Superstitious Death

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘If what I suspect about Eric Burholme is correct, Wayne, there will be no evidence of that girl in his house. No fingerprints, no belongings, not a scrap of evidence of her presence. And he will have convincing answers designed to persuade us that he was not known to her, and that she did not come to his house. Remember, we do have his wheelbarrow, though.’

  ‘You’ve obviously got strong reasons for coming to your conclusion – you were about to explain your theories, sir, before we were interrupted.’

  ‘I was indeed, Wayne, for I think you should know my reasoning, you being my deputy. Now, this is what I have concluded. I would ask you not to discuss this with anyone else, not at this stage. When the first important piece of evidence –’

  And then the telephone rang. Wayne sighed as Pluke picked up the receiver and said, ‘Detective Inspector Pluke, Crickledale CID.’

  ‘Front office, sir,’ said the voice. ‘I’m holding a call from a man who thinks he might have seen that girl, sir. I can’t put him through to the incident room, the line’s engaged. I wondered if you would speak to the man?’

  ‘Yes of course, put him through.’

  Pluke listened as the telephone made noises which indicated a connection was being made, and then a voice said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Pluke of Crickledale CID. To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘The name’s Stanton, Mr Pluke. Jim Stanton from Quenby.’

  ‘And how can I help you, Mr Stanton?’

  ‘That lass that’s been found at Harman’s Quarry. Me and the missus might have seen her.’

  ‘Really?’ Pluke’s eyebrows registered his excitement and interest as he asked the question he felt most important at this stage. ‘When do you think you saw her?’

  ‘Saturday morning.’

  ‘Saturday?’ Pluke’s eyebrows rose even higher. ‘What time – roughly, if you can’t be precise?’

  ‘Half-ten or thereabouts, I’d say. Me and the missus were going to the supermarket in Crickledale – we thought we’d get there in good time. So we took the car and drove from our house, through Barughdale and past Harman’s Farm, then into Crickledale. She was standing on the gate, Mr Pluke, like a kid would do. You know, standing on the second or third bar and looking over the top.’

  ‘The farm gate, you mean?’

  ‘Aye, the big five bar gate.’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘Aye, she was. Nobody with her. We thought it funny because we know Eric Barholme and reckoned she wasn’t anything to do with him. We thought she might be camping in that quarry of his – lots do, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘If I despatch one of my officers to talk to you immediately, Mr Stanton, with a photograph of the girl along with her description, perhaps you and your wife could tell us if this is indeed the same person?’

  ‘Aye, glad to help. We’ll be in for the rest of the evening. We heard about it on the radio just now, BBC Radio Cleveland. On the five o’clock news.’

  Pluke then appreciated the speed at which journalists could operate – this item had probably been telephoned into the news room immediately after the conference, to catch the first available slot.

  ‘I am delighted you heard the item, Mr Stanton. And your address?’

  ‘Beckside Cottage, it’s right opposite Quenby War Memorial, Mr Fluke. You can’t miss it. We’re five miles from Crickledale, by the way.’

  ‘I know your village quite well, Mr Stanton, you have a very fine horse trough near the War Memorial, dating to the seventeenth century. A very fine specimen indeed, made of Pennine granite and bearing the arms of the Quenbys.’

  ‘We’re right proud of that trough. You obviously get around, Mr Pluke. Right, well, I’ll expect your chap when he gets here.’

  ‘It will be Detective Sergeant Wain,’ Pluke advised him before replacing the handset.

  ‘A witness, sir?’ Wain had heard only one side of that conversation and so Pluke acquainted him with the necessary facts, adding, ‘This suggests she was seen alive on Saturday, Wayne, by two witnesses. And on Burholme’s land.’

  ‘She could have slept in his outbuildings that night, or the quarry, without him knowing.’

  ‘She could indeed, but it does put her on his land on Saturday, Wain. It is our first confirmation she was alive on Saturday morning – and on Harman’s Farm.’

  ‘You want me to go immediately?’

  ‘I do, Wayne. So we’ll talk later. Isn’t this good news?’

