Authors: Nicholas Rhea
She had been drafted in to supervise the secretarial work and he wanted her to produce the necessary stationery and equipment for his office. He felt it might be beneficial to have his name on the door too and would ask her to bring a name-plate. The next most important job was to convene a conference of detectives. He calculated that all the detectives would have arrived within an hour and decided that, in the meantime, a cup of tea was needed. He found Mrs Plumpton unwrapping brown paper parcels of witness statement forms and asked her to make the tea before she got too involved with other things. And he would have his lunch while enjoying the tea. But then came a telephone call from the Control Room.
‘Inspector Pluke.’ It was Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield. ‘I’ve received a radio message from the murder scene, it’s DC Bray. He has found a gentleman’s glove; it is outside the Druids’ Circle and appears to have been discarded recently. He wants you to be informed and to make a decision about its examination and disposal.’
Pluke thought for just a moment, then said, ‘Tell him I will come immediately. Leave it where it is for the time being.’
Within two minutes, Pluke had located Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain and, forsaking the cup of tea and a chance to have lunch at his desk, was soon being driven back to the Druids’ Circle by him.
When they arrived, the entire site was encircled with metres of yellow tape and guarded by uniformed constables. After Wain had parked the car, Pluke quickly located DC Bray. ‘Ah, Detective Constable Bray.’ He beamed. ‘You have something to show me?’
‘A glove, sir, for a male person, leather, black, right hand, size nine, soft lining, good quality, good condition.’ DC Bray had been a former soldier, Pluke recalled.
‘And what makes you think it might be relevant?’ asked Pluke.
‘The glove is damp, sir, but otherwise in very good condition. It has not been here long, sir. One can sense that by its general appearance. It rained gently last night, sir. I have checked the state of the weather at this place. The glove is made of leather, sir, good quality and I deduce it was dropped very recently.’
‘Not by a policeman, I trust, DC Bray!’ There was a smile on the face of Detective Inspector Pluke. ‘But good work and good thinking. Now perhaps you will lead me to it?’
Using a route which had clearly been approved by the detective sergeant in charge of the scene, Pluke and Wain followed DC Bray around the outer stones to a point beneath a beech tree.
The woodland floor was clear of briars and other vegetation at this point, but there was a covering of dead beech leaves, a legacy of last autumn.
‘There it is, sir.’ And, standing to attention, Bray pointed to the glove.
‘You have not moved it?’ asked Wayne Wain.
‘No, Sergeant, it has not been touched. The facts were acquired without having to move it, sir.’ The glove was lying on its back with the label exposed near the wrist.
‘Any other clothing nearby?’ asked Wayne Wain.
‘No, Sergeant,’ chanted Bray. ‘We have conducted a meticulous examination of the locality but there are no other items of clothing, male or female, within a twenty-metre ring around the Circle. And no footprints either, sir. The covering of dry leaves has prevented anyone leaving footprints. The leaves are damp, sir, under the surface, but dry on top, today’s sunshine has dried them on top, sir.’
‘Very good work, DC Bray,’ Pluke congratulated him. ‘Now, have you recorded the precise position of the glove?’
‘I have, sir, and had it photographed. Twenty metres due north of stone number nine on our master plan of the site and eighteen centimetres from the base of this beech tree which can be identified by the scroll and heart carved on the trunk, western side. Unmistakable, sir.’
Pluke then asked Bray to mark the position for the record. He did so with a dagger-sized piece of pointed plastic bearing the number 67 and then, lifting the glove carefully, placed it in a plastic exhibits bag.
‘DC Bray, this is a very important piece of evidence. I shall have it examined with a view to tracing its origins and its owner. Thank you for your diligence.’
‘It is good to be of service, sir.’ And Bray stood to attention as Pluke and Wain walked away bearing their trophy.
During their return to the office, Pluke said, ‘Wayne, this glove might be a very important piece of evidence. We must not inform the press at this stage — we do not want the owner to dispose of the matching partner. We must determine the name of the manufacturer, the point of sale and, if possible, who bought it.’
‘We must be careful, sir, we cannot be certain it was dropped by the killer. We should not spend too much time and money on the glove if it is not known to be relevant. Isn’t it odd that someone should wear gloves, thick leather gloves like this, in the height of summer? Very few people wear gloves in summer, especially not men, sir.’
