‘Sorry, no, sergeant. I finish at one o’clock on Fridays and get a lift home with a friend. So I’d not have been on the road at the time she was.’
‘OK, thanks. Now we know she was seen walking towards Harman’s Farm, she was spotted at Mill Hill around five or five thirty. On Friday afternoon, that was. And she was not seen again on Friday or Saturday. Yours is the only Saturday sighting.’
‘Well, if Eric didn’t take her in, I suppose she could have camped out in the quarry on Friday night,’ admitted Jim. ‘She had no camping gear when we saw her, she carried nothing in fact. Not even a handbag, that’s why we thought she might have been at his house, going out for a morning walk after a late breakfast. But we’d never know if she was camping in the quarry, sergeant, it’s impossible to see into it from the road. She could have gone into Eric’s buildings, I suppose, if she wanted somewhere dry to sleep, mebbe without him realising. She must have been somewhere around that area on Friday night, mustn’t she? On his land or in one of his buildings? Have you asked Eric?’
‘We have,’ said Wayne. ‘And we’ve shown him that photograph. He says he’s never seen her and doesn’t know her.’
‘Well, he’s not the sort of chap to tell a lie, sergeant, a very straight man, is Eric Burholme, always has been. Honest and trustworthy, something that’s too rare among businessmen.’
‘Well, thanks for your help,’ said Wayne Wain, rising to leave and gathering up his papers. ‘You have been extremely helpful.’
‘You don’t think Eric murdered her, do you?’ suggested Judith Stanton as the couple followed him to the door.
‘My chief thinks not,’ said Wayne Wain. ‘He tends to think she met someone in the quarry, probably not by design.’
‘Well, yes, that does make sense. You never know who’s wandering about these days. Eric would never do a thing like that, would he, Jim?’
‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly, he’s much too decent. But if he had killed her, I reckon he’d make a good job of cleaning up after himself!’ laughed Jim Stanton as Wayne reached his car. “There wouldn’t be much left for you blokes to find.’
Thinking about this character assessment, Wayne was soon heading back to Crickledale and the Plukedom. Pluke would be delighted at this news – but he’d be puzzled too.
And hadn’t Eric Burholme said something about being away in Harrogate on Saturday? Bearing in mind the girl was at his gate at ten thirty that morning, Wayne wondered what time Burholme had left the house.
Chapter Thirteen
Pluke was unable to hear an account of Wayne Wain’s interview because he was heading for the wilds of Northumberland. Later, a combination of Montague Pluke’s map reading and Paula Helston’s driving brought them safely to the front door of the hilltop convent a few miles north of Ponteland, pronounced Ponteeland. It was a massive place, a former fortified farmhouse, and it was surrounded by neat gardens and well-kept lawns with some conifers in the northern comer. A gravelled drive led towards the front door where Paula saw a sign which said ‘Parking for Visitors’.
‘You had better accompany me into this essentially female establishment.’ Clutching his briefcase somewhat nervously, Pluke studied the imposing front door, a massive structure of wood and iron fittings. Above it was a wall-mounted platform supporting a colourful statue of the Virgin Mary. Followed by his driver, he climbed out of the car and approached the building. To the right of the front door was a brass bell-pull, highly polished. He pulled it. Deep inside, they heard the sound of a mighty clanging and, after what seemed a considerable wait, the sounds of approaching footsteps echoing on the marble floor within. There was a clanking of bolts being withdrawn and the huge door yawned to reveal a tiny nun in a dark blue calf-length dress-style habit with white epaulettes and cuffs. She wore no hat, and her dark hair was held back from her face by a white ribbon. There was no sign of grey in her hair, her face was unlined and Pluke reckoned she would be in her early fifties – a capable woman no doubt, and not one to tolerate any nonsense. He could almost visualise her as a matron in a private hospital.