  ‘This could be just the breakthrough we’ve been looking for,’ and Wayne Wain prepared to leave for Quenby. Minutes later he was en route.

  In an attempt to maintain the impetus in the Plukedom, Montague left his office and went through to the now quiet room and told the resident staff the good news; it meant the time chart, now prominently displayed on the wall, could be updated to show that the victim had been alive on Saturday. When the operational detectives rang in or called in for consultations, they could be notified of this development. This was the first positive evidence of the power of local radio. Pluke was justifiably pleased.

  But another call rather jolted him. It came minutes after Wain had left for Quenby. His telephone rang and when he responded, there was a young, tearful woman at the other end. She spoke with a distinctive Tyneside accent.

  ‘Is that Crickledale CID?’ she sobbed. ‘Is that the people investigating the murder of the young woman in the quarry?’

  ‘Aye, pet,’ said Pluke, slipping easily into the accent. ‘That’s us.’ He felt it might make the caller feel more comfortable if he lapsed into the local idiom; she was clearly a young woman from Tyneside – someone who had made contact with the Swedish girl perhaps? He added, ‘So how can we help?’

  ‘Well, I hope I’m not being silly, mind, but well, when I heard about the girl on radio, in the quarry that is, well, she’s just like a nun from the convent.’

  ‘Nun?’ questioned Pluke, thinking of the virginity of the victim.

  ‘Aye, man, a nun.’ The caller’s voice had ended its sobbing sounds and was getting more confident by this stage. ‘From the convent in the hills near Ponteland, you know, Sister Bega.’

  ‘I see. So why do you think the girl in the quarry grave might be Sister Bega?’

  ‘Whey, man, it sounds just like her, you know. Thirties, blonde bobbed hair, blue blouse, jeans, not much with her except a shoulder bag… I met her on a retreat I went on, she was lovely, chatty, friendly like and she said she was ganning down to Crickledale this week,’ and at this stage, the girl resumed her loud sobbing.

  ‘And who are you?’ Pluke spoke very gently.

  ‘Me? Why do you want to know my name?’

  ‘One of our officers will have to come and talk to you –’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t do that, man, no, never, not the polis…’ and the line went dead.

  Responding immediately, Pluke pressed 1471 to be informed of the number from which that call came; he was given the number, checked it and discovered it was a telephone kiosk in the suburbs of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. But at least he had a lead – a nun called Bega from a convent near Ponteland. A nun who had talked about a visit to Crickledale. But he did not have a name for the convent nor its precise address. In an attempt to determine that, he could ring either Northumbria police or British Telecom’s Talking Pages.

  He selected the latter at this juncture and after checking the list of religious organisations in the area, was informed of the existence of the Convent of Our Lady of the Hill, with an address near Ponteland. It was the only one in that area, and he was provided with its telephone number. Now, he was faced with two choices – either he could drive up to Northumberland, a journey of about two hours from Crickledale, and then knock on the door, an action that would surely alarm the sisters in residence, or he could ring and make initial enquiries, even if the call did similarly alarm and upset the residents of the convent. Bearing in mind the shortage of official funds, he opted for the latter.

  �
��Our Lady of the Hill Convent,’ said a gentle voice when his call was connected.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Montague Pluke,’ he began in a formal and informative manner. ‘I am the officer in charge of the Criminal Investigation Department at Crickledale in North Yorkshire.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the voice. ‘Is something wrong, officer?’

  ‘That is something I cannot be sure about until I have had words with someone in authority,’ he continued in a stem, formal voice.

  ‘I am the duty sister for this evening.’ The voice had now hardened slightly. ‘I deal with everything in the absence of Reverend Mother, she is in London at the moment, at a conference.’

  ‘Ah, well, thank you. I think I understand, sister. And your name is… ?’

  ‘Sister Agnes,’ she said, now with a somewhat curt tone to her voice.

  ‘Thank you. Well, Sister Agnes, I am ringing to ask if you have a nun within your establishment who is known as Sister Bega.’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ and there was a starchiness to her voice by this time.