‘Criminals wear gloves to conceal their fingerprints, Wayne. Most criminals are not blessed with brains, as we know — so might our villain have been hoping to conceal his prints by wearing this glove? Maybe he used it when driving a car to the scene to dispose of the body? Or when carrying the body!’
‘That is possible, sir, yes, I agree.’
‘Anything is possible and if this is possible, Wayne, we must consider that possibility. I believe the glove is important. Gloves can be identified by the grains of the leather, rather like fingerprints. This is a very important piece of evidence, Wayne, so it’s a good action for our teams — have someone trace the source of that glove and, if possible, identify the owner. Now let us get back to the office. Our tea will be getting cold and I haven’t had my lunch.’
*
When Millicent walked into town to do some shopping after lunch, she noticed Gertrude Nettlewren emerging from the hairdressers with a hairstyle that looked like a wasps’ nest.
‘Your hair looks very nice,’ Millicent oozed. ‘But you weren’t at the lunch?’
‘No, Moses wants me to join him at the Magistrates’ Association Dinner tonight and the only time I could get an appointment for my hair was over lunch. I was so sorry, I did ring Mrs Councillor Farrell.’
‘You missed a treat, Gertrude,’ said Millicent. ‘There’s all that stuff about May’s niece having parties at the bungalow ...’
‘I saw the van the other day, Millicent, they were taking cameras in. It must have been a very special party, mustn’t it, if they were taking cameras and tripods in. I mean big cameras, Millicent, the sort you’d expect for a television programme.’
‘Really?’ Millicent was intrigued by this. ‘Have you time for a cup of tea at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe?’
Montague Pluke’s first news conference did not attract many journalists because nonviolent deaths, even those with an element of suspicion, were no longer considered front-page headline news. Even though this was the greatest thing that had happened in Crickledale since the vicar ran off with both the choir mistress and the contents of the parish safe forty-six years ago, the editors in distant towns felt disinclined to commit their staff to the story. It meant a long drive into the remoteness of the moors for something which, on the strength of the advance information, might be little more than the outcome of a domestic tiff or some ribald horseplay.
But those who did arrive found themselves rewarded with a good story and an intriguing detective inspector whose photograph would soon grace their pages. Montague, having had his photograph taken complete with panama, spats and ancient, curiously shaped, buttoned-up overcoat, told the press corps about the discovery of the naked body of a beautiful blonde woman in the burial chamber of the Druids’ Circle and added that identification of the deceased was his priority.
The press loved him; they wanted lots of pictures of him at the Druids’ Circle complete with magnifying glass in a sort of Sherlock Holmes scenario, but he resisted, saying this was a serious matter and it was a description of the girl they should be publishing. He knew that the story of her death would create useful publicity, even if it was of tabloid standard and content.
There was no doubt the story would be elevated from a routine piece of news about a puzzling death to something salacious laced with mystery and magic in an abstruse setting. The journalists who were present would ensure the story reached the nationals, while those editors who had not bothered to despatch a journalist would now be regretting it. Some were even forecasting that if the investigation did become a long runner, Montague Pluke would become a TV star. On those occasions when there was no further news about the investigation, they would concentrate on the life and work of Montague Pluke. At this stage, of course, they knew nothing of his horse trough expertise. That alone might make a TV series ...
When the journalists asked Montague to specify the cause of death, however, he truthfully said he did not know and that a post-mortem was to be conducted, although he did confirm that it was suspicious. To add words to their stories, he told them that fifty detectives were engaged upon the enquiry, many of whom would be making house-to-house enquiries in Crickledale and the neighbouring villages. As questions were asked about the Druids’ Circle, he found himself stressing that witchcraft, a black mass sacrifice and a ritualistic killing were unlikely, although death resulting from sexual activity could not be ruled out. Having said all that, he qualified it by adding, ‘We are keeping an open mind.’
Even though Montague emphasised that the Circle was a fake, a couple of photographers persisted in their desire to take pictures of it, some with Montague standing either at or near the phallic symbol or at the entrance to the cavern or near the sacrificial altar, but he declined every invitation.
He had no wish to trivialise the enquiry, but the Force press officer agreed to accompany the photographers to the scene for a picture session without Montague Pluke. Their presence could be tolerated under supervision, even while examination of the scene was under way. In fact, a photograph of police officers searching the scene would make a good picture, while the necessary scientific restrictions would be heeded. In all Montague felt, it was a good and useful news conference and the resultant publicity might produce someone who could identify the deceased. Surely that lovely girl had been missed by her family and friends?
