‘Yes, he’s in his office. Shall I call him?’
‘Ask him to see me in about ten minutes’ time with the crime reports.’ Montague beamed. ‘We will then discuss the day’s routine.’
‘Yes, all right, Mr Pluke.’ And she left.
When she had gone, Montague rang the station’s small Control Room and spoke to Sergeant Cockfield (pronounced Cofield). ‘Detective Inspector Pluke speaking, Sergeant. Is everything quiet this morning?’
‘Yes, sir,’ responded the voice. ‘All quiet this morning. Nothing of major importance for your lads, sir, nothing since Sergeant Wain called in.’
‘No murders? Unexplained or sudden deaths? Suicides? Fatal accidents?’
‘No, sir. Just like yesterday. Not a whisper.’
‘Fine. Well, keep me informed if anything does occur, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, of course, sir,’ replied Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield., wondering if Pluke had received some kind of foreknowledge.
He’d asked those questions yesterday as if he’d been anticipating something and had done the same thing months ago. On that earlier occasion, he’d worried about an impending death, thinking he might have a murder to deal with, because an apple had stayed suspended on a tree right through the winter and had remained well into the spring. The peculiar thing was that the owner of tree had collapsed and died in the street a few days before the apple fell off. It had not been a murder, but it had been a sudden death which had shocked the town. And Pluke’s anticipation had been uncanny. Now he appeared to be repeating that exercise.
‘You haven’t been seeing apples hanging on trees in the spring again, have you?’ the sergeant added with good humour.
‘No, Sergeant, but on the way to the office yesterday morning I did see a crow perched on the roof of a bungalow. That heralds a death very soon, I should say.’ And Pluke replaced the phone.
A knock on the door announced the arrival of Detective Sergeant Wain who was Montague’s able deputy. Well over six feet tall (two metres or so), he was a thirty-two-year-old career police officer, ambitious, smart and efficient. A head of curly black hair and more than a hint of unshaven whiskers upon a tanned facial skin, appeared around the open door as Wain asked, ‘All right to come in now, sir?’
‘Yes, sit down, Wayne.’
Montague felt he could call Wayne by his first name because it sounded exactly the same as his surname. Montague Pluke was very particular in the way he addressed others, especially his colleagues whether of superior or subordinate rank. He seldom used forenames — he disliked Dave for David or Steve for Stephen. The Force was full of Daves, Steves, Kevs and the like. There were times he wondered whether there was a policeman anywhere in the United Kingdom who was called David — the newspapers always featured constables called Dave. There were lots of Daves in the Fire Brigade too.
But so far as Sergeant Wain was concerned, his father had worshipped the antics and films of cowboy actor John Wayne, and had given his son a double-barrelled name which had been a source of embarrassment throughout his life. At school, it was said of Wayne Wain that it ‘never wains but it pours,’ while little girls would chant, ‘Wayne Wain go away, come again another day.’ Now, of course, the little waindrop had blossomed into a handsome, lovable hunk of a man with film star looks and an attraction which was magnetic to women of all shapes, ages and sizes. Nobody really cared about his silly name. And Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain was determined not to let it hinder his progress — his ambition was not restricted to the laying of willing women; he wanted to become a senior detective. If he was honest, he intended to become the most senior detective in his police force: detective superintendent no less, or even deputy chief constable with special responsibility for criminal investigation.
Always smartly dressed and never afraid of long and hard work, he recognised his first step would arise from the promotion, sideways shuffle, or retirement of Detective Inspector Pluke. If or when he went, Wayne would surely fill the vacancy. Keen to show his mettle, so that his quarterly appraisals were always of the finest standard, Wayne settled opposite his boss and waited for him to speak.
‘How are things, Wayne?’
‘Quiet just now, sir.’ Wayne wore a beautifully cut dark-grey suit, a pink shirt and a red tie.
‘Any overnight crime?’ asked Pluke.
