For the people of Crickledale, a peaceful, historic and pretty limestone-built market town on the edge of the North York Moors, Detective Inspector Montague Pluke was a regular and reassuring sight. His distinctive appearance formed a part of their daily routine as the town quickened with the beginning of each new day. Indeed, many residents reckoned they could set their clocks and watches by his progress through the streets. He would leave home at 8.30 a.m. prompt and arrive at his office at 8.50 a.m. precisely, passing the same shops, pubs, bus stops, pillar boxes and lamp posts at exactly the same time each morning. He always bade a respectful good-morning and raised his panama to those he encountered, irrespective of social status, and he would even pat their dogs or say hello to babies in prams.
At the start of each working day in Crickledale, Mr Pluke’s distinctive panama hat, with its sky-blue band, could be seen weaving its way through the morning crowds, bobbing among the headscarves and bare heads like a cork on a rippling pond and frequently being lifted high by Mr Pluke’s right hand. The hat was perhaps very slightly too small for his head because it seemed to perch precariously on top, so that his hair stuck out at awkward angles, rather like the untidy thatch of a neglected cottage. Some purists considered his hair rather too long for a senior police officer, for when Montague removed his hat he did reveal a head of very thick, dark-grey hair. Many balding Crickledonians were slightly envious, perhaps wondering if he used a secret potion gleaned from the Pluke family records, or whether he washed his hair in the water of horse troughs.
Whatever his secret, he had an astonishingly good head of hair for a man in late middle-age. However, some acute observers of the social scene considered his hair-style was not the most modern, nor was it flattering to his distinctive and strong face, but Millicent was confident that her tonsorial skills were just as professional as those of any of the local barbers. Besides, she felt that a man of Montague’s status should not have to queue for haircuts alongside farm labourers, butchers’ boys and lorry drivers. One never knew what one might catch from combs which had scraped the heads of some of the people who haunted Crickledale’s masculine hair salons.
The face beneath the Pluke hair and hat wore heavy black-rimmed spectacles over thoughtful grey eyes. The eyebrows were lush and dark to match the colour of his hair, while Montague’s teeth were his own, very white and well kept. A somewhat prominent nose protruded above a mouth which rarely smiled, while a clean-shaven, determined jaw-line hung beneath his long, rather narrow face which always seemed pink with good health, a tribute to his daily exercise.
Montague favoured expensive brown brogue shoes, enhanced with light beige-coloured spats which were a family heirloom. His great-grandfather, grandfather and father had all worn these self-same spats. Montague, however, had no children — he and Millicent didn’t indulge in the sort of behaviour that begat families — and so the destiny of the Pluke spats was a constant source of worry to him. He had often considered leaving them to Crickledale Folk Museum as it did have a small ‘Clothes of a Bygone Era’ section.
The rest of his clothing was of interest too — he always wore a very old and worn beige-coloured Burberry check-patterned overcoat. Some experts said it was the very first coat ever made by Burberry and should be in a museum, but Mr Pluke denied that, saying it was a coaching coat which had belonged to an ancestor. It had a fitted cape about the shoulders, a large collar, wrist flaps and huge pockets. In one of the pockets he carried his lunch — a cheese sandwich and an apple. He had lunch at his desk, so that Millicent could undertake her many social engagements without the worry of ministering to his needs at midday.
The famous Pluke greatcoat was rather large for Montague, but he wore it because it was a family heirloom. Like the spats, it had belonged to his great-grandfather, grandfather and father, all of whom had been rather tall gentlemen of generous width. Great-grandfather had been a coachman and had worn this coat during journeys aboard the ‘Highflyer’, but time had taken its toll. Now the wrist flaps were invariably undone because they lacked the necessary buttons; all the edges — hems, tips of sleeves, epaulettes, pockets — were worn and tattered, and the coat had what some described as a ‘lived-in’ appearance. Newcomers to the town had often commented in private that they thought he bought his clothes from Oxfam, whereas the local people knew the impressive history of the Pluke greatcoat. It had even survived two coach crashes and one fire. He thought he might leave it, like the spats, to the Folk Museum because he had sometimes visualised a full-size wax model of himself in the coat and spats after his death.
His trousers, always in need of a crease, had deep turn-ups and were very similar in colour to his greatcoat, a beige check design. The fact that they rode at half-mast meant they did reveal the full glory of his spats, which concealed his socks — a good thing, perhaps, because he favoured socks in unsympathetic colours like pink, white or yellow. Montague wore the same clothes winter and summer alike, consequently few who observed him away from the office knew what kind of jacket he preferred when out of doors, because that old greatcoat enveloped his upper torso.
His shirts were on view, however, or at least the upper portion of the breast and collars were. They were clean, neat and tidy, thanks to Millicent’s loving care and he always wore a dicky bow of sky-blue, his lucky colour. He liked to sport a white collar with his many coloured shirts — but so few shops sold collar studs these days. He sometimes congratulated himself upon his foresight in accumulating a large stock of them.
