Authors: Nicholas Rhea
Being already prominent in Crickledale, she had hoped she might become known as the wife of the man who solved Crickledale’s first murder enquiry and arrested a vicious killer. But it was not to be.
‘I think we should get out of the house,’ said Millicent after lunch. ‘After all, it is Saturday and you do need a break. I think a walk would be nice.’
‘And I agree, Millicent,’ sighed Montague. ‘To go hunting for horse troughs in the fresh moorland air would be most invigorating.’
‘You always said you had never been to Trattledale,’ she reminded him. ‘That deserted valley.’
‘It was going to be turned into a reservoir,’ Montague recalled. ‘It’s full of deserted farms and cottages, ruined buildings galore, but access has been closed to the public for years.’
‘That’s right, well, there was an article in the
Gazette
about it,’ she said. ‘Yesterday’s edition. I know you haven’t had time to read it, but those plans have been abandoned now that the Water Authority has been privatised, and the National Park Authority is trying to get money from the National Lottery to repair all those tumbledown houses. They’re going to revive the dale, Montague, they’re even talking of turning them into a theme park or a holiday complex ...’
‘Have you got the paper handy?’ he asked.
‘I kept it for you.’ She went across to the magazine rack in the lounge and returned with the
Gazette
, open at the page in question.
It showed a view of upper Trattledale with a hamlet comprising a ruined farmstead, outbuildings and several cottages. There were other similar ruins in the dale. Of those in the photograph, most had their roofs missing, several had walls missing too, and in every case the ruins were overgrown with vegetation. It was a picture of dereliction and desertion, the result of the dale being cleared of its resident population in readiness for the flooding which had never happened.
‘I know we have never been there and I thought we might visit the dale, to seek more horse troughs, before those plans are put into action. I mean, Montague, there could be abandoned horse troughs galore up there and if the place is going to be renovated, they might be disposed of, lost for ever, unless you record them.’
‘I intended making a visit years ago,’ he mused. ‘Then it was placed out of bounds to the public. When the Authority bought the land, they closed all the roads and cordoned off the dale.’
He quietly studied the report, examined the photographs and said, ‘Yes, I think I would like to visit Trattledale. I will enjoy a break from police work.’
‘I’ll get the car out while you get ready then,’ she offered.
He found his map of the moors, made sure he had his notebook and camera in his pocket, and then, as Millicent was locking the garage doors, picked up the newspaper to re-examine the report and to have another look at the photograph of the ruins.
It was then he noticed a crow upon the roof of one of the derelict buildings.
Montague Pluke recognised the hamlet in the picture. It was called Little Larrock and was situated deep in Trattledale. Years ago, this long-dead community had comprised a ruined nunnery, a flour mill, several farms and a handful of cottages. It had featured in some early topographical books and its subsequent fate had spawned articles in the local press and magazines, as well as the occasional feature on radio or television. As time went by, however, doubtless exacerbated by its ‘No Entry’ signs and lack of vehicular access, it had gradually ceased to be of interest and the place had become derelict in readiness for its transformation into a reservoir. But that had never happened and the dale had developed into a wilderness, a haven for wildlife.
Now that the Water Authority had abandoned its scheme, access was again permitted, with hikers and tourists visiting the ruins and exploring the neglected paths. There was a haunting beauty about the place, a hint of moorland mystery and romance. It was firmly back on the tourist trail.
Larrock was an old local word meaning skylark, a bird which frequented this isolated region. Reclining in a slightly elevated part of Trattledale, the hamlet featured in folk stories of Yorkshire because, years ago, a man had died while building one of the houses. That would have occurred some hundred and eighty years ago, but the story lingered because of a superstition linked to such an accident. It was thought that if a person died while working upon a new building, that building would always be an unhappy one and that other deaths would occur on the premises.
As a matter of local history, Montague Pluke had researched that death — the name of the deceased did not come readily to mind, but there was no doubt it had been accidental. There was no question of murder or suicide, but the house in question — the one on the extreme right of his picture — had endured a long history of sadness. Illness, bad fortune and problems with livestock and children had all come to residents of Laverock Cottage. The latest sadness, of course, had been the plan to turn the entire dale into a reservoir and thus drown the houses and fields, but in spite of the good news, it would require a lot of hard work before people could return to live there.
All the buildings were in ruins. No one could afford the cash to rebuild them and there would be problems of drainage and power supplies, but newspaper reports hinted there were those who felt that the dale’s old spell of bad fortune had come to an end. Montague Pluke feared otherwise. He knew that someone else would die in Laverock Cottage. The legend of Laverock Cottage had not come to an end. That was the message from the crow. So when had the picture been taken, he wondered? The article had appeared yesterday and the paper would require an up-to-date illustration, so it was highly feasible that the photograph had been taken during this past week.
