Authors: Nicholas Rhea
‘Well, in my view, she died in very unnatural circumstances, Montague. What we need is a second opinion.’
‘He was the second opinion, Mr Horsley, and he got two supporting opinions from his colleagues. Imagine trying to prosecute someone for murder if four pathologists state the death was from natural causes!’
‘So, what do we do now?’ asked Horsley, deflated by the news.
‘I’ll have to report to Jack Hart. He’ll wind up the enquiry.’
‘There’s no time like the present,’ said Horsley.
Montague lifted the handset to call his boss, Detective Superintendent Jack Hart, at Force Headquarters.
He was still in his office and listened with interest. ‘Fine, great news, Montague,’ he oozed. ‘End of enquiry, eh? No murder, therefore no murder enquiry. The Chief’ll be delighted — that’s one less major enquiry to run away with his precious funds and no undetected murders to fret about in the annual statistics. Close down, Montague, terminate the enquiry, disband the detectives and close the Incident Room. Organise a press conference for tomorrow morning to tell the public and start wrapping everything up.’
‘But there’s that other death, sir, in Fossford, it was a murder ...’
‘That’s not your problem, Montague. Pass any files you have collected to Boddy and Sole and let them sort it out.’
‘But we were getting close to a possible ring of pornographic-film-makers, sir, our enquiries were beginning to bear fruit ...’
‘That’s not the sort of enquiry that demands a full murder Incident Room and teams of detectives, Montague. That’s for the Porn Squad. Tell them what you have discovered, let them see the files and get them to sort it out.’
‘But the body, sir, the girl who was found in the Druids’ Circle, she did not die a natural death ...’
‘I thought the forensic pathologist said she had?’
‘Well, it was a natural death, sir, but in very unnatural circumstances.’
‘That doesn’t make it murder, Montague. The death itself was natural, irrespective of what happened to the body afterwards. What we might be left with is a minor offence under the Burial Laws or something similar. Tell the duty inspector about that aspect of things, then have a word with the coroner about these findings and get him to authorise burial. And that’s it, Montague. It’s over. No murder. That’s good news for our crime stats.’ And Hart replaced the telephone.
‘What’s he say?’ demanded Horsley.
‘We’re to close down. He says I must tell the coroner and close down the enquiry because it’s no longer a murder investigation,’ said Montague with some sorrow.
‘What a shame, I was beginning to enjoy this, Montague. I thought we were on the trail of her killer ...’
‘Somebody was involved in that death, Mr Horsley, and in my view it was totally unnatural; whatever happened to that girl was not natural, her body was hidden and her car destroyed.’
‘But if it’s not murder, our role is over, Montague.’
‘The town will not like it. This is a clean-living town full of decent people who wouldn’t want dirty films being made surreptitiously in their midst. If a girl dies like that within our boundaries, we should be able to track down those responsible, murder or no murder.’
‘The porn business can be dealt with by the Porn Squad,’ said Horsley. ‘The question of an unburied body at the Druids’ Circle can be left to the town sergeant, as can the problem of the unauthorised taking of the car and its firing. That’s assuming of course that the body was taken to the Druids’ Circle after death. We don’t know that for sure, do we, Montague? She might have died there, in the nude, without anyone else being present or involved. People do frolic nude in woods and glades, for reasons best known to themselves. And on top of that, the countryside is full of rubbish which includes burnt-out cars taken by joy-riders and the like, this one’s no different. But if there is no murder, we need not hang on to her body, which means the girl can have a decent burial once the coroner gives the go-ahead. She deserves that, at least.’
‘In isolation, those matters are each of relatively little importance, I will agree with you on that,’ said Montague. ‘But placed together they create something infinitely more sinister.’
‘Montague? You are not reading more in to this sequence of events than necessary, are you? Look at it this way — let us say the girl died in the chamber of the Druids’ Circle. She went in there, lay down and died, leaving her clothes in the car. Some yobbo comes along and nicks the car, as they do, used it for a joy ride and burnt it afterwards — like they do. Yobbo and death are not linked in any way. Nasty coincidences, no more than that. I agree it’s not very nice, but it is still not murder. She died from natural causes, Montague. That is beyond dispute.’
‘The man who found the body was murdered, let us not forget.’ Montague spoke solemnly.
‘Another nasty coincidence. We have no proof that his death is linked to hers, have we? If he hadn’t found the body, someone else would have done.’
‘I do feel there are links between the deaths. Certain similarities ...’