Standing in the doorway, she looked in undisguised amazement at the peculiarly clad gentleman with the briefcase. Sporting dark-rimmed spectacles, he now stood before her with his vintage overcoat of tatty colours, his panama hat with its blue band, his spats and his blue bow tie. The young lady who accompanied him was more soberly dressed in a smart green jacket and skirt, offset nicely with a white blouse and brown shoes.
‘Oh,’ she said, as an apology for so readily opening the door to strangers, ‘I was expecting the police…’
‘We are the police,’ beamed Montague, producing his warrant card and showing it to the nun.
‘Oh,’ she said in a small voice, doubtless thinking that Northumbrian detective inspectors did not look like this.
‘We are Detective Inspector Pluke and Detective Constable Helston from Crickledale CID. I spoke to Sister Agnes earlier. We are expected.’
‘I am Sister Agnes. Well, you must come in, detective inspector. We do get quite a lot of visits from the local police, as I am sure you can understand. It is due to the nature of our work with girls in trouble. Now, follow me.’
She led them from the marble-floored hall with its pillars and curved staircase into an ante-room to the right of the main door. Splendid though the surroundings were, this room was sparsely furnished with a solid oak table in the centre surrounded by half a dozen chairs. Colourful paintings of religious and biblical scenes adorned the pale blue emulsioned walls and a crucifix hung above the fireplace. The mantelpiece contained photographs of some nuns from a bygone age, sepia-tinted copies portraying fierce-looking women carrying rosaries, and there was a vase of flowers on the window ledge. His belief that Sister Agnes was efficient was proved by the presence of a brown folder on the table.
‘Please sit down, both of you. May I offer you a drink? You have come a long way.’
Normally Pluke would have refused but on this occasion, bearing in mind their lengthy journey and sensing that a community of nuns was not likely to bribe a British police officer, he accepted. Tea was offered, with biscuits, and Sister Agnes pressed a bell-push on the wall; seconds later, another nun appeared at the door from whom tea and biscuits were ordered and the interview began with them sitting at the solid table. Pluke outlined the case in considerably more detail than he had during his telephone call, saying that Detective Constable Helston would take notes of the meeting. Having prepared the way, Pluke took a photograph from his briefcase and passed it to the nun.
‘I know this is harrowing, Sister Agnes, but can you tell me whether this is Sister Bega?’
Although she was well prepared for this, tears misted the eyes of the little woman as she nodded and then made the sign of the cross on her head, breast and shoulders.
‘Yes, Mr Pluke, yes, that is Bega. God rest her soul. We shall pray for her.’
‘Then I am afraid I need to ask you lots more questions about her, sister, and I shall also require someone – a member of the family preferably – to visit Crickledale and make the formal identification…’
‘She has no family, Mr Pluke; we are her family.’
‘I see. Well, perhaps, with your help, I can establish a few facts before we consider the identification processes. I know this has been a shock but our investigation does carry a certain urgency and I would appreciate your co-operation.’
‘I shall do everything I can to help, Mr Pluke, and please do not worry about the time. I am at your disposal.’
At that point, tea and biscuits arrived; it helped break the gloomy atmosphere and Pluke felt the interruption was very timely. The new nun, an elderly soul who was not introduced, laid out the plates, cups and saucers, poured the tea and quietly departed. After that pause, Pluke resumed.
‘Sister Agnes,’ he said, ‘in cases of this kind, we can become extremely intrusive and I therefore beg your forgiveness before we start. I need to know everything about Sister Bega, her backg
round and her recent movements. I also need to know why she decided to visit Crickledale and who she was going to see there – and why?’
‘There is no guarantee I can answer all your questions, Mr Pluke, but I will do my best.’
‘First then, her background. Is Bega her real name, for example?’
With an effort of will-power, Sister Agnes relegated the shock of her friend’s death to the back of her mind, and opened the tile which lay before her. It was Bega’s personal file.
As she spread the papers before her, Agnes said, ‘Before you arrived, Mr Pluke, I managed to contact the Reverend Mother and she has authorised me to give whatever co-operation is necessary. As I said earlier, we do work closely with the local police, and therefore we understand your requirements. Your visit is not all that unusual, therefore. Now, to begin, her real name is Miriam Ripley, and she was born on 14 July 1968.’
