Superstitious Death

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘And Miriam’s real father?’

  ‘He was killed in a traffic accident, Mr Pluke, about eighteen months after I had caught him with Josephine. It meant the girl, Miriam, had no father – another reason for maintaining my support. Because I admire the work done by that convent, in caring for girls in trouble, I have continued my donations and will do so until I die.’

  ‘I know you support many other charities too, Mr Burholme,’ said Pluke.

  ‘It is my way of thanking this country for allowing me to live here.’

  ‘So far as Miriam was concerned, then, you were her father, if not by nature?’

  ‘I suppose so. Now you will see my dilemma when she came to visit me. She caught me by surprise, Mr Pluke. At first, I was deeply suspicious, as you can understand. I wondered just how much she really knew about me. I wanted time to make an assessment of her, to determine whether she was genuine or whether she was working for the investigative press or some foreign agency. On the other hand, if she was genuine, then I wanted to spend time with her, to get to know her. I must admit I liked her, Mr Pluke, and I said she could stay as long as she wanted. That would enable me to have enquiries made into her background, just to be absolutely sure she was not hunting me for wartime reasons. You know as well as I that people are still hunting down Nazi war criminals.’

  ‘Even though you are innocent of such evils, you have done well to remain free all these years,’ said Pluke. ‘So she stayed on Friday night and then, on Saturday, you went to a meeting in Harrogate?’

  ‘Yes, it was important, a business commitment. I did not wish to cancel it. I explained the situation and gave her the run of the house and farm. She came to the gate with me, to see me off, like a little girl would have done for her daddy. She waved, I watched her through my rear view mirror as I left her… I must admit I shed a tear, Mr Pluke. You see, I was thinking – hoping is perhaps a better word – that, at last, I did have a family, that there was someone else in my rather lonely life…’

  ‘And you returned at what time?’

  ‘Later than I expected, half-past nine or so. I thought I’d get home about six or thereabouts, and that I could share my evening with Miriam. She called herself Miriam when she introduced herself, she didn’t use her religious name, possibly because I am not a Christian… but when I drove into the yard, she was lying there with her head under that weather-vane. She was dead, Mr Pluke. I’ve seen dead people, lots of them. She’d been dead for a few hours, I think. The vane and part of the coping stone had somehow been knocked off the roof. There was a storm, you see, earlier that evening…’

  ‘A lightning strike, I believe, Mr Burholme. An act of God.’

  ‘If there is a God, he would never be so cruel, not to one of his own, Mr Pluke!’

  ‘A debatable point. Now, what was the condition of her clothing?’

  ‘Wet, Mr Pluke, from the rain. Her whole body was wet… I broke down, Mr Pluke, I don’t mind admitting that. I thought I was hard. I used to be hard. I had to be to survive as I did in the war, but after such a promising meeting, she was gone. Taken from me in a moment, and when I was not there to help. I sat and wept over her body, my tears adding to the dampness of her clothes… but I recalled my operational orders, Mr Pluke; they remain valid until I die. I had not to court trouble, I had not to do anything which would result in deep investigations into my life by the police, the press or any other agency. I had to cover my tracks, I had to conceal anything that might incriminate me or reveal my past… apart from my Nazi reputation, there are honest people still in Germany and other parts of Europe who helped me, and whose families helped me in my espionage work, you see. They must be protected. If I had called in the authorities, there would have been an enquiry, her past would have emerged and I would have found myself having to answer all manner of questions with undoubted interest from the press. I could not risk that. So I did what I have been trained to do. I established a diversion. To do so, I made use of the existing facts and evidence. This was my military training resurrecting itself. During the war, you see, if a German soldier died, even in something like a domestic fight or drunken brawl, where possible we made it look as if the British had killed him. We doctored the truth for propaganda purposes or political reasons. Faced with what was for me a dilemma of major proportions, I decided to make it appear as if the girl had been murdered and buried in haste by a passer-by, a travelling camper perhaps… Secretly, though, I wanted her body to be found, which is why I chose the shallow earth near the footpath. And I wanted her to have a proper funeral in due course.’

  ‘I knew you had buried her with care, Mr Burholme. Love almost.’

  ‘Did I reveal that? You are very astute, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘The grave was correctly orientated east to west, Mr Burholme, and dug neatly to the correct size. A grave prepared with care and thought. And yet you contradicted that by burying her in shallow soil near a public footpath, a combination of circumstances which almost guaranteed a swift discovery. One deed contradicted the other. That puzzled me and made me suspicious. I realised you would know the quarry had a base of rock – that’s why you kept your heavy machinery there – and so I knew you would be wise enough never to dig a deep grave there… even at that early stage, I scented an inner conflict, Mr Burholme.’

  ‘I did want her to be quickly found, yes. I wanted her to have a decent burial.’