‘Forget it, Montague, it’s over. I’m sorry if you were hoping to solve the crime of the century, but this is not the time. Shall I break the news to the teams?’
‘Yes. Call them in. I’ll explain.’ But Montague Pluke was unhappy about this development.
‘And you will explain to your sergeant?’
‘Yes, in due course. I have sent Detective Sergeant Wain home, he had a very exhausting night.’
‘So I understand!’ breathed Horsley who had heard of Wain’s exploits. He got up to leave the tiny office. ‘You know, Montague, I was looking forward to seeing this enquiry through to its conclusion. You were making a decent job of it.’
‘I have not finished yet.’ said Montague with determination.
‘Not finished. What do you mean?’
‘Any murder enquiry turns up a lot of dirt in any town or village; we discover the undercurrent of life, Mr Horsley, and our investigations to date have shown there is a filthy underbelly to Crickledale. Sordid things have clearly been going on right under our noses ...’
‘But if we do not get complaints, then it does not concern us. And we have not had complaints, have we?’
‘As a law enforcement officer, I think it does matter and it does concern us.’
‘We are not the keepers of public morals, Montague,’ Horsley reminded him. ‘Sin and crime are not necessarily the same thing.’
‘Someone helped to remove that girl’s body from No. 15 Padgett Grove in the belief she had been murdered, I am convinced of that,’ Montague said. ‘And if those persons believed they had murdered her, then, in my eyes, that is tantamount to murder. It was murder in their minds.’
‘Or accidental death followed by panic?’
‘The answer lies in Crickledale, Mr Horsley, and it is linked to the death of Stephen Winton who was involved in our case. I am going to find the answer, whether or not the Chief allows this investigation to proceed.’
‘I hope you find the answers you want, Montague,’ said Horsley, rising to his feet. ‘Right, I’ll set about recalling the officers. A briefing in, say, an hour?’
‘Yes, that will be very suitable,’ sighed Montague Pluke.
*
Detective Superintendent Jack Hart rang Detective Inspector Boddy at Fossford and said, ‘John, the woman in the Crickledale enquiry died naturally. So it’s no murder out here in the sticks. How’s that affect things at your end?’
‘Our only known link between Winton and the Crickledale death was his finding of the body. And if that body was not murdered, there might not be a connection between his death and the events at the Druids’ Circle.’
‘Can we dismiss any likely links then?’
‘Not according to your man Pluke. He thinks Winton was involved in her death.’
‘But if her death was not murder, then how is that relevant?’
‘Pluke insists that someone else was involved with her death, but in spite of that, I do need information from Crickledale, sir. There could still be a link between Winton and that girl, and with her death and his death, and with the filming of pornographic acts. We found a lot of pornographic photographs and negatives in his flat; he’d taken them for magazines. We found acceptance notes and statements of accounts for them. Some might contain pictures of your dead girl and her friends.’
‘Fine, so there could still be a link? We’ll co-operate with your lads, but I’ve stood down our Incident Room at Crickledale. No murder means no investigation, and no expenditure. Liaise with Pluke; he’ll give you every assistance to examine our files and he’ll tell you if any of the girls in Winton’s pictures is our deceased.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
*
That same evening, the coroner for Crickledale and District ordered the release of the body of Tracy Bretton and asked that the relatives be informed that the death was natural. It meant that her funeral could proceed. Detective Inspector Pluke pushed a note through Wayne Wain’s letter-box to announce these developments, because there was no response to his knocking. Wayne was in a deep and refreshing sleep.
Tomorrow would be Saturday which, along with Sunday, were Pluke’s usual scheduled rest days. Under normal circumstances, he would have taken them off, but not during a murder enquiry; as things stood, he would have to go in to the office to wind up the enquiry. Wayne Wain, however, could have the weekend off, so Pluke included that in his note. He said he would see Wain on Monday morning in the office.
Somewhat disappointed by events, Montague Pluke left for home, raising his panama to the ladies of the town
en
route
and bidding good-evenings to everyone he encountered. It was not a very pleasant walk, he felt; the air was oppressive and the atmosphere sticky. Thunder was still a threat but had not yet arrived; the air was thick with thunderbugs and replete with an ominous feeling. He found that his shirt collar was sticking to his neck and that he was perspiring. As he walked briskly homewards, he realised that the skies were blackening and dark clouds were moving from the west. Rain — and a storm — was clearly due. It was with some relief that he entered the house, where he planted a kiss on the cheek of his loving wife who asked, ‘Had a nice day, dear?’