‘A few thefts from motor vehicles, a burglary at the Co-op with a few fags and spirits stolen. I have despatched teams to investigate them. Chummy smashed the windows of several parked cars — same team, I reckon. Radios nicked and a couple of overcoats gone. Little chance of tracing the villains unless we catch them with the stuff. Travelling criminals I think, from Teesside or the north-east. SOCO went to the Co-op but there were no prints. A quick and professional job, sir, probably outsiders as well. Otherwise it’s deadly quiet.’
‘Not enough to cause concern over our crime figures, then? But it could be the calm before the storm.’
‘Storm, sir? Are we expecting trouble?’
‘There is thunder on the way, Wayne, but I refer to our duties. I have a feeling we shall shortly be told of a death.’ He spoke solemnly and Wayne realised that Montague had experienced another omen. So far as his boss’ superstitious beliefs were concerned, though, Wayne, knowing upon which side his promotional bread was buttered, did not openly ridicule them. Sometimes in private, however, he thought they were rather out-of-date. None the less, he had to acknowledge that there were times when Montague had unknowingly provided a clue to the winner of more than one horse race.
Montague had sometimes uttered, albeit unwittingly, the names of lucky colours and lucky numbers. On one occasion, when seeing six magpies together just before Thunderclap ran at Beverley with odds of 50-1, Montague had chanted ‘Six is for gold’. Upon hearing these words, Wayne had put £5 on Thunderclap which was No. 6; the horse had romped past the winning post several lengths ahead of the field and Wayne had walked home with a handsome profit. Because he had had several good wins based on Pluke’s prognostications, Wayne did not mock his boss’ quirks; after that first win, he had repeated his success during meetings at Ayr, Uttoxeter, Newmarket and Pontefract. Although Montague had not produced anything remotely likely to win the National Lottery, Wayne did take care always to listen to the words of wisdom which occasionally dripped from Montague’s mouth.
‘There are times your intuition is remarkable, sir.’ Wayne smiled. ‘I’ll await the day with interest.’
And Pluke was right once more.
Even though the thunder never materialised, there was a death.
Shortly before 11.30 a.m. that Thursday, Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield rang Montague’s office. ‘Sir,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t know how you anticipate these things, but there’s a report of a body.’
‘In Padgett Grove, is it?’ asked Pluke with a hint of anticipation in his voice as he pondered the fate of the occupants of the Crowthers’ home.
‘No, sir, at the Druids’ Circle. A young woman. Nude. The man who found the body is there, I told him to await your arrival. He will show you the body.’
‘Really? A young woman? How odd it should be at the Circle! Suspicious death, is it?’ There was a note of hope in Pluke’s voice. It seemed the Crowthers had been spared.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield. ‘This one does look very suspicious.’
‘Does it really?’ Pluke’s heart began to pound as he anticipated a moment of forthcoming triumph. ‘Sadly, it means someone has lost a dear one. It’s Thursday for losses, Sergeant. All right, I’ll go straight away and I will take Detective Sergeant Wain. We’ll use his car.’
And as Detective Inspector Montague Pluke prepared for what appeared to become the first murder investigation over which he had command, and the first in the history of Crickledale, he muttered a line from Shakespeare: ‘Murder cannot be hid long’, and then added sotto voce: ‘And neither can murderers.’
*
After s
eeing Montague off to work that Thursday, Millicent went about her domestic duties with her usual thoroughness before getting ready for the Coffee Club. She and her friends met regularly at the Coffee Pot for coffee and biscuits, and Millicent was so thrilled that Amelia Fender had something exciting to tell them about happenings at May Crowther’s house.
Chapter 4
When going about his mobile constabulary duties, Detective Inspector Montague Pluke favoured an official driver. Other persons of stature did likewise. Her Majesty the Queen, the Lord-Lieutenant of the County, the Chairman of the County Council and the Chief Constable each had an official driver. Montague, however, was acutely aware that his rank did not entitle him to a chauffeur, but because Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain always accompanied him during his crime enquiries, Montague had deemed it wise to let him drive. With his smart suits and tall, impressive appearance, Wayne could easily be mistaken for a chauffeur. Indeed, over the months Montague Pluke had come to regard Wayne Wain as his personal driver.