  ‘And her belongings? You disposed of them?’

  ‘In the Aga, Mr Pluke, her family papers too. It consumes almost anything. And I have disposed of the spade, but not in the Aga. You will never find it.’

  ‘We found gravel in some wounds in her hands, and in her jeans – from the yard outside, I suspect, where she fell. That would indicate her presence here.’

  ‘It’s the same gravel that covers hundreds of farmyards and car-parks in this area, Mr Pluke. It could never be traced solely to this place.’

  ‘And the weather-vane. You replaced the weather-vane, after taking the opportunity to straighten any bent pieces, repaint the cockerel and arrows, and grease the bearings?’

  ‘Yes. I have mechanical training and I do have skills in metalwork, Mr Pluke. I did that on Sunday, along with the coping stone. She was found on Monday.’

  ‘You carried her body to the grave in your wheelbarrow, Mr Burholme. One mistake was to replace it exactly as it had been before making that use of it.’

  ‘I realise that now. Clearly, I made mistakes which you noticed. Perhaps others less astute than you or your officers would not have noticed them. Maybe this will be my last military operation, Mr Pluke. I am getting too old for this sort of thing. I have not made such errors in the past nor have I encountered a man like yourself. In addition, I am not up-to-date with modem scientific methods, Mr Pluke. To locate those fibres on the barrow was remarkable.’

  ‘It’s routine these days, Mr Burholme, not remarkable.’

  ‘You said using the barrow was one mistake, Mr Pluke. What was the other?’

  ‘Putting her mirror in the grave, Mr Burholme. I knew a Swede had done that – it was you, I felt. Your Swedish links are evident around the farm, in the cock on the weather-vane and in the colours of your advertising banners. Then I suspected your background when you told me of your war wound, knowing Sweden was neutral…’

  ‘I congratulate you on that. But so far as the mirror is concerned, it was an automatic action. When I was young, it was always done in our village, Mr Pluke, for maidens. One tends to forget that other cultures differ from one’s own.’

  ‘That small act told me you knew she was a maiden – so when you denied knowing the victim or even seeing her, I knew you were lying. I think you tried a further red herring by telling me about the car you heard on Saturday night, to add credence to the idea that someone else had killed and buried her. Now we have talked, your account confirms all that I suspected, Mr Burholme.’

  ‘I congratulate you; you have shown some remarkable powers of deduction, Mr Pluke.
So what happens now?’

  ‘There is no crime of murder, Mr Burholme. We shall need to remove your weather-vane to compare the arrow with the wound in her skull, to confirm your account of her death, and then there is the question of minor offences relating to the registration of deaths, the infringement of the coroner’s rules and wasting police time.’

  ‘Mr Pluke, think carefully. For me, nothing has changed. There can be no prosecutions, even for minor offences. The security of those with whom I was associated during the war remains of the highest priority. I cannot be compromised in any way whatever. In accordance with my standing orders, valid even to this day, I have informed the Security Services of this incident, and they will be contacting your Superintendent Hart.’

  ‘With what purpose, Mr Burholme?’