‘Not really,’ he replied, hanging up his panama and coat.
‘Well never mind, it’s the Local History Society meeting tonight and you are speaking to them, remember!’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Perhaps something about the murder enquiry? I know our members would love to hear from someone on the inside of a major investigation, Montague.’
‘You know I cannot divulge professional matters to the public, Millicent. I might tell them about that series of Yorkshire civic horse troughs. Did you know that several have Roman numerals carved on the front? Fascinating troughs, lots of riveting information for a thrilling lecture, Millicent.’
‘As you say, dear, I know you do not like talking about police work.’
‘One needs to get away from the pressures of office, Millicent,’ said Montague Pluke. ‘Now, we might have to consider taking the car, it looks the picture of rain outside.’
‘It was forecast, dear,’ she said. ‘Heavy showers with thunder in places. I hope it doesn’t prevent our members turning out to listen to you.’
The thunder started to rumble as Montague was settling down for his meal and he looked out of the window. The rain began to beat down with all the ferocity that a sudden storm could produce and within seconds the road outside had the appearance of a river. And then the lightning flashed, to be followed by another roll of thunder.
‘Thunder on a Friday means the death of a great man,’ said Montague to Millicent.
*
Millicent wondered whether she should tell Montague of the gossip about events at Cyril’s and May’s bungalow, and about the demands of Mrs Councillor Farrell, but decided that he was not in a very good mood at the moment. Perhaps he would mellow by this evening?
But she did wonder whether Crickledale had any great men, and whether one of them was about to die. Unless it was an omen about the Prime Minister.
Due to the unsettling news from the forensic pathologist, Montague Pluke’s concentration was not one hundred per cent upon the subject of his lecture. Somehow, tonight’s discourse on ‘The Civic Horse Troughs of Yorkshire’ was not as riveting as it should have been, because his mind persisted in wandering towards the Druids’ Circle and its naked mystery. The puzzle which embraced the turmoil of the girl’s last hours would not eradicate itself from his brain and compelled him to struggle with his talk in an attempt to make it fascinating. As he forged ahead, he gained a distinct feeling that his audience was not particularly interested in civic horse troughs, a shame because tonight’s attendance was greater than usual in spite of the weather. Montague attributed this to his own drawing power, but in fact numbers were high because several wives had insisted upon being accompanied by their husbands due to fears about the rampant murderer/rapist who was at large in the Crickledale district.
Montague lumbered among the lighter gems of his subject in a vain hope of creating some sparks of interest. He explained how, in Roman times, the civic leaders of the invaders had commissioned ornately carved stone troughs to be installed outside their palaces for the sole use of their horses. Horses belonging to lesser mortals were not allowed to drink from that water. Troughs were plentiful in the market squares of Roman villages, then known as the forum, but few had survived.
During the first century AD, there had been a particularly fine specimen at Verulamium, now known as St Albans, but no trace remained and perhaps the most noteworthy was a Roman stone trough at Habitancum which bore a carved figure thought to be that of Vercingetorix, the Gallic leader defeated by Julius Caesar.
Another trough of note in more modern times was that which Queen Victoria had ordered; it was a specially made cast-iron edifice with a triple bowl and brass fittings. It bore the royal insignia and had been placed near the gates of Buckingham Palace for the refreshment of her horses and only her horses. Common horses could not enjoy the royal water and in fact, one of the royal coach horses would never pass that trough without halting for a swift intake of a gallon or two. Others of renown included the Byzantine trough of Birmingham, an elegant five-holer known as the Quinquetrough of Killiecrankie, the Italian-style horse trough outside the medieval town hall in Bradford, and one of Dutch design near Hull docks.
‘Thus the humble horse trough embodies all that is great in the history of our splendid country. It is, in fact, a permanent record of the development of Great Britain,’ was Montague’s finale, and he accepted the polite applause of his audience with his customary grace. He announced he had a selection of his photographs if anyone wished to inspect them — they were laid out on a table behind him, each endorsed with details of the trough portrayed. He’d also brought copies of his book which was for sale, autographed, at the discount price of £3.50. Finally, when he said he was prepared to answer any questions, one gentleman raised his hand and asked, ‘Have you arrested that bloke what killed that lass, Mr Pluke?’ It was Jim Bealey speaking from the back row.