To be driven around by a smart young man gave Montague a distinct feeling of eminence within the police service and indeed within the town. The sight of him being chauffeured to official engagements had certainly impressed the citizens of Crickledale and there were times when he wondered if he should have a flag on the bonnet of his official car. In the light of present financial restraints, though, he felt the Chief Constable might not sanction such expenditure and he didn’t feel inclined to spend his hard-earned personal cash upon a flag. Besides, the car bonnet would need modifications to accommodate it, a further costly consideration the Force could not afford. Flag or no flag, he would be driven to the Druids’ Circle by Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain.
This arrangement both pleased and relieved the sergeant, because Montague’s driving skills were universally recognised as not being of the highest standard. All the police officers of Crickledale, members of the uniformed and plain-clothes branches alike, knew that Montague Pluke crashed his gears, had difficulty coordinating his arm movements and lacked anticipation when using the brakes, a defect which frequently manifested itself at highly critical moments. His driving was guaranteed to put other road users at risk — the term used by some was ‘hair-raising’ although Montague would have denied that. After all, he had never crashed a car and never had trouble steering or stopping his lawn-mower; furthermore, he had often said that persons of a nervous disposition should not allow themselves to be carried as passengers in motor vehicles. The more vociferous might retaliate by saying that only a raving lunatic would allow himself or herself to be driven by Montague Pluke. Puke might counter this by saying that his wife, Millicent, never objected. The short answer was that Millicent loved and respected Montague and could see no ill in anything that he did; in fact, so confident was she that she often closed her eyes when he was driving. This was in keeping with one of Montague’s favourite quotes — ‘love is blind’.
Having received clamorous complaints from experienced police officers who had accompanied him in the passenger seat, particularly those who had passed the Advanced Police Driving Test, Montague had decided he would always allow himself to be the passenger in an official vehicle. It was that momentous decision which had led to the present arrangement.
From a personal point of view, the fact that he was a passenger allowed him time to examine hedgerows, dry-stone walls, ditches and derelict buildings for signs of concealed horse troughs. Indeed, he’d found four in one day while investigating an outbreak of haystack fires, a just reward for his consideration to other road users. And now he was being driven to the Druids’ Circle.
‘You know where to find the Druids’ Circle, Wayne?’ He fastened his seat belt.
In spite of the oppressive heat, Pluke wore his ancient greatcoat and heavy suit, while Wayne Wain knew he must not dress casually, even if the sweat was pouring from him.
‘Yes, sir. In Druids’ Wood, that’s on Hunter’s Ridge,’ replied Wayne Wain.
‘It is one of the Nine Sights of Crickledale, Wayne. You knew that, did you?’ asked Pluke.
‘Yes, I did, sir, as a matter of fact.’
‘And can you name the Nine?’ challenged Pluke.
‘They comprise nine historic places in or near Crickledale, sir, places of interest to sightseers, visitors, tourists and historians. They are — the Keep of Crickledale Castle, the Vaults of the old Priory, the Crypt of St Agnes’ Church, the Bells of St Macarius Church, the ancient Nunnery of Trattledale, the Devil’s Bridge, the Tower of Turbulent Thomas, the Roman Baths and the Druids’ Circle. How’s that?’
‘Excellent, Wayne. And all are genuine, except the Druids’ Circle. That’s a folly and consequently not of any great interest,’ Pluke proffered.
‘I quite like it, sir, and some do say it occupies the site of a genuine temple.’
‘It does look impressive, I will agree to that, but it cannot rank alongside the genuine historic sites within the Crickledale district, those to which you have just referred. It was placed there as a folly, nothing more. It has had no religious, ceremonial or historic function.’
‘Yes, but with your deep interest in things historic, sir, I thought you’d have researched it ...’
‘The depth of my knowledge is primarily associated with horse trough history, Wayne, and secondly with other aspects of local history. I concern myself with the genuine article, not fakes, and most certainly not fake Druids’ Circles. I fail to see the point of studying a fake or regarding it as something historic or even of academic interest, even if it does stand on a site of some possible importance. One has to find the right balance in such matters.’