  ‘To ensure that I cannot be connected in any way to this incident. It happened on my land – that is all. That can happen to any owner of land. I have told you the truth. But the official version will be along the lines that the girl was paying me a chance visit because of my long association with her convent. It will be stated that she was missing when I returned from Harrogate. My movements in Harrogate can be checked and her time of death can be established with some accuracy. I remember her clothing was wet because of the storm, Mr Pluke, and I saw the rain had washed a little blood down the side of her face. I know enough about your forensic pathologists to realise they can pinpoint the time of her death to the time of the rainstorm. That means she died when I was thirty miles away at Harrogate; it also means I have an unshakeable alibi, Mr Pluke. I know that and you know that. That is my strength, my salvation, Mr Pluke. It means I cannot be a murder suspect and thus I need not be investigated. So, it is now necessary to produce a cover story which will fit the available facts. There are several possibilities. Might we say she interrupted a burglary at my home, for example, and died as a consequence? Perhaps not. Someone from Security will contact you for a digest of all the known evidence so that a suitable story can be produced. Once the official version has been agreed, it will appear that the girl was murdered, possibly for her money which has never been traced or possibly for sexual reasons, and probably by a travelling person from overseas who was carrying a tent. The story will say that I did not miss the girl on Saturday night because I returned home fairly late and thought she was in bed; clearly, I had no wish to disturb a nun in her bed! On Sunday morning I noticed she was missing and it was while looking for her that I found the wheelbarrow abandoned in one of my fields. Thinking it was the work of a joker, I replaced it in my shed, not realising what it had been used for. I did not, of course, visit the quarry. Your enquiries will suggest that her killer used the barrow to convey the body to the grave and the fact that my spade is missing will confirm that someone killed the girl – although exactly where has never been determined – and conveyed her body to the quarry for burial. The report will assume that my spade was used to dig the grave but that will never be proved. The murder weapon will never be found either. Should anyone try to match the arrow on that weather-vane with the wound in her head, they will find that the arrow up there is far wider than her wound, Mr Pluke. And of course, the paint it bears will not match the paint particles which adhered to her wound – I saw them, remember, Mr Pluke. They were black; that arrow is now dark blue even if it looks black from this distance. But that is speculation, Mr Pluke, because I am sure the “murder” weapon will never be identified. You were most astute to find the cause of her injury. When the authorities contact you, you may find that the press would be interested to know that a European youth on a camping tour of this country is suspected. I believe you have already instituted enquiries through Interpol and with ferry operators? The mirror will have little relevance to other investigators, Mr Pluke; it belonged to her in any case and must surely have fallen from her clothing into the grave, don’t you think? If the evidence cannot support the theory that she was attacked by a burglar, might it be better to concentrate on the hitch-hiker idea? Let’s say it was someone who met Miriam while she was hitch-hiking. She was rather naive, being a nun, and so when he invited her into his tent in my quarry for a lager or two on Saturday evening, she agreed. After all, she was alone in that huge house, and on holiday. A nice friendly man would be a wonderful diversion. But he expected more; she refused him sex and, in his anger, he killed her. That might be the better story. To support it, there are tent peg holes in the quarry, Mr Pluke, and camp fires to prove someone has used the site. That person either killed her or caused her to die from a wound, the source of which will never be determined. The killer has gone back to his own country and will never be found; your suspect will never be identified. There are several alternative stories from which can be produced a set of circumstances which will fit the available evidence. Already you have kindly eliminated any suspicion from my many agricultural machines. Maybe, to add support to the official version, my controller will arrange for an anonymous letter to come to your office from overseas – anywhere but Sweden, in fact – which you can show your coroner? It could be a letter admitting everything suggested by the evidence, albeit with regret? You could then close your books, Mr Pluke, and keep your crime detection record intact. I think it was your William Shakespeare who said that, to do a great right, one had to do a little wrong. Remember, I am still not entirely sure why that young lady wanted to visit me – I did not have the opportunity to fully question her. I hope she was genuine but I may never know. There is more work for me to do in that respect, work I need not worry you about, but I fear you will have a murder investigation on your files.’

  ‘We can’t have this, sir!’ cried Wayne Wain. ‘It is not right, not justice –’

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Eric Burholme, ‘I am afraid that is what will happen. You are now privy to what might be termed state security, rather than rural policing. There is much at stake, even half a century after the end of the war, and those politics must take priority. My own superiors will contact you, Mr Pluke, perhaps personally or perhaps through your Chief Constable, to debate the available evidence. You are a member of a disciplined organisation, Mr Pluke, which means you must obey orders.’

  ‘That is true, Mr Burholme.’

  ‘Then I see no future problem.’

  ‘But, Mr Burholme, if you had reported the accident for what it was, it would have been dealt with very speedily… after all, it was an accident, nothing more. There was nothing to fear. You would not have been at risk in any shape or form.’

  ‘I would have been at risk, Mr Pluke, which means others would also have been put at risk. For such an unlikely accident and the peculiar set of accompanying circumstances, the press might have begun to delve, my past might have been investigated. It is easy to find out I am a naturalised Swede. That would be sufficient for some to dig deeper. They have many sources; 1 could not risk any publicity. After all, the evidence shows I am a Nazi war criminal who is still being hunted! Furthermore, I would be associated with enquiries into Miriam’s background and certain things would be revealed such as her mother’s insistence that I was her father… For all kinds of reasons, including those basic ones, I could not risk the tiniest part of my background being discovered and investigated, Mr Pluke. So, very hastily and knowing I had an unshakeable alibi for the “crime”, I had to produce something at which I used to be very good – a cover-up.’

  ‘I have no power to sanction this, Mr Burholme.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Mr Pluke. That will be dealt with by your superiors, and the convent will be consulted about their part in all this. Now, as a final gesture, I want you to ensure Miriam has a proper burial. With a full Catholic service.’

  ‘I will ensure that,’ Pluke assured him.

  ‘Let me know when and where it will be, and I will send a maiden’s garland.’

  ‘What’s a maiden’s garland?’ asked Wayne Wain.

  ‘It is a tribute to an unmarried woman of unblemished reputation, Wayne,’ Pluke told him. ‘A white garland
of flowers or even linen, sometimes with a white glove in the centre, and adorned with white ribbons and rosettes. It is carried before the coffin to indicate the status of the deceased, Wayne. Very fitting for Sister Bega.’

  ‘But not for politics, sir?’

  ‘No, Wayne. Not for politics.’

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