‘Well, Mr Bealey, this is hardly the place to ask that question, particularly as it is not linked to the history of civic horse troughs ...’ he began but was immediately interrupted by the chairman of the meeting.
‘Crickledonians would like to know whether you’ve caught him or are likely to catch him, Mr Pluke,’ said the chairman, Arthur Norris. ‘There is much concern in the town, I might add. Great and deep concern in fact. We appreciate there are matters of professional secrecy in a major investigation of this kind, but the townspeople are very alarmed and worried. I mean to say, if there’s a maniac murderer and rapist at loose among us, nobody’s safe, our wives, daughters and girlfriends are at risk, Mr Pluke. That’s why some menfolk have come tonight, to protect our women.’
This diversion was most irregular and Montague Pluke was uncertain how to frame his response. The fact that Tracy Bretton had died from natural causes had not yet been made public and he felt it was unfair to reveal that to the Local History Society before any official announcement was made. The police and the public should be first to know, not the Local History Society. The formal announcement was due in the morning, at the press conference and so, after a moment’s thought, he adopted a truly diplomatic response. ‘Mr Norris, we are conducting thorough enquiries and have made very sound progress. I shall make an important official announcement tomorrow morning.’
‘Aye, that’s mebbe so, but have you arrested anybody?’ persisted Mr Bealey.
‘No, we cannot arrest anyone until all the facts have been gathered and assessed,’ countered Pluke. ‘We need evidence before we can arrest a suspect. We need to be sure we have arrested the right person. In any murder investigation there are many suspects, most of whom are eventually eliminated from the enquiry. It’s a long process, one that’s very delicate. We cannot proceed to arrest those who we feel are guilty unless we have very firm evidence of their guilt to present to a court of law.’
‘There’s that bloke in Fossford an’ all,’ continued Bealey. ‘Him that was murdered. I heard it on the news. And he found that lass at the Circle. Two dead, eh? Two with links with yon circle of old stones. So how many more, Mr Pluke? How many more must die before they catch the bloke who’s doing it? As ratepayers, we need to feel safe in our beds. Well, council tax payers. Anyroad, they should bring back hanging, that’s what I say.’
‘All I can suggest is that we all wait until tomorrow’s announcement.’ Pluke found himself sweating as the audience began to grow restless in their concern about the harrowing events in Crickledale. He felt he had to quell any disturbance before it developed into a full-blown riot. ‘Now, any questions about horse troughs? Are you sure how, when and why the first drainage holes were incorporated in troughs made from stone?’
‘You’d have been better talking about them murders, Mr Pluke,’ said Bealey, rising from his seat to leave the premises. ‘It would have done us all more good.’
‘Well, if there are no more questions ...?’ The chairman stood up. ‘I will ask Mrs Gurden to propose a vote of thanks to our esteemed speaker, Mr Montague Pluke.’
‘I think he ought to do summat about those goings-on on the cricket field,’ muttered a woman from one of the centre rows. She managed to voice her complaint in a moment of utter silence as the applause faded, before Mrs Gurden, her back as troublesome as ever, could struggle to her feet to proffer the formal vote of thanks. And even though she had not intended her comment to be broadcast to the audience, Pluke heard it.
‘Not more thefts from the pavilion, Mrs Holtby?’ he asked her before the chairman could formally bring the meeting to a close, simultaneously recalling one of his major investigative triumphs.
‘Thefts, Mr Pluke?’ There was a note of provocation in her voice. ‘Nowt so simple as that. No, this is sordid stuff, immoral behaviour, carnal goings-on. Not the sort of behaviour you expect on the cricket pitch of a town like Crickledale, even in modern times. Indecent exposure if you ask me, all of them folks cavorting about in their birthday suits up and down between the wickets and in and out of the pavilion at full moon ... nudists, I reckon, from a caravan rally or summat. Your men should be stopping all that sort of thing. It’s not decent, allowing that sort of thing in Crickledale, especially before a cup match.’
‘We have had no complaints ...’ began Pluke, wishing to explain that the police could not take action unless there was a formal complaint.
‘I should think not, all of them fellers ogling those young women, husbands of folks who ought to know better. You’d not expect fellers to complain about nude women cavorting on their cricket pitch, would you?’
‘Well, er, some might ...’
‘That sort o’ thing would fill the spectators’ gallery in no time if it happened in daylight. By, I don’t know, things is changing and not for the better if you ask me.’
‘I note your concern, Mrs Holtby, but which men were ogling them?’