  ‘Is she with you at this moment?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘No, she is not. Might I ask why you are asking all these questions, Mr Pluke? It will soon be time for us to gather in chapel, you see, before our supper, before we go to bed…’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’ persisted Pluke.

  ‘She was given leave, Mr Pluke. She is enjoying a short break from the convent, a few days, no more than a week. It is not unusual.’

  ‘And where has she gone? Is that something you can tell me?’

  ‘We do not pry into our sisters’ private lives, Mr Pluke, we accord them our confidence in the belief they will not abuse the permitted relaxations.’

  ‘So you don’t ask where they are going or why?’

  ‘Not any longer, Mr Pluke. In the past we exercised extremely strict control over our young nuns, but not anymore. In these enlightened times, discipline is much more relaxed, discipline comes from within, not without. It is a personal matter now. Our nuns are permitted a break from here, two weeks each year, and we do not impose conditions, we do not ask them to specify their destinations for example, although I must say that most like to spend time with their families.’

  ‘And money, sister? How do they travel without money?’

  ‘We give them pocket money. Families help as a rule, with things like bus and train fares. Mr Pluke, might I ask why you are asking me all these things?’

  ‘Sister, before I answer that, can you tell me if your nuns have shorn heads or any other distinguishing features?’

  ‘No, Mr Pluke. Our regime is much more relaxed than it was in, say, the sixties and seventies. We allow our nuns to keep their hair and even to wear light make-up or modest items of jewellery. A relaxed appearance helps in our work with young girls. But, Mr Pluke, why are you asking all these questions? Is Bega in trouble?’

  He took a deep breath and said, ‘Sister Agnes, yesterday – Monday – the body of a young woman was found in a shallow’ grave near Crickledale. She was suffering from an injury to her head.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Pluke, oh, no, surely not…’

  ‘The victim is about thirty years of age with short bobbed hair, blonde, and she was dressed in a light blue blouse, jeans and trainer shoes. There was no means of identification with her and, apart from a handkerchief, she had no possessions.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Pluke, oh, this is dreadful… it does sound like Bega, yes indeed.’

  ‘I have photographs,’ he said, ‘of the body. And if it is her, we should require someone to come to Crickledale to make the formal identification.’

  ‘I do not know what to say, Mr Pluke, really I don’t. Do you really think it is Bega?’

  ‘We received a telephone call, not many minutes ago, from a young woman who said she’d met Bega on a retreat, and the description tallied. Unfortunately, the caller rang off without leaving a name.’

  ‘That’s understandable, we do a lot of work for orphans and the under-privileged as well as helping girls who have been forced into drugs and prostitution. I can understand that caller not wishing to get involved with the police.’

  ‘If I drive to your convent, Sister Agnes, I can be there within a couple of hours, with a photograph of our victim and a description of her clothes. Could you make time to meet me?’

  ‘In the circumstances, yes, of course, Mr Pluke. Of course.’

  ‘Then I shall leave immediately,’ he told her and, after obtaining directions to the convent, he replaced the telephone.

  Pluke then realised he had no driver. Wayne Wain was at Quenby interviewing vital witnesses so Pluke approached Horsley and asked if he could spare Detective Constable Paula Helston once more. As soon as Horsley realised the importance of this lead, he readily consented.

  Pluke asked Horsley to ring Northumbria police to acquaint them with the fact that he was soon to enter their area to undertake these enquiries. Within minutes, Pluke was sitting beside the young detective as she guided a white, unmarked Astra from the police station yard.

  ‘This enquiry might necessitate a little overtime by you,’ Pluke told her after giving her directions to the convent. ‘But I think, in view of our destination, it is wise to have a female presence. I am not quite sure how to deal with nuns, Detective Constable Helston.’

  ‘They are no different from other women, sir!’ She smiled at his discomfort.

  ‘I am not really very good at dealing with women at all,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘Now, tell me about yourself, tell me about your aims and aspirations as a detective.’