Very soon after the journalists had departed to meet their deadlines, the result of the post-mortem was telephoned to Montague. It produced a dilemma because Mr Meredith could not determine what had caused her death, which meant that further tests would be necessary. Some of her organs would have to be despatched for forensic analysis, or at least a second opinion.
‘Are you saying she’s been poisoned?’ Pluke asked Mr Meredith.
‘I’m not saying that because I do not know,’ admitted Meredith. ‘Drugs, poison, some other cause. You need an expert analysis, Mr Pluke. All I can say is that I can find no evidence of an unnatural death. It seems she died from natural causes, that is what I am saying, but I need a second opinion. Provisionally, I believe she was asthmatic but do not know if that would cause her death. There was no evidence of sexual assault, she was not pregnant and she had never given birth to a child, although she was not a virgin.’
He went on to say that there were no external or internal injuries, she appeared to have been a healthy young woman aged between twenty-five and thirty, around one and a half metres tall (five foot four) and of average build, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. She had kept herself in a spotless condition; every part of her body was remarkably clean and she had good natural teeth. There was no foreign matter beneath her fingernails such as the assailant’s skin or hair, nor anything such as earth, dough, food or paint to provide a clue to her occupation or hobbies. Her last meal had been a salad comprising ham, lettuce, tomato and spring onions, and she took a size 5 in shoes.
‘I am sorry not to be of more help, Mr Pluke,’ apologised Meredith.
‘We do have something.’ Pluke smiled, admittedly baffled by this outcome. ‘We know her death is suspicious — the method of disposal of the body tells us that. But thanks for your efforts. You’ll let me have the usual written report?’
‘Of course.’
Montague Pluke returned to the Incident Room to ensure these findings were entered in the file and on the computer, and to inform his officers. Even without a known cause of death the investigations would continue and in any case it would soon be time for the first conference of detectives. A check with Mrs Plumpton revealed that all had now arrived in response to their call-out; most had gone to the canteen for something to eat before their evening’s duty, but they could be assembled in the Incident Room within a few minutes. Pluke suggested a meeting at six o’clock; it was amazing how the afternoon had flown, and as he glanced at his own watch he realised that Millicent would have his evening meal ready.
He also realised he had not told her of his unexpected commitment, so he decided to hurry home before the conference of detectives.
There was just enough time to do that and he told Wayne Wain of his intention.
*
‘Had a nice day, dear?’ asked Millicent as he walked into the kitchen to plant his routine kiss upon her cheek, taking care, as always, to stand in front of her in order to achieve this display of purest love. To kiss someone upon the nose, even accidentally, is said to bring trouble between the pair, and to kiss someone while leaning over that person’s shoulder was tantamount to stabbing him or her in the back. And Montague had no desire to create trouble between himself and Millicent, nor did he wish to imply he wanted to murder her.
Millicent was a tall lady and rather slim, although the clothes she wore — old-fashioned cover-up-everything pinnies, shapeless skirts and home-made jumpers when in the domestic mood — obliterated any shape of which she might be proud. With grey hair, curled and worn short above the ruddy-red cheeks of a countrywoman, plus rounded, tortoiseshell-framed spectacles which had thick lenses to compensate for her short-sightedness, she was not a very handsome woman. But she loved Montague, even to the extent of tolerating his dress sense.
‘Very interesting, dear,’ said Montague, having delivered his kiss and hung up his hat. ‘I found a new horse trough.’
‘How exciting,’ she bubbled as she took the casserole from the oven. ‘That must be number 350? You’ll soon reach your target of 500 at this rate! That is good news, I am so pleased for you ... you must tell me about it.’
‘I won’t have much time,’ he apologised. ‘I have to go back to work this evening.’
‘Oh, dear. Is it important?’
‘A young girl has been found dead in very suspicious circumstances and I am in charge of the investigation.’
‘A murder? And you are in charge? Oh what a huge responsibility, Montague. And how awful for you, for the town. I hope it doesn’t stop the tourists coming. What dreadful things happen these days.’ She began to spoon the contents of her dish upon his plate. ‘You do work so hard, Montague, you could do without this sort of thing when you are trying to keep crime down.’