‘Them that lives around the cricket field for a start. I know all about it, my Stan told me ... disgusting it is. Was. Behaviour like that. Naked as the day they were born, some of them women. And being filmed an’ all.’
‘Filmed?’ questioned Pluke.
‘Aye, some had cameras and lights.’
‘Well, all I can say is that if we get a complaint from the cricket club, or even from a member of the public, we shall investigate the problem.’ Pluke was proud of the diplomatic streak he was displaying right now ‘And I assure you, Mrs Holtby and everyone else, that once the Crickledale police do get a formal complaint of improper conduct on our cricket pitch, it will be investigated with the full weight of the law. I might add, however, that the cricket club and its grounds are private property and the police do not have complete jurisdiction over all the events which occur there. There are certain practices, some of which might involve consenting adults, which may occur in private without penalty, but which may become illegal if they were in a public place, like being nude in certain circumstances, whether or not there are consenting adults.’
As Montague waffled on, everyone looked at Mrs Holtby, wondering if she would dare to state formally that she would make a complaint about the matter, but she shook her head.
‘Will you make an official complaint, Mrs Holtby?’ Pluke directed the question specifically to her.
‘Nay, Mr Pluke, not me. You won’t get me having my name put down in police records. Besides, I never saw nowt, it’s just what I heard.’
‘Well.’ Pluke smiled. ‘I suggest that whose who are concerned should have a word with someone in authority at the cricket club or perhaps a householder in one of the houses which overlook the ground, and ask a responsible person to make a formal complaint to us at the police station. The matter will then be investigated, taking into account all that happened and, of course, basing any action upon the criminal law relating to that particular subject.’
That solid statement seemed to have the desired effect because there were no more questions, no more comments — and no formal complaint about frolics on the field between the stumps, near short leg or close to silly mid-on. Christine Gurden thanked Mr Pluke for his fascinating account of Yorkshire horse troughs and said that his revelations would make her excursions on to the moors and into the dales much more interesting in the future. She had no idea that Roman horses were so particular in their drinking habits or that there was so much to know about horse troughs. She was particularly interested to hear that an early horse trough in Scarborough had once been supplied with the original spa water. By drinking it, the horses of the time had produced superb shining coats and could gallop all day on one fill-up. It worked some wonders for humans too.
Following her remarks, the gathering dispersed. As the people returned to their homes, Montague gathered up his notes and photographs, thanked the officials for their hospitality and walked away with Millicent on his arm.
‘You were so good, Montague,’ she oozed. ‘You spoke with such authority and your knowledge is astonishing. I was so proud of you.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ He smiled in the darkness as they moved steadily through the deserted streets of Crickledale. ‘But I felt the minds of most of the members were upon the murder and not upon the subject of my discourse.’
‘That is not surprising, it is big news, Montague. There is concern in the town. I know you hate to talk about your work, but these crimes have upset a lot of people. Women dare not go out alone at night — you saw how many had husbands with them at the meeting.’
‘I wish someone would make complaints to us if they are worried about events and goings-on in the town. There has been no complaint about those people prancing about on the cricket pitch. How can we undertake our duties if people do not keep us informed? How can we protect the public if we do not know what they need protecting against?’
‘They probably don’t want to bother you, with you being so busy keeping crime down. I mean, frolicking naked on the cricket pitch is hardly a criminal matter, dear, and from what I heard, some of those who witnessed it thought it was hilarious, not the sort of thing to complain about to a hard-worked police force.’ She wondered what some of the men must have looked like and what position the stumps were in at the time of the frolicsome cavortings.
‘You knew about it?’ He sounded shocked.
‘Well, yes, we ladies do keep informed of things that happen in the town, you know. Our meetings are important for that reason, we do keep up to date.’
‘But you did not mention it to me, Millicent!’ And he sounded shocked and hurt.
‘You always insist on keeping your police duties quite apart from your domestic life, Montague, so I did nor feel I should trespass upon your off-duty time. I do not like to worry you with such things when you are relaxing after a hard day’s work.’
‘Well, there could be exceptions in exceptional circumstances ...’
She could not miss this opportunity. ‘Montague, I would like to mention that there is a lot of concern about May’s and Cyril’s house, all that activity in recent times, and that murder of the girl, and whether she is their niece ...’
‘What activity precisely?’ he pressed her.
‘Well, Mrs Peat from No. 14 saw all sorts ...’
‘Saw all sorts?’