His jacket was the same colour as his trousers, rather like a faded Macmillan tartan with some wrong colours added. All his external jacket pockets had buttoned flaps, with pleats to allow the material to expand in direct proportion to the objects stuffed within. His breast pocket was always bulging with fountain pens and propelling pencils, and he sported a pocket watch and chain which he kept in a shiny waistcoat of chestnut hue. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination, therefore, could Montague Pluke be described as well-dressed or even tidy, but he was distinctive. Although he considered himself an adequately attired gentleman, Millicent had, in her younger days, attempted to dissuade him from wearing his old coat and spats, but he had rejected her pleas. He’d been emphatic that his distinctive mode of dress was part of the renowned Pluke family history — his father, grandfather and great-grandfather had worn these very clothes and he, being the last of the Plukes, was determined to uphold the family tradition until his dying day. Millicent had sometimes said he would be buried in his old greatcoat, probably in a horse trough-shaped coffin. There were times when he thought this a good idea.
Over the years, though, Millicent had come to accept that the Pluke menfolk were eccentric dressers. That character trait had extended into Montague’s early days as a uniformed constable. To the chagrin of his superiors, he was always untidy, with tunic buttons missing or undone, and pink or yellow socks showing below his uniform trousers which were too short. And none of his supervisory officers would agree that spats looked right with police uniform. Regular expressions of concern to the then Police Constable Pluke had failed to make any impression, so the Chief Constable had transferred Montague to the CID, the plain-clothes branch of the Service.
Montague, on the other hand, considered his transfer had been a recognition of his criminal investigative skills, but for his superiors it signified intense relief from jokes about the be-spatted constable, while no one could say there was anything plain about that particular plain-clothes constable. But for Montague, being a detective meant he could personalise his attire while working for the good of society.
Side-shuffling Montague into the CID had been a wonderful piece of personnel management, although his subsequent progress had not been spectacular.
But he had been lucky. Due to amalgamations of Force boundaries, there had been a vacancy for a detective sergeant and he had been the sitting tenant. He was the only available detective constable who had passed his exams, so he had won promotion. Likewise, his promotion to
detective inspector arose because none of the detective sergeants had passed their promotion exams at the time of that particular vacancy. His somewhat rapid and spectacular rise through the ranks led Montague to believe that he was a very successful detective. After all, one of his triumphs had been the arrest of a gang of teenage tearaways who were stealing cricket balls from unattended pavilions. It was a feat which had won him an invitation to Crickledale Cricket Club’s annual dinner as the guest of honour, when he had delivered a memorable talk about horse troughs in cricket fields.
It was the prevailing air of tranquillity and lack of serious crime in Crickledale that had allowed Montague Pluke to indulge in his off-duty passion of researching the history of stone horse troughs. That he was the acknowledged expert was not in doubt — he had catalogued and photographed every one which had come to his notice. To facilitate his research, he always carried a pocket camera and a notebook; many horse troughs would have vanished for ever had Montague not rediscovered them and recorded them for posterity. That had become his life’s work. Even during his morning walk to work he had identified a lost trough. He’d discovered it built into a wall of the Town Hall, having been placed there many years ago. It had been almost invisible among the surrounding stonework, but it had not escaped the trained eye of Montague Pluke — it was now catalogued.
It was amazing how few people knew that the wall of the Town Hall contained an entire horse trough laid on its side and used as a giant building stone. At his instigation, a replica had been built outside and it was now a feature of the town centre. As he passed it each morning, he experienced a glow of Pluke pride.
Upon arrival at the police station that Wednesday, he entered with his right foot first (one always entered buildings with the right foot first) but instead of going to his own office, he diverted into the Control Room.
‘Good-morning, Detective Inspector Pluke,’ beamed Sergeant Cockfield (pronounced Cofield), the officer in charge of the tiny Control Room.
‘Good-morning, Sergeant. A quick answer if you please, as I am heading for my office. Have we had a report of any sudden, unexplained or suspicious deaths since I left the office last night?’
‘No, sir,’ responded Cockfield pronounced Cofield.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Montague, departing without further comment. As he made his way upstairs to his own office, he wondered when the death would occur. That it would happen was never in doubt, so would it be tomorrow? And when it did occur, would it be murder?
*
Millicent, having dusted and then set off the washing machine containing Montague’s socks and some other woollies, rang Amelia Fender. ‘Amelia, will you be at the Coffee Club tomorrow?’
‘Oooh, yes, I will, Millicent, yes, most definitely. See you there perhaps?’
‘Yes, I just wondered if you’d heard any more about the happenings at the Crowthers’ bungalow? They are away, you know, on holiday.’
‘Oooh, yes ... I’ll tell you tomorrow, keep you in suspense till then, eh? Naughty of me ...’
Chapter 3
The following morning, a mild, damp Thursday, Montague observed there was no crow upon the roof of the Crowthers’ bungalow.
Unfortunately, that did not undo the omen of yesterday and even though he had since learned from Millicent that the Crowthers were on holiday, Montague continued to worry about the crow’s message. Had they, or one of them, been involved in an accident? There had been no plane crashes, coaches overturning on mountain roads, express trains colliding or ocean liners sinking at sea, but one of the Crowthers could, he supposed, have had a less spectacular mishap. Fallen off the Alps perhaps? Drowned in Lake Ontario?
Chattering last night, as she always did after her day’s activities, Millicent had said she thought relations were using the bungalow during the Crowthers’ absence, so had something nasty happened to one of them? His curiosity aroused and his detective acumen at its sharpest, Montague decided to make a short diversion during this morning’s walk to work. He would make a swift visit to the bungalow. In the event of an occupant responding to his knock, he would pretend he wanted to discuss the Church Flower Rota on behalf of Millicent. But there was no reply. From the garden he could peer into the lounge and there were signs of human presence — a clutch of coffee mugs on the hearth although the fire was dead, a tea towel draped over the mirror above the hearth, some shoes near a chair, perhaps cast off by someone curling up his or her legs ... and; peering through the kitchen window, there were some unwashed pots in the sink and more on the table.
Without a doubt, people were living here and they did not keep it as clean or as tidy as the Crowthers. Thus it seemed that Millicent’s information was correct. No doubt the place would be tidied up before the Crowthers returned, but whoever was staying here must have gone out early. The place seemed deserted and there was no vehicle on the drive. He tried to look into the bedroom, but the lace curtains obscured his view, although the main curtains were open, a further sign of absence.
As he walked away, curtains fluttered in several neighbouring properties and for a fleeting moment he wondered if he should bring some constables to break into the bungalow, just to determine whether or not a corpse was reclining there. But he had no evidence to justify that kind of drastic action, so he decided against it.
Montague walked away, taking in deep breaths of the balmy morning air, and arrived at his office five minutes after his usual time. He had missed bidding his ‘good-mornings’ to his regulars — but there had been a few additional greetings, plus with a good deal of speculation that something important must have happened because Mr Pluke was late. Only a matter of some magnitude would cause him to be delayed on his morning walk.
Upon arrival at the police station he was perspiring slightly due to the mildness of the morning and noted that yesterday’s threatened thunderstorm had not materialised, although there had been a slight shower overnight. It had freshened the atmosphere, but the threat of thunder remained. The swallows and house martins were flying low too, a sure sign of further rain. The sky was dark and moody — something nasty was brewing.
Upon reaching the office door and in keeping with his practice, he stepped over the threshold by leading with his right foot. Next, he hung his panama on the hat-stand inside the door, performed a rapid obeisance to the sun as it shone through his office window and settled at his desk. The office cleaner had dusted earlier this morning, as she did every morning, but she never replaced things quite as he liked them. He spent a moment or two rearranging his desk, edging the blotter a fraction to the right, the coaster for his coffee mug even a little further to the right, the plastic model of a stone horse trough (which contained his paper clips) a vestige further to the left and the pen rack six inches closer. The front edges of his in-tray and out-tray, on the extreme left and right corners of his desk, needed alignment because they lacked the necessary balance — the in-tray was at least quarter of an inch further forward than the out-tray. He corrected that deficiency and smiled at the neatness of the work surface before him. When he had completed all these adjustments, he was ready.
On his blotter lay the morning’s correspondence, much of it comprising internal circulars and memoranda, although the letters which had come by post had been opened by his secretary, Mrs Plumpton, and arranged for his arrival. The papers were held in place by a paperweight which was in fact a witchstone. This was a circular stone with a hole through the centre, one he’d found on the moors during one of his trough-hunting expeditions. He’d kept it because it would bring good fortune to him during his working days.
Known to some as a hagstone, this one, in its earlier life, would have been suspended in a house or cattle shed to keep evil spirits at bay and to ensure the good health of man and beast alike. Now, at Montague’s insistence, Mrs Plumpton always made sure she placed it upon each day’s correspondence to prevent the papers blowing away when the place was draughty, which sometimes happened when Mr Pluke opened the windows. Awa
re of his slightly delayed arrival, Mrs Plumpton came into his office bearing a mug of steaming coffee and placed it on the coaster.
‘Good-morning, Mr Pluke.’ Her chubby face crinkled with a smile as she welcomed him.
Rounded and jolly as a freshly made jelly, she loved her work in Crickledale CID. It was undemanding but interesting.
‘Ah, good-morning, Mrs Plumpton. I fear storms are on the way. I sense a bout of thunder and rain before too long, the martins are flying low.’ And he returned her smile, taking care never to appear to be too familiar with her. One’s high reputation could soon be scuppered by too-friendly overtures and he was aware that Mrs Plumpton had once had a crush on a superintendent. ‘Thanks for the coffee. Anything of import in the post?’
Montague liked the word ‘import’. It was almost as good as contravallation or pedagogic, although his favourite was rumpus. It was such an expressive word, was rumpus.
‘Nothing urgent, Mr Pluke.’ Her spacious and flowing mauve dress of gossamer-like fabric quivered and floated with her movements, performing a wonderful job of hiding the more protuberant of her ample fleshy bits. He’d often wondered what was concealed within her bounteous garments, but always tried to dismiss any erotic thoughts. As a detective inspector in a very responsible post, he had to remain aloof from that sort of thing.
‘I’ve taken some of the routine stuff away. I’ll deal with the replies and bring them in for signature as usual.’
‘Well done. Now, is Detective Sergeant Wain in yet?’
Omens of Death Page 2
