Authors: Nicholas Rhea
For Detective Inspector Montague Pluke, the daily walk from his own fine period town house to the equally fine period police station took precisely twenty minutes — that’s if he wasn’t interrupted. He preferred to walk because it provided a period of modest exercise and enabled him to breathe the fresh air of each new day. In addition, his morning stroll offered some quiet moments during which to consider his plans for the day between greeting and meeting the people he encountered.
Among the regulars upon his route was Moses Nettlewren, the weighty and cheerful magistrates’ clerk whom he always passed near the post office. He was a large but smartly dressed man, a veritable compendium of court procedures, whose shoes always shone with much spitting and polishing as he walked towards his modest office in the court-house building. There was the Crowthers’ neighbour, the sepulchral George Dunwoody, a part-time taxi driver who had several other part-time jobs and was always on the move around the town, day and night. Montague saw him most mornings because he had a daily pick-up just outside the town hall, a lady going to work at the hospital.
He always saw Mrs Carstairs too; she was a lady with purple hair who ran Help the Aged and who repeatedly asked him for old clothes; there were the two sickly-looking Minskip children, who waited for the school bus near the Methodist chapel, and the whistling window cleaner whose name was Jasper and whose ladder he studiously avoided. Sometimes he encountered mayor, Councillor Seymour Farrell, outside the Town Hall or that delicious young woman who ran the off-licence.
Montague liked his morning walk, which carried him over the cobbled areas, through the grassy patch near the Town Hall and along the quieter roads via Tannery Lane up to the police station on its elevated site. Being a man of substance in the small town, however, meant he had to utter his daily greetings to all with aplomb and without prejudice; he spoke to the street cleaner in the same manner as he did to the mayor or the magistrates’ clerk. He was very aware that people of prominence had certain responsibilities and he was not afraid to set a good example to the townsfolk. Montague, conducting himself in an exemplary manner, was aware that his wife, Millicent, was likewise prominent in the community — she was secretary of the Women’s Institute, (Crickledale being not too large to support a WI), the Parochial Church Council, the Church Flower Group, the Local History Society, Meals on Wheels, President of the Ladies Luncheon Club
and
chairwoman of the Town Hall Entertainments Committee. Mrs Dunwoody seemed to be secretary or treasurer of all the groups that Millicent was not. But Millicent was also a member of several other organisations of importance to the town’s social standing, consequently Montague’s off-duty conduct was equally important.
For a leading citizen such as himself to omit bidding good-morning to even a distant relation of one of Millicent’s ladies would be social suicide, followed by a good deal of tut-tutting over scones and teacups. To the ladies of Crickledale such social graces mattered almost as much as their choice of hats, and such was their esteem of Montague that he had been invited to be guest speaker at many of their events. He regarded that as a measure of his own standing in the town.
Practically every group or society in Crickledale had been treated to one of his talks about the history of horse troughs. From time to time, however, certain forward-thinking ladies felt that Montague, with his unrivalled knowledge of the underbelly of life in Crickledale, should be asked to speak about the unlawful, sexy or spurious nature of life in the town. They had often felt that he could offer them a glimpse into an unknown and intriguing world, but Montague, anxious to keep his social life quite distinct from his professional duties, had steadfastly resisted. He preferred to show his collection of photographs and slides about historic horse troughs, especially those depicting the heads of carved animals, those being an integral part of the Pluke family history. There was such a trough outside Crickledale Town Hall.
After all, in his private life he was Mr Montague Pluke, author of a pamphlet about ‘The Horse Troughs of Crickledale and District since the 16th Century — fully illustrated by the author’. There was a copy in the local library. As he had so often said, bearing in mind the work of Justus Pluke, his illustrious ancestor, ‘Horse troughs are in the blood of the Plukes.’ His lifetime dedication to horse troughs was a wonderful antidote to the demands of his job and he believed that these forgotten watering places, the filling stations of a bygone era, were a vital part of local history. He felt the townspeople should be made aware of the past glories which were literally upon their doorsteps and constantly failed to understand the lack of interest he sometimes encountered.
For Montague Pluke, therefore, that morning walk, and all that occurred within its short duration, was as vital as the fresh air he breathed. A daily confirmation of his status in the community, it was also a means of starting the day in a happy and confident frame of mind, an opportunity to avoid any bad fortune that might be lurking and an opportunity to consolidate any manifestation of good luck that presented itself. It was, in addition, a splendid means of reinforcing his vital professional role in helping to keep the Queen’s Peace in Crickledale.
There was some crime in Crickledale of course, but it was kept to a very modest level in comparison with other towns of comparable size. Besides, it wasn’t every town with a population of less than four thousand that had a detective inspector walking through its market place and along its main thoroughfares every morning. During his business-like walk, he always used the left of the street, the most fortuitous side, and one of his delights was to hear the bells of the parish church as he progressed. Their musical sound was a sure sign of impending good fortune for the coming day. Usually, they began to chime as he passed the chemist’s, a welcome sound because Whistling Jasper up his ladder was invariably cleaning the first-floor windows at that time. Once, when passing the time of day with that delightful Miss Berryford from the fruit shop, he’d actually walked under Jasper’s ladder, but no bad luck had befallen him. He ascribed that to the ringing of the church bells and the fact he had made the sign of the cross with his first and second fingers the moment he had realised his lapse.
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.