of the last people to see that charming young woman alive… It is a terrible world, Mr Pluke, a truly terrible world. Who could do such a thing to another human being? I think I shall have to have another sherry.’

  Buoyed by this modest success, Pluke took his leave of Mrs Cholmondeley as she poured herself another very large comforting sherry, and made his way home for a light lunch with Millicent.

  As he walked home, Montague realised that if Mrs Cholmondeley had noticed the girl in town, then surely someone else must have seen her. She must have been seen somewhere, she was quite striking in appearance. It was the duty of his teams to find any such witness. He felt sure they would not let him down.

  And then, after lunch, Montague would visit Septimus Warbeck, the man who kept Crickledale’s weather records. Montague knew that Septimus had maintained Crickledale’s detailed weather records for more than fifty years and he could discover when almost every drop of rain had fallen. From him, Montague wanted to know the time of Saturday’s thunderstorms, particularly the time they had passed over Harman’s Farm. He also wanted to know if any flashes of lightning had accompanied those storms, and if so, what time they had occurred.

  Montague felt the enquiry was now growing more intriguing by the hour.

  Chapter Eight

  Over a light lunch with Millicent, Montague continued to confide in her as he related his morning’s work. Bearing in mind that she was a genuine Pluke, albeit through marriage, and that she had proved her worth by successfully replacing him at yesterday’s shoggling ceremony, he felt she could be trusted with a limited selection of operational police data. This would apply especially to that which relied upon assistance from members of the public. This was one such example.

  Accordingly, he told Millicent that the girl seen by Mrs Cholmondeley was undoubtedly the Harman’s Quarry victim and that attempts would now be made to trace her movements for the duration of her stay in Crickledale. At Millicent’s request, he showed her the photograph but she shook her head, saying she had not encountered the young lady and did not recognise her. However, she would mention it to her many friends and acquaintances. There was scarcely anyone of significance in Crickledale who was unknown to Millicent. Montague therefore left a photograph for her to use if she felt inclined – the more people who examined it, the better, he felt, and he had sufficient for that purpose.

  Before returning to the incident room, he rang Septimus Warbeck to ensure he was at home and arranged an immediate visit. Septimus was in a potting shed that was so full of weather-recording equipment that it looked like a meteorological station. But it was heaven to Septimus, a retired gas inspector. A lanky individual in his early seventies with long unkempt grey hair, a thin face and half-rimmed spectacles, he opened his door and bade Montague enter.

  ‘I’m just tracking a deep trough of low pressure over Birmingham,’ he said. ‘And there are some delightful cirro-cumulus clouds over Newcastle. May is a fascinating month from the weather perspective, Mr Pluke, truly fascinating.’

  ‘There is always a lot of weather around in May, Mr Warbeck,’ smiled Pluke. ‘But I am here on police business.’

  ‘How exciting, Mr Pluke. So how can I, a humble weather recorder, be of assistance to the might of the local constabulary?’

  ‘I am interested in the weather on Friday and Saturday, Mr Warbeck. Last Friday and Saturday, that is, in and around this part of Britain. Crickledale in particular, with some emphasis on the road between here and Barughdale.’

  ‘I do keep a very detailed diary, Mr Pluke, but I also keep a more general notebook, more for amateurs than professionals like myself. In my detailed log, I record atmospheric pressures, wind strength, air and ground temperature and much more besides, in rather technical terms… but I don’t think you need all that.’ And Septimus reached to one of his shelves and withdrew a leather-bound book of considerable size and weight. Quickly, he opened the volume.

  ‘This is my general record. Now, Friday, 15 May, you said,’ and he muttered to himself as he found the right page. ‘Fine morning, fresh westerly breeze… hum, hum, hum… some clouds appearing around noon. More clouds later in the day and a dull evening, but mild for the time of year… no rain, though.’

  ‘And no thunderstorms or lightning?’

  ‘No, Mr Pluke. Not on Friday. So to sum up Friday in brief. It was a fine day with no rain, but a fresh westerly breeze and some clouds later in the day, resulting in a dullness by early evening. Mild for the time of year. If you need more detail than that, I can search my other diary.’

  ‘No,’ exhorted Pluke. ‘This is just what I require. And Saturday?’

  ‘Yes, Saturday, 16 May. The day started dull and very mild with a strengthening wind coming from the west. Dark clouds and a threat of rain were apparent around noon. There were isolated showers during the afternoon, but no thunder, then a thunderstorm broke out at 5.30 p.m. It began as isolated rumbles to the west, but the strong westerly wind drove the storm clouds nearer, and by five thirty, there was a heavy shower accompanied by rumbles of thunder and some lightning. The thunder rolled round and round for about forty minutes on and off, Mr Pluke, with the heaviest of the rain lasting about ten minutes. Light sprinkles of rain followed over a period of half an hour or so. Rather a damp evening, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘I was in Scarborough for the day, Mr Warbeck, examining a sixteenth-century wooden triple-header horse trough which was recently discovered near the Spa
. I missed that storm.’

  ‘Well, it continued for a while, the rain eased off and then returned for a second bout around quarter-past six, with further thunder, lightning and another heavy shower. That lasted for half an hour, and then slowly moved east, towards the coast. It was followed by a fine and very clear evening, Mr Pluke, with cooler conditions.’

  ‘And while I am here, what about Sunday?’

  ‘Sunday was fine and clear all day with clouds and bright patches of sunshine. It was slightly cooler than the previous days with a gentle breeze from the south-west, but no thunder, rain or lightning.’

  ‘And the two heavy showers which descended on Crickledale, Mr Warbeck – do you think they would have extended as far as, say, Barughdale, or at the least, Harman’s Quarry?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, Mr Pluke. The storms were widespread, not isolated. There may have been fractional time differences between the constituent elements of those storms – that would be due to the distance between each location – but we are talking about a matter of minutes. So in short, whatever we received in Crickledale on Saturday, then so did Barughdale and the Harman’s Quarry area at about the same time.’

  ‘And are you aware of any storm damage, Mr Warbeck? Lightning strikes, flood damage, that kind of thing?’

  ‘I do know there was some minor flooding on the roads, Mr Pluke, but only short-lived. There was no flood damage, no houses or walls washed away, nothing like that. As we’d had a dry spell prior to those storms, the rainwater ran off the surface of the ground and the drains accepted it with a few localised exceptions. We did not have a cloud-burst, Mr Pluke, merely a heavy spring shower accompanied by thunder and lightning.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Warbeck. This is precisely what I wish to know. Might I inconvenience you later by having a detective call round to take a written statement detailing what you have just told me? We need it for our records.’

  ‘Might I ask what records those are, Mr Pluke? This is the first time I have been questioned by the police about local weather conditions.’