‘And this is her home address?’
‘It is. She has no other home.’
‘And where did she come from, before she entered the convent?’
‘She has always been here, Mr Pluke. She was placed in our care when she was a baby. She was reared in the convent, went to our school and later decided to join the Order.’
‘She was an orphan, then?’
‘No, but she was born out of wedlock, Mr Pluke. Her mother, Josephine, came from a strict Catholic family and when she got pregnant, Josephine’s parents sent her here to have the child, out of the sight of family and friends. After giving birth, she returned to her parents in Newcastle, and the baby remained with us. Such secrecy was a feature of some staunch Catholic families, Mr Pluke, but it is not our practice to condemn. Our Order cares for such girls, and so we cared for the baby Miriam.’
‘So she has always lived here, and became a nun. When?’
‘She became a novice when she was eighteen and professed when she was twenty-four. I might add she has always been a valued member of our Order, a hard-working, intelligent young woman. She will be missed, Mr Pluke…’ and the nun pulled a handkerchief from her robes, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. It looked just like the handkerchief found on the body of Sister Bega – standard issue.
‘And her parents? Where are they now?’
‘The name of her father was never known, Mr Pluke, it is not even given on her birth certificate which simply says “Father Unknown”.’ Sister Agnes produced it from the file, passing the document to Pluke as if to support her claim. ‘But you will see that her mother was called Josephine Ripley and that her profession is shown as domestic assistant.’
‘A local woman?’
‘Yes, Mr Pluke.’
‘So where is she now? She will have to be informed of her daughter’s death before we announce the name to the media, sister.’
‘She died, Mr Pluke, only a matter of two months ago. And her own parents – Bega’s grandparents, that is – are also dead. There are no other members of the family, Mr Pluke. Upon her mother’s death, Bega was utterly alone – apart from us, of course. As I said, we are – were – her family.’
‘And did Bega’s mother – Josephine – keep in touch with her?’
‘Yes, she did. You see, we did not adopt Miriam, we merely cared for her along with other girls in a similar situation. Josephine’s parents would never allow her illegitimate child in their home – a sad reflection on people who claim to be Christians, Mr Pluke. But Josephine always refused to give up her daughter completely; she would not have her adopted and always remained her mother in legal and practical terms. She loved Miriam, you see, Mr Pluke, and often came to visit her daughter here. Josephine never married. She always lived with her parents, Mr Pluke, she could never afford to buy a place of her own; she had no skills or professional qualifications and could never have survived without parental help. Following the death of her parents, Josephine inherited their home, a modest terrace house in Jesmond. They died about ten years ago, within months of one another. She continued to live there. It gave her some independence at last – she had no rent or mortgage to earn and she took various rather mundane jobs to support herself. She managed very well, better than anyone thought. She was only sixty when she died, a heart attack, we understand.’
‘A sad story, Sister Agnes. So the house would be inherited by Bega?’
‘Yes. Her mother did not leave much – the house came to Bega, and most of the furniture, fairly cheap stuff really, was sold by auction.’
‘So, although she inherited a house, Bega did not want to leave the convent?’
‘No, Mr Pluke. By that time, she had professed so she donated the house to us, to the Order. This is her home, you see, and we are in the throes of selling the house now, to help with our finances.’
‘You rely on such help?’
‘Entirely, Mr Pluke. We do have benefactors, of course, people to provide us with an income through donations, and we do ask parents to help with funding their children here. Various social agencies help too, with government grants and so forth.’
‘So you survive?’
‘Yes, but only just.’
‘So Bega never went to live with her mother?’
‘No, but she did spend some time with her. She had a holiday with her last year, for a long weekend. Even if Bega had not joined us, I don’t think she would have gone to live with her mother. They were very different people, Mr Pluke.’
