A Full
Churchyard
NICHOLAS RHEA
Contents
Chapters
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
By the same author
Copyright
Chapter 1
It was Monday and Detective Inspector Montague Pluke was at breakfast with a boiled egg before him. It was accompanied by buttered soldiers of brown bread neatly arranged on his side plate, standing to attention as he waited patiently for Millicent. In the Pluke household it was bad manners to begin a meal before everyone was seated. Millicent, who insisted on preparing Montague’s meals, was finalizing her own breakfast in the kitchen, but within minutes she joined him. Her tray bore a bowl of milky porridge, a peeled orange and a handful of fresh grapes. The teapot and milk were on the table as she smiled her usual greeting, unloaded her tray and settled down. It was time for Montague to begin his feast.
With his knife, he decapitated the egg with practised precision, scooped out the juicy bit from the detached cap and swallowed it. Leaving the empty cap to one side, he tackled the rest of the egg, which Millicent had boiled to perfection. A Millicent Pluke home-boiled egg was a treat above all others.
‘Is the egg to your liking?’ she asked.
‘Perfect as always, my dear,’ he acknowledged. ‘It is a tribute to your culinary skill and now I must tell you this. When I’m away from home and hard at work detecting major crimes, I never fail to tell my colleagues that my wife is the world’s finest boiler of eggs. There are few to equal you.’
‘You shouldn’t reveal such intimate matters to strangers and colleagues!’ she blushed.
‘Credit given where credit is due,’ and he stabbed a soldier deep into the receptive yolk. As an authority on folklore and superstitions, and as Britain’s most superstitious police officer, he knew the egg had been brought into the house during daylight hours. It was unlucky to bring eggs into the house after sunset and it was also worrying to dream about eggs. If you did dream about eggs, it foretold a death in the family and to date, Montague had never dreamt about Millicent’s boiled eggs.
As Montague savoured his breakfast, Millicent broke the silence by announcing, ‘You might like to know that dear old Mrs Langneb has passed away, Montague. Mrs Barnett told me only half an hour ago when I was collecting our paper from the shop. It’s quite a shock. She was such a lovely person, a true lady.’
‘She was a good age, I would imagine.’
‘Eighty-nine,’ she responded. ‘A good innings but she will be missed. Amelia Langneb was very good at cleaning the kneelers in church; even at nearly ninety, she never gave up. She wouldn’t have anyone else touch them, they were her special responsibility. It won’t be easy finding such a devoted kneeler-cleaner to replace her.’
‘Another death for Crickledale! There’s been such a lot lately. Natural causes, was it? Like the others?’ Pluke asked almost as if he was conducting a preliminary enquiry into the death.
‘It was nothing more than old age, Montague. She’s never been ill although she was confined to bed for the past few weeks. Crickledale Carers have been wonderful, bathing her, changing her clothes, doing her hair, preparing her meals.’
‘She was very fortunate to have them on hand. Many in similar circumstances have to cope alone.’
‘I saw her only a few days ago. She was quite alert and eager to chat over a cup of tea and a scone. She looked as fit as ever. It seems she passed away peacefully in her sleep last Thursday. She has sons who live down south but no relations in Yorkshire. Her husband, Harold, went to his eternal rest a few years ago. Anyway, Montague, that’s my bit of news. Her funeral is tomorrow and I shall attend.’
‘So how many deaths have there been in Crickledale this winter?’ Pluke asked. ‘Funeral corteges seem to be coming thick and fast these days. They’re like buses that arrive in threes! I’m sure the local undertakers and gravediggers are having a busy and profitable time and the economy of Crickledale must surely benefit. It’s an ill wind. . . .’
‘She’s the ninth in the last three months,’ responded Millicent. ‘But that’s not particularly unusual, Montague. All were in their eighties or nineties. It’s winter when we always get a crop of deaths among the elderly so don’t go looking for sinister reasons.’
‘I’m merely expressing an interest . . .’ he began.
‘Montague, listen to me. These deaths are of no interest to the police, so stop being a detective when you’re at home, especially at breakfast. All those people, men and women, were well cared for and died in their homes from nothing more complicated than old age. That’s what their doctors decided and there’s no reason to question their decisions. I know that through my work for the Carers.’
‘I was not being critical, Millicent. . . .’
‘Yes you were – and suspicious too! There’s no need to behave like an inquisitive policeman at home. Now listen to me.’
‘You misunderstand me . . .’
‘No I don’t! I know you too well, Montague Pluke. The Crickledale Volunteer Carers looked after them all and Mr Furnival, our boss, made sure that everything that could be done was done. Nothing was overlooked and nothing was too much trouble. Mr Furnival is very good, Montague, all the carers are pleased he came to take charge. He has moulded us into a truly effective unit. . . .’
‘You say all the deceased were cared for by Crickledale Carers?’
‘There you are! Finding villainy where none exists! There’s nothing suspicious in what we do, we care for almost all the elderly in Crickledale so it’s quite normal for some to die in our care.’
‘Millicent, you can’t deny it’s rather curious, nine deaths in this small community in such a short time and all cared for by the same organization! But if the doctors were happy to certify the causes of the deaths without any suspicion being attached to them, then we must accept their opinions. It’s all probably due to the exceptionally mild winter. You know what they say: “a green winter makes a full churchyard.”’
‘It’s often surprisingly true, Montague.’
‘I wouldn’t use the term surprising, Millicent. Such sayings are invariably based on ancient wisdom and acute observation. It’s the same when people say deaths come in threes, except on this occasion it’s been three-times-three so far. It makes me wonder about such things especially as we haven’t even reached Candlemas Day!’
‘Don’t poke your nose in, Montague. It’s nothing to do with you and your detectives even if you’ve nothing to do with your time. Sometimes I wonder what you do all day at work!’
‘I am a leading detector of serious local crime, Millicent. That awesome responsibility remains with me all through my working hours and at home. Even in the peace and tranquillity of Crickledale, time and crime waits for no one.’
Millicent did not reply. Having scooped all the tasty bits from the eggshell, he prized it from the cup, turned it over and replaced it upside down. Then he whacked it several times with the back of his spoon to smash it to smithereens. He believed that this would ensure good fortune during the forthcoming days – it was one of his regular habits based on age-old superstition. If pressed to be more specif
ic, he would deny that it had anything to do with preventing witches from using eggshells as tiny boats or any other means of transport as they went about their evil spells and trouble-making. Belief in witches had long gone and the eggshell smashing ritual, once such a feