Superstitious Death

by Nicholas Rhea

  As Pluke waited for the signal that everyone was ready, he hurried outside, found a pair of fresh four-leaved clovers and returned to his office to replace the one on his desk which was wilting. He slipped the other into the buttonhole of his jacket, a sure method of ensuring good fortune during the coming day.

  Then Wayne Wain tapped on his door and came in.

  ‘Everyone’s here, sir,’ he announced.

  Pluke felt rather as an actor must feel before going on stage to produce a stunning performance because this conference was going to be rather different from normal. Instead of giving them their tasks for the day, he was going to present his arguments and ask his officers to challenge his theories by producing conflicting evidence; he needed this kind of reaction before interviewing Eric Burholme because he wanted all the counterarguments tested.

  ‘Be sure to tape record this conference, Wayne,’ he instructed his sergeant. ‘I may need to remind myself of portions at a later date.’

  ‘No problem, sir.’

  ‘Thanks. Now, let’s get it over, Wayne.’ Pluke spoke softly as he touched the four-leaved clover. His confidence thus reinforced, he led the way from his office.

  ‘Good morning, all.’ He mounted the small dais someone had thoughtfully positioned on the floor so that he stood head and shoulders above his audience, a distinctive figure in his old yellowish-brown jacket, blue dicky bow, spats and half-mast drainpipe narrow trousers.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ was the chorus of response.

  ‘This morning,’ he began, ‘I am going to acquaint you with my suspicions and beliefs about this very odd case. I want you to consider them carefully and if you have any evidence or theories which would counter my suppositions, then you must tell me now. Each of you will be aware that one suspect, Eric Burholme, has not yet been interviewed – I have had my reasons for that, and I can now say it is my intention to interview him once I have assembled and analysed every piece of available evidence. And that moment, I think, has almost arrived.’

  He paused for them to absorb his words, then continued with a resume of the case, highlighting the manner in which the body had been discovered, the place where it had been found, its condition when examined by both the police and the pathologist, the mirror in the shallow grave which had been created so close to a public footpath, and the curious head injury and other wounds sustained by the dead girl. He reminded them of the positive sightings of the victim in Crickledale, along the road to Harman’s Farm and at Harman’s Farm itself, and of the fact that, at no stage, had the victim been seen in the company of anyone else, male or female.

  He followed with an account of his visit to the convent, and told them that they had a provisional identification for the victim, and that she was a nun. He stressed that this information was currently highly confidential and was on no account to be released to the public or to the media. That would be done when the identification had been formalised by Sister Agnes. Pluke then turned to Horsley.

  ‘Mr Horsley, as I proceed, there will be scope for new actions, chiefly aimed at confirming what will emerge during these discussions. Perhaps you could make a note of them and allocate them when I have completed my synopsis?’

  ‘Sure, Montague,’ nodded Horsley.

  ‘Right,’ said Pluke. ‘These are my primary thoughts. It has been my belief throughout this enquiry, a belief which has been strengthened as time progressed, that the girl died as the result of a tragic and highly unusual accident and that she was unlawfully buried. I do not think she was murdered. Those core beliefs have coloured my approach to this investigation although I have maintained an open mind. So why do I subscribe to the accident theory? The answer lies in the grave. The dead girl was not hastily buried in a makeshift grave, which is what most murderers would have done. She was buried with considerable care. She might even have been buried with love but I would prefer the word care. The grave, which was carefully and cleanly dug with a spade, was orientated east to west, an indication of care, attention and a desire to do things correctly. She was lying with her head to the west, a further indication of care and attention. That is not the sort of care or attention one would expect from a murderer. If the person who dug the grave did make a mistake, it was the fact that the ground immediately below the grave was solid rock – it meant he could only bury the girl in a very shallow grave. While that might have been an error, on the other hand it might not. Placing the grave there might have been a very deliberate act. As the grave was close to a public footpath which is popular with ramblers and hikers, it is not surprising that a rambler’s dog unearthed the body. In view of the care taken to bury the body, for however temporary a period, I think the person who carried out the burial wanted the body to be found, and found very quickly. That, in itself, is puzzling. Why bury a body in the hope it will be quickly discovered? Thus, in my opinion, the shallowness of the grave, and its proximity to a footpath, might have been very deliberate indeed. The ground in that quarry was obviously shallow with a rock base because it housed heavy machinery – quarries are like that, ladies and gentlemen, even disused ones. Many have very solid floors. A quarry user would know that.’

  ‘But a shallow burial, sir, unauthorised like this in a deserted place, of a victim with a head wound caused by a weapon that has been hidden – surely that suggests murder…’ The speaker was Detective Sergeant Warriner. ‘Everything points to murder.’

  ‘Precisely, Detective Sergeant Warriner. That is exactly what was intended but I think the care shown in the burial rules out murder. Nonetheless, I believe that the person who buried her wanted it to look like a case of murder. I know that sounds a most unlikely theory but it will be explained as I proceed.’

  ‘It’s usually the other way round, sir! Most murderers try to make their crimes look like accidents!’

  ‘They do indeed but not this man. That is why this is such an interesting case. Bear that in mind, all of you, as you continue your enquiries.’

  ‘But why would anyone want to make an accident look like murder? That’s crazy, sir…’

  ‘Not entirely.’ Pluke remained calm. ‘We are dealing with a very clever and skilled deceiver, a practised operator, I believe. Now, to continue. As you all know, a small but inexpensive hand mirror was buried with the body. I believe that was no accident. For one thing, I now know the mirror did belong to the dead woman and, even though her other belongings have not been traced, this particular item was buried with her. That is very significant. It used to be the custom in Sweden to bury a mirror with a maiden; married women were buried with their hair braided. At first, because of that, I thought the victim was Swedish – her appearance added to that supposition – and I also thought that the person who buried her knew of her nationality. I was wrong, she is English – the person who buried her was Swedish. Eric Burholme, the owner of Harman’s Farm and of the quarry, is a naturalised Swede, ladies and gentlemen. He is also old enough to have remembered superstitions and customs still in use in the early years of this century. I mention that because I believe he buried the girl – but I do not believe he killed her. Oddly, he does deny knowing her. Allow me to continue.’

  He paused again for them to absorb his unusual theories.

  ‘Think about that mirror.’ He spoke softly now, knowing that by lowering his voice, they would strive to listen more carefully. ‘A mirror was customarily buried with maidens in Sweden – and that tells me that the person who buried the girl knew she was a maiden, even if she was a good-looking woman of thirty. And if he knew she was a maiden, an old word for a virgin, then he knew who she was; she might have been merely unmarried, but I think he knew she was a nun. And, of course, the fact that he knew about that old superstition suggests that the person who buried her is a person of considerable age. I doubt if the modern generation of Swedes follow those practices. And Burholme is eighty, remember, he has been away from Sweden since the end of the Second World War. Burholme has constantly denied knowing her – the mirror in the gra
ve suggests otherwise. That means Burholme is lying, but if the girl died in an accident, why would he lie like this? And why go to such extremes to deal with her body when a call to the emergency services would have sufficed? That is my next question.’

  Pausing again he took a deep breath and said, ‘Now, a little more about the grave. Its location. As you know, it was in a quarry, the only access by road being through the Harman’s Farm gate and across Burholme’s land. Access by foot from the Crickledale to Barughdale road is possible via public footpaths and a stile, then over a field for a distance of about a third of a mile or thereabouts. Our own investigation showed no motor vehicle had entered the quarry – tracks would have been easily identified in the ground which had been softened by Saturday’s rain. Checks on the fence between the quarry and the road revealed no fibres from the clothing of the deceased. In other words, she was not brought to the quarry by any of those routes when she was dead. It would be impossible for one person to manhandle and carry a dead body all that way, over fences and a stile, through a field and along a public footpath… And we are positive she did not die in the quarry. So how did the body get there? Where did it come from? Where did she die?’

  As they pondered the significance of those words, Pluke said, ‘I think she died out of doors at Harman’s Farm, during the thunderstorm and rain on Saturday evening. It would explain the dampness of her clothing. And I think Burholme came home from his meeting, found her dead and conveyed her body to the quarry in his wheelbarrow – forensic evidence now supports that theory. Here he made a mistake – being a meticulously tidy person, he replaced the barrow in precisely the same place as he took it from. Had it been placed anywhere else, or left in the quarry, we might have been tempted to believe someone else had borrowed it.’

  ‘So, sir…’ A detective raised his hand. ‘If Burholme claims his spade has been stolen – clearly because he has got rid of it – why did he not do the same with the barrow?’

  ‘He used them both, I am sure, but I planted in his head the idea of his spade being used by a murderer, Detective Constable Crowther. I suggested to him that someone might have used his tools or one of his spades to dig the grave… his buildings are never locked and so access was quite feasible. But I did not refer to the barrow. So he went along with that and sought to strengthen my belief by disposing of the spade. And I did tell him that I suspected murder – which is what he wanted me to believe – murder not by him, but by some other person. He has not framed anyone – he has just made the girl appear to be a murder victim. Furthermore, he is of the age where the miracles of modern forensic science are unknown to him. I do not think for a moment that he realised we could link the body so positively to his wheelbarrow – he doesn’t know that we have done so, of course, not yet. But even so, he could claim another person had used it to convey the body – except that it was replaced so precisely, as I have already mentioned. So the evidence is beginning to point to Eric Burholme…’

  ‘You crafty old devil – sir!’ smiled one of the senior sergeants.

  ‘Perhaps I have been dangling poor Mr Burholme at the end of a long fishing line,’ smiled Pluke. ‘I have been letting him think we suspected death by agricultural machine, for example…’

  ‘You’ve ruled that out, have you, Montague?’ asked Horsley. ‘I thought we might spend days looking for a damaged machine or a component part with blood on it.’

  ‘Yes, I know what caused her death, and how it came to cause her death; it is there for all to see, quite boldly displayed – but I will come to that in due course. Now to the deceased herself. I shall not trouble you with a repeat of her physical description but we do know this – Miriam Ripley, whose father has never been named, was brought up in a convent having been born illegitimately to a woman called Josephine Ripley. She used to work as a domestic for Burholme. That was thirty years ago – the deceased is thirty years old or thereabouts. Burholme, through his agricultural business, has been supporting that same convent for the past thirty years, paying substantial amounts but never once entering the place. He maintained a discreet distance between himself and the convent which was in fact the girl’s home – it is where she was brought up, where she was schooled and where she subsequently entered as a nun. It is a relaxed regime by some standards, the sisters being allowed to wear long hair and modem clothing. Miriam – by this stage known as Sister Bega – was happy in the convent, we are told. Then a couple of months ago, her mother died. She was buried in Newcastle. Burholme did not attend the funeral, but we believe Josephine left some personal papers in a suitcase which came into Miriam’s possession. As a consequence, it appears Miriam asked to leave the convent for a short holiday, to undertake what she called a journey of exploration. I think she had recently discovered her mother had worked for Harman’s Agricultural, that the owner of the business was Eric Burholme and that the business in question was a long-standing and generous benefactor to the convent in which she had spent her entire life. In the belief that this man was her natural father, Sister Bega – Miriam – made her journey of exploration to Harman’s Farm. Naively, she hitch-hiked from Newcastle last Friday with her sparse belongings, including a pink-framed mirror, and found her way to Crickledale. Unfamiliar with the area, she asked directions for the road to Barrowdale, which is pronounced Barfdale but spelt Barughdale, and then found herself at Harman’s Farm. That is precisely where she was heading. I think she carried the personal papers inherited from her mother, and I think she was anxious to meet the man she believed was her natural father. I’m sure she met Burholme at the farm. Although she arrived unannounced on Friday evening, I think Burholme admitted her to his home where she stayed overnight although I am sure he would have had doubts about her motives and indeed her genuine identity. But he had an important appointment the following day in Harrogate. He left home around ten thirty on Saturday morning. A customer who’d been to his farm earlier that morning did not see the girl – quite understandable. Mr Horsley, I don’t think we have confirmed that visit to Harrogate? A good action for someone while I am interviewing Mr Burholme? Like any daughter would do, when Burholme left the house Bega went with him to the gate, opened it and waved him off. Two witnesses saw her there. She would have awaited his return and might even have prepared a meal for him – just as her mother had done. But he did not return until Saturday night – meanwhile, there had been a thunderstorm…

  ‘Bega died out of doors in that storm and, upon his return, he found her lying dead on his premises. So what could he do? If she was dead, there was no point calling the emergency services… and what story had she told him? Who did he think she was? Why had she come to find him? We don’t know – but we do know he buried her. Or to be honest, I know he buried her.’

  ‘Sir,’ called a voice from the floor. ‘This is all speculation on your part, is it not?’

  ‘Not speculation, Detective Sergeant Harlow. Reasoned deduction based on the available evidence.’

  ‘But if she was his natural daughter, why not deal with her death in a more rational manner? I mean, sir, for God’s sake, why bury her secretly in a bloody quarry, as if she was a dead cat or something?’

  ‘His wife is buried in a wood behind the farm, quite legitimately,’ said Pluke. ‘He is not a Christian, he follows nature. Once a thing is dead, it has no further use, there is no need for emotion…’

  ‘I can’t believe he would do that with the body of the woman he thought was his daughter, whatever his beliefs! If this girl died in some freak agricultural accident, the authorities should have been informed and there should have been an investigation followed by an inquest. That’s the way things are done. He would surely know all about the formalities, being in the business of hiring agricultural machines. Then the burial could have been formalised, even if it was intended to be a pagan burial in a wood behind the house. Unless he is mad, of course.’

  ‘That is what a reasonable person would do,’ smiled Pluke. ‘But he did none of those things. Th
ere has to be a reason for his odd behaviour.’

  ‘Perhaps he never admitted being her father, sir?’ suggested Harlow. ‘I think he couldn’t face up to it, so he concealed things by faking her murder, to take the pressure off him. He engineered things so that someone else would find her and have to bury her properly and he could disassociate himself from her. In other words, he wanted nothing to do with her, just as he has neglected her throughout her life.’

  ‘It’s an interesting notion,’ said Pluke. ‘I want to hear his story – and I want to hear him tell me what killed her before I reveal my ideas to you – but if it was an accident, then there is no murder and we are left with a minor offence of failing to register a death and perhaps a breach of the coroner’s rules.’

  ‘No undetected murder to darken our statistics, sir?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ smiled Pluke. ‘Now, any questions?’

  Surprisingly, there were none and so he dismissed the teams. Horsley said he had identified several actions, chiefly rechecking previously made statements from witnesses in the light of Pluke’s theories. One team would collect Sister Agnes and take her to the mortuary, another would visit the undertaker for a statement about the pagan burial of Burholme’s wife, and yet another would be despatched to Harrogate to check Burholme’s story about attending the showground for a demonstration. But the only person who could fully provide Pluke with the information he desired was Eric Burholme himself, a man who liked to cover his tracks… Now it was time to interview him.