‘Thank you for all this. Now, her holiday, this holiday in Crickledale. It has resulted in such sadness, sister. Did she say why she wanted to visit Crickledale?’
‘I talked to her shortly before she left, Mr Pluke, and she seemed very excited. She did not explain the reason for her excitement, though, almost as if she was doing something secretive. She did tell me she was going to the Crickledale area and had managed to get a map of the district. She said she was going on a journey of exploration, Mr Pluke. That was the word she used. Exploration.’
‘Exploration? That suggests she had never been there before. She never mentioned Crickledale at any earlier time, then?’
‘No, never. It was only after her mother died that I heard her mention the place – perhaps her mother, or her mother’s family, had some links with the area, Mr Pluke?’
‘Did she mention any particular place or person? What we need to establish is who she was going to see, or where she was intending to stay.’
‘No. Other than this rather mysterious exploration idea, she did not give us any idea of her intended destination.’
‘And you never asked?’
‘No, but if one of our nuns is staying with her family, we expect her to leave an address or telephone number. In Bega’s case, she said she would obtain bed-and-breakfast and ring us if she found a more settled place.’
‘And did she ring?’
‘No, Mr Pluke.’
‘And, I suppose, that would add to the mystery of her whereabouts?’
‘It did, rather. I must say she did appear somewhat excited, Mr Pluke. I got the impression something had resulted from her mother’s death.’
‘And again, you have no idea what that might be?’
‘Sorry, no. She never told me. We are – were – good friends, Mr Pluke, I’ve known her since she professed. After her mother’s house had been cleared, she brought a suitcase full of things here, her mother’s private papers and so on. There wasn’t much but, as next-of-kin, she had a few legal matters to deal with.’
‘And where are those things now, sister? The suitcase, I mean, and its contents.’
‘I expect they will be in her room, Mr Pluke. She did keep the case there, while she sorted the contents.’
‘We shall have to examine it, sister.’
‘Must you, Mr Pluke? I’d have thought such things were very private.’
‘It is the examination of the very private matters of victims and murderers that enables us to detect crime, Sister Agnes.’
‘So when do you want to see her room, detective inspector?’
; ‘In a very few moments – with you present, if you would not mind.’
‘Of course, I have authority to provide you with every possible assistance.’
‘Now, before we examine her room, when did she leave for Crickledale?’
‘Around mid-morning, Mr Pluke, on Friday. She received her holiday money – fifty pounds – and a packed lunch, then set off. Our own transport took her to Newcastle city centre and we thought she would be catching a train to Thirsk or York perhaps. She was given a week’s holiday, we expected her to return the following Friday – the coming Friday, in fact.’
‘We have reason to believe she hitch-hiked, sister. She told a lady in Crickledale she had hitch-hiked from Newcastle to Thirsk on a lorry, and then got a lift in a private car. With no trouble, I might add.’
‘To save money, no doubt, in spite of the dangers.’
‘She was seen in Crickledale on Friday afternoon – we have a confirmed sighting – and later the same day she was seen walking towards a village called Barughdale. We have reason to believe she got no further than Harman’s Quarry – that’s where her body was found, sister. It is part of a complex called Harman’s Farm which is on the road between Crickledale and Barughdale.’
‘Harman’s Farm, Mr Pluke? Is that connected in any way to Harman’s Agricultural?’
‘Yes, Harman’s Agricultural is a farm machinery hire business which is based at Harman’s Farm. Why do you ask? Does the name mean something?’
‘Harman’s Agricultural is one of our long-term benefactors, Mr Pluke. In fact, that’s where Bega’s mother used to work as a domestic help. Is it near Crickledale? I do not know the geography of that area.’
‘You say her mother worked there?’
‘A long time ago, Mr Pluke, thirty years ago or thereabouts.’
‘Now I do find that most interesting. And to answer your question, Crickledale is about four miles from Harman’s Farm. Tell me about the support given by Harman’s Agricultural.’
Superstitious Death Page 18