‘But surely it is now a part of our history, sir? History has to start somewhere, it has to begin at some stage of our life-cycle. Besides, the Circle is shown on all the tourist maps, it’s one of the Nine Sights.’
‘Why is it on the maps, Wayne? Why would tourists wish to visit something which is overtly false? It’s like visiting an amusement arcade to look at plastic wall decorations — they’re fakes too, made to look like the real things. Like false clay pipes and copies of horse brasses in some pubs. Cheap replicas, Wayne, not for the discerning. I live for the day when the Town Hall horse trough is formally included in the Sights of Crickledale — imagine that as the Tenth Sight!’
‘I see no reason why that should not happen, but some people find the Druids’ Circle very interesting and I do think it has a certain atmosphere. Mystique, even. Anyway, so far as your horse trough hunting is concerned, there are plenty of moorland tracks nearby, most of them disused nowadays. You might discover a long-lost horse trough or two. The horses of the past would surely need water?’
‘I’m sure there would be no troughs, Wayne. Those travellers would use moorland streams, they’d utilise natural water supplies. There are hundreds of springs on the moors and they are still producing endless gallons of purest water, even today. It means there was no need for them to spend days or weeks carving a horse trough from solid rock when there was a ready supply of water nearby. Those moorland springs never dry up, they even flowed during the winter of 1947 and the droughts of 1976 and 1995.’
‘Simple logic by simple people, sir?’
‘Simple, but not stupid, Wayne. Uncomplicated — and they were very practical. They had to work hard at merely surviving without carving horse troughs which weren’t needed. In their day, you didn’t find horse troughs for sale in supermarkets. If you wanted one, you made it yourself and if you didn’t need one you didn’t make one. There were other things to do.’
‘Quite, sir,’ conceded Wayne Wain, well and truly lectured.
The car moved smoothly away as Wayne drove from the police station yard into the traffic and along the road to the northern extremities of Crickledale. As Wayne drove, Montague Pluke aired his knowledge of the Druids’ Circle.
It was quite clear that he had researched it in some depth. He said it was built in 1840 by Lord Losky, partially to keep his estate workers employed duri
ng a particularly slack time, and partially to impress his friends and neighbours. Roughly oval in shape, its widest portion was about a hundred feet (30 metres or so) in width and its perimeter consisted of two main circles of standing stones, one immediately inside the other with some rising to more than ten feet (three metres or more) in height.
Huge crosspieces straddled them to provide an impression of Stonehenge. Two taller stones, each rising to over twelve feet (about four metres) with a massive crosspiece above, formed the Eastern Gate, which was used as the main entrance. A similar gate of smaller stones created the less prestigious Western Gate. Within the centre was what appeared to be an altar formed from a flat sacrificial stone standing on short stone pillars and this stood near a tall standing stone which was clearly intended to be a phallic symbol.
An additional asset was that it served as the gnomon of a massive sundial, its shadow ticking around the stones like a huge clock. Other standing stones adorned the central portion, and immediately inside the Eastern Gate, on the left as one entered, there was a cavern which extended deep into the hillside. This was thought to be a replica of a tomb, although it had no door. Further chambers were thought to replicate places of rest for the high priest and accompanying celebrants, while recesses around the complex provided seats for spectators and participants in ceremonial occasions.
It was clear to Wayne that Pluke knew a lot about the folly, even if he denied any special interest. He went on to say that it was surrounded by a mixture of deciduous and coniferous trees, while occupying a large glade in the woodland. There was an unmade track leading to it, but the track terminated at the Circle. Beyond lay only rough moorland without any clearly defined paths or tracks, all part of the local estate.
‘Many topographical writers have omitted the likelihood of the Circle occupying a genuine site,’ Montague went on. ‘If such a claim is true, however, it is just possible that this Circle might not be wholly false. The original stones may have been used. If that is the case, it lends a certain air of authenticity to the ‘Circle and if that were proven, I might take a more discerning interest. But horse troughs are my speciality, Wayne, and today my interest in the Circle is purely professional.’
Omens of Death Page 3