A new picture, in other words.
‘I think we should be careful if we plan to explore those old ruins,’ he suddenly said to Millicent, without explaining why.
‘Yes, of course, dear,’ was her response, knowing he was always careful whenever and wherever he went exploring. He had a constant awareness of the dangers of falling rocks, stones, tiles and hay-bales, especially on the thirteenth of the month. Today was not the thirteenth, yet she did not question his judgement or scoff at his caution.
Having exercised due care along their route, they arrived at the ruined hamlet shortly before three o-clock that Saturday afternoon. Millicent parked the car upon what had once been the stone floor of an outbuilding; it was covered with thistles and other plants which had found sustenance in cracks and tiny holes. Around the floor upon which she had parked every wall had gone, every vestige of windows and doors had vanished and only an occasional blue roofing slate lay among the nettles and briars. But the solid base provided a most useful parking place.
Montague, his heavy coat looking incongruous in the sultry sunshine, carried his panama in his hand as he peered at the surrounding buildings in their varying states of ruin. He was seeking the crow, but it was not here today. A few smaller birds did flit among the stones — he noticed a yellowhammer, a linnet, siskin and a family of long-tailed tits. A kestrel hovered in the distance, the smaller birds having not apparently noticed it, and as Montague began to move away from the parking base, a stoat scuttled into the undergrowth ahead of him. A wildlife haven, he thought. How marvellous. The influx of tourists would soon destroy that.
‘I’m going to examine that house over there.’ He pointed to his left. ‘That’s the one that was in the paper, Laverock Cottage.’
‘Be careful,’ she said, not mocking his earlier concern but noticing the precarious condition of some of the walls.
Montague wandered off, simultaneously scanning the landscape for indications of long-forgotten horse troughs and at the same time keeping an eye on the stonework around him. Certainly, much of it did look unsafe. Weeds and miniature trees were growing from cracks; a pair of jackdaws flew from an old chimney breast as Millicent followed his slow progress.
I think this was a farm cottage,’ he called to her. ‘Scullery, two rooms downstairs, outhouses ... and that one over there.’ He pointed. ‘That would be the farmhouse, the owner’s place. I’ll bet there is a horse trough or two hereabouts ... there must have been ...’
‘Maybe a developer has taken them away,’ she suggested. ‘And sold them in a garden centre?’
‘They’d need some hefty lifting gear to do that, and the roads to this place aren’t particularly good,’ he observed.
‘We got here all right,’ Millicent retorted. ‘And we don’t have a four-wheel cross-country vehicle.’
‘Yes, but we couldn’t take a horse trough without some help, not that we would, of course,’ he countered. ‘Now, this would be what we would call the lounge of the cottage. They called it the house. Scullery at the back, house here, where they ate, sat by the fire and lived. Two little bedrooms at ground level and a pile of stones in the corner of what used to be one of them.’
The stones were like an elongated cairn; instead of tumbling from the walls at random to form an untidy mess along the ground, these had been carefully assembled in a fairly symmetrical pile about three feet (one metre) high. The pile was slightly more than six feet (two metres) long and would be about four foot six inches (one and a half metres) wide. Thus it was oblong in shape and stood upon the grassed floor in the corner of the former bedroom. Montague noted that it was orientated east to west.
‘Someone’s arranged the stones like this,’ he said, noting that some had moss on their southern edge. ‘Neatly arranged, aren’t they? Probably stored for future use.’
‘There’s a funny smell,’ Millicent said, her nose twitching.
‘A dead animal,’ he said, then sniffed the air. She was right. There was a smell and it was the scent of death — and it was coming from this pile of stones. He thought of that crow.
‘Millicent, I am going to examine these stones,’ said Montague, and for this he removed his voluminous overcoat. He hung it, and his panama hat, on a piece of stick protruding from a standing wall.
‘What on earth for, dearest? You’ll get filthy dirty, there’s no water out here to wash your hands ...’ Millicent had seen him do this before. ‘There’s not a trough under there, is there?’
On many occasions she had watched him scrape away dirt and remove huge stones with his bare hands, especially if he thought there was a horse trough hidden beneath.
At such times he seemed oblivious to the dirt he inevitably transferred on to his hands and clothing. Today was such an occasion. Montague did not respond as he began to lift away stone after stone, each the size of one used in the building of houses and dry-stone walls. Starting at the eastern end, he tossed them into the nettles nearby. And then he found the foot. A human foot. A man’s foot, clad in a smart, highly polished black shoe ... he moved several more stones and quickly realised that this pile had been used to conceal a corpse. Did it contain a great man?