  *

  While Pluke and his driver headed north along the A19 to Tyneside, Wayne Wain was sitting in front of the fire at Beckside Cottage, Quenby, with a file of paper and statement forms on the floor, while enjoying a large slice of fruit cake and a mug of hot tea. This was the homely abode of Mr and Mrs Jim Stanton. Jim and Judith, as they had introduced themselves, were both in their fifties; Jim worked for the Forestry Commission and Judith had a part-time job in a stationery shop in Crickledale. Having established the background of the couple, Wayne began to question them, his charm and good looks winning over Mrs Stanton within minutes; she thought he looked like Pete Sampras, the tennis player.

  ‘So,’ he began, ‘when you rang our office, you told us you had seen the girl on Saturday morning, at the gate which leads into Eric Burholme’s farm. You got a good look at her?’

  ‘Judith better than me,’ Stanton said. ‘I was driving, heading for Crickledale. I noticed the lass standing on the gate, looking over it, and pointed her out to Judith.’

  ‘And she was alone? You are sure of that?’

  ‘She was, there’s no doubt about it.’

  Wayne eased a photograph from his file and passed it to Judith. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we have,’ he apologised. ‘We haven’t issued this to the press yet, but can you say whether that is the girl you saw?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said without hesitation. ‘That’s her. Pale blue blouse, jeans… that blonde hair bobbed like it is… oh, yes, sergeant, that’s the girl.’

  ‘And you don’t know her?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Stanton. ‘I’ve never seen her before. I’ve no idea who she is but, as Jim said, we thought it was one of Eric’s girls.’

  ‘Eric’s girls?’ puzzled Wayne Wain. ‘You mean he has daughters?’

  ‘Oh, no, he didn’t have a family,’ Judith said. ‘His wife was handicapped, physically, I mean. She broke her back in a horse-riding accident, years ago, sergeant, not long after he came to live here. He got domestic assistance for the house while he looked after his wife – he did everything for her. Fed her, washed her, dressed her, real devoted he was. But he employed girls to clean and cook, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Devoted to his wife, he was. He’s a real nice chap, sergeant,’ Jim Stanton confirmed. ‘He was devastated when she died.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Oh, a long while back. F
ifteen years mebbe. Then he never bothered with domestics after that, he did it all himself. The housework, I mean. He couldn’t bear to sit around doing nothing after he’d worked night and day to look after his wife, so he extended the hire business as well. Keeps the place immaculate, he does. He never stops work, sergeant, and makes good money but gives most of it away. A very decent bloke all round. Very set ideas on some things, though!’

  ‘Set ideas?’ asked Wayne. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, he’s not a Christian, he doesn’t believe in God. He reckons nature rules the world and everything in it. Keeps things very tidy and straight, always cleans up after himself. I once went to a demonstration with him, at the North Yorkshire Show. We had wine and a buffet, and when he’d finished he started to clean up the table we’d been using, instead of leaving it. He laughed and said he always did that, cleaned up after himself so you’d never know he’d been there. He’s very strict with himself, you know. Never lets himself go…’

  ‘Well, he is entitled to his own opinions and lifestyle,’ said Wain. ‘So if he has not employed domestics recently, it is unlikely this girl worked for him?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, but that was my first reaction,’ said Jim. ‘He usually managed to pick pretty blondes! Us local chaps always said he had an eye for a good-looking woman!’

  ‘Had he a reputation then, for womanising?’

  ‘No, not at all. Too devoted to his wife, he was. But he liked having pretty women around him. His wife was pretty as well, a blonde.’

  ‘If this girl had nothing to do with him, we wondered if she had been camping in the quarry or sleeping in his buildings,’ Wayne told them. There is a possibility she went there to shelter from the thunderstorms.’

  ‘Not on Friday night or Saturday morning, sergeant,’ said Jim. ‘The radio said you’d seen her in Crickledale on Friday, but the thunder didn’t come until Saturday evening, around tea-time. And there was none on Friday. We saw her on Saturday morning, long before it thundered.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, she was seen in Crickledale on Friday,’ Wayne reminded them. ‘We have a positive identification. You work in Crickledale, Mrs Stanton. Did you see her at all, in town or walking this way around five?’