‘I am not referring to it as a murder, dear, it is merely a suspicious death, but it will be quite interesting, I believe,’ he said, sitting at the table and tucking his serviette into his collar. ‘But I must admit, it would be nice to catch the killer, Millicent, if in fact that is what emerges. I am sure she met her death unlawfully.’
‘Well, you must not work too hard, and remember you promised to lecture to the Local History Society tomorrow night. You cannot let them down, they are looking forward to your visit. Now, you mustn’t go working overtime and wearing yourself out, Montague. Do sit down and relax for a while.’
As he chomped at the squares of beef in her stew, his mind was going over the events of recent days, and he asked, ‘Millicent, dear. Have you heard any more about the Crowthers? You said they were on holiday?’
‘Yes, they are. Two weeks in Majorca. May told me they were going when I saw her at the Embroidery Club. I thought I had mentioned it. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s just that I hadn’t seen either of them around for a while. I was passing the end of their Grove this morning and realised how long it had been ...’
Montague had no desire to tell Millicent about the crow and its message, so he smiled his appreciation of the news she had imparted as she continued, ‘I should think we should be getting a postcard from them soon. She has a niece, you know, who’s looking after the house while they’re away. It seems she has friends in Crickledale too, lots of them go round to visit her. She’s been having parties there.’ And she went on to tell Montague about the observations made by her circle of friends, concluding with, ‘Now, dear, do tell me about the horse trough.’
It had long been a rule of Montague’s that he did not mix his police work with his domestic life, so he pondered her words for a while, then said, ‘Yes, that could be a very interesting discovery and I intend to give it a closer examination before too long. It’s near the Druids’ Circle, that folly in the woods, close to where the body was found. I was lucky to notice it in the ditch, we’ve been past before without me seeing it. I find it very interesting that horse troughs were used on that part of the moor ...’
A little more than half an hour later, Montague Pluke was back in the Incident Room, suitably refreshed and ready to conduct his first conference of detectives. His hat was sitting on a peg beside his famous overcoat; he was now resplendent in his tight-fitting jacket with its breast pocket full of pens and pencils, his blue bow-tie, his silky waistcoat and half-mast trousers which revealed his spats.
He let it be known to the Incident Room staff that he was pleased to note that brief details of the deceased had been written on a blackboard for all to see, that photographs of her face with front and side elevations were already on display on the notice-board and that a video of the scene showing both the corpse and the surrounds was available. Wayne Wain had been busy.
Also on the notice-board was a photograph and description of the gentleman’s glove with a request that officers attempt to find the owner or, more immediately, the left-hand glove which completed the pair. Montague had issued an order that news of the discovery of the glove was not to be given to the press at this stage, since he did not want the killer to dispose of its mate. Having checked the efficiency of his teams, Montague was ready to address them.
When the group of fifty noisy, cheerful and hardened detectives gathered in the muster room for their address by Montague, he felt somewhat nervous. Most of them were very experienced hunters of murderers; most, if not all, were drafted on to every major investigation within the county, but this was the first time he had been in command of so many officers in such an important and difficult case. Montague, however, was determined not to be overawed by the drama of the occasion.
As Wayne Wain moved supportingly to his side, Montague stood on a chair, shouted in his loudest voice and, surprisingly, found that everyone lapsed into a respectful silence. Recalling Swinburne’s words that ‘Silence is most noble’, he began his address. The first part was easy. He told them of Winton’s discovery, he told them about Winton and his work, he explained how the body had been positioned in the chamber and gave a detailed description of the deceased with the local pathologist’s inconclusive assessment. He added that the body would now be subjected to forensic examination and provided a brief history of the Druids’ Circle. He referred to recent police photographs depicting what was there now, including shots of the body and the rubbish in the chamber. He mentioned the glove, showed them photographs of it and said it was the only evidence to hand at this stage — that unintentional joke resulted in a ripple of laughter in the room. It was good-natured laughter — they thought his joke was intentional. He laughed with them — it was a good moment.
Next, he said, was the long, tedious slog of routine enquiries in the town — door-to-door enquiries must be undertaken by teams of detectives, two officers per team. Montague stressed that the officers must interview the people at each house — if there was no response to their knocking, they must return to the house again and again until they got a response. No occupant must be left unvisited or unquestioned. He was thinking about the Crowthers’ house — whoever was living there had to be interviewed and seen to be alive.