He recalled the lore of the thunderstorm, and said to Millicent, ‘Millicent, I fear I have discovered human remains, fairly recently dead, I would say, judging by the condition of the leg and clothing. Buried under this pile of stone, and he didn’t get under here either by himself or by accident. He is dead, the smell says so, there’s no way any human body could survive the crushing weight of these stones. And he didn’t crawl in there by himself.’
As if to reinforce his opinion, he shouted at the still form but won no response, then reached down to touch the leg. Baring the skin, he found it was cold, dead ...
‘Oh, Montague, what is going on around here, I ask you?’ She remained calm as she always was. ‘People will think this is the murder centre of England ...’
‘No one has said it is murder, Millicent. It might be an unauthorised burial. Now take the car, find a telephone and ring the Control Room at Crickledale Police Station. Tell them where I am and that I have found human remains of recent origin and tell them that a doctor, the Scenes of Crime department and the usual call-out personnel are required. Tell them the death is definitely suspicious. I shall wait here until they arrive. You’ll come back for me?’
Millicent bravely did as she was asked and roared away in their private car, chugging through the narrow lanes in search of a telephone, while Montague began to inspect his immediate surroundings. Ferns grew from many of the walls, these once being encouraged as a protection against thunder and lightning, but the most prolific plant hereabouts was the elder. Thickets of elder trees grew around these ruins, these berry-bearers once being planted to keep away evil spirits and to drive away warts, sore throats and fits. They were used as a deterrent against lightning too — this place was riddled with superstitious reminders. But they had not prevented the crow from settling upon the roof of this ruined cottage. That alone suggested the man had died here.
Taking his notebook and his camera from his pocket, he began to make notes about this discovery, drawing a rough sketch of the scene showing the direction in which the corpse lay, its relationship to the walls of the ruin, the width of the burial mound of stones (by pacing it) and an estimate of the height. If the size of the burial mound was relevant, it must conceal a very large person. He noted the man’s shoe was good-quality black leather and his trouser leg was black and of good-quality material too, rather like an evening suit. The sock on display was also black. The remainder was still covered up and Montague was tempted to remove the stones, but desisted, knowing that the scene must be left as nearly as possible in its original state.
As with the Druids’ Circle death, he wondered whether the body had been brought here and dumped, or whether the victim, presumably male, had been lured here and killed on the spot. Or was this merely a strange burial? All were possibilities and quite feasible — he and Millicent had had no difficulty arriving and a determined killer could easily despatch a victim in these remote surrounds, either by hitting him on the head with a stone, or by shooting, or strangling ...
As he wandered around, taking photographs and making notes, he realised this was an ideal place for death, remote, quiet, devoid of witnesses. So who would know of its existence? It was quite possible, of course, that the article in the newspaper had generated a lot of new interest, as it had done for Montague, but that had appeared only yesterday.
Until the body had been extracted from its cairn-like burial mound and identified, there was little more he could do. Millicent returned after fifteen minutes or so to announce that the police of Crickledale were
en
route
.
‘Shouldn’t we be taking those stones off him?’ she asked, as Montague wandered around with his hands behind his back, peering at interesting things.
‘No,’ he said with firmness. ‘We must leave the scene exactly as it is, that’s the only positive way of securing a complete investigation from a scientific point of view.’
‘But he might be alive, Montague ...’
‘No, dearest, he’s very dead. Dead as can be. Certifiably dead.’
‘Who can it be, I wonder?’ was her next question.
‘Someone of importance,’ he answered, thinking of the thunder and the quality of the black shoe. ‘A large man, too, I would suggest. A great man, perhaps? But I cannot hazard a guess at this stage, for we have not received any reports of missing persons in this locality, Millicent. At least, there was none when I left the office this morning.’
And so they waited, with Millicent struggling to recall a conversation she’d heard at one of her social functions.
Hadn’t someone passed a comment to the effect that a certain person had not been seen in his usual haunts? It had been a fleeting comment, one which would not normally have meant anything, but now, in retrospect, it might be important. She would try to recall who had said it, and what they had said. She took to wandering around the ruins, like Montague with her hands behind her back, as she fought to recall the words and then, as the Pluke pair perambulated, the first policeman arrived. It was a uniformed constable in a small beat car and he recognised Montague, inspected the protruding foot and said, ‘I’ll secure the scene, sir, I was sent to confirm that there was a body here ...’
‘There is a body, Constable, and it is dead; not only that, it is dead in circumstances of some suspicion, as I am sure was made clear to the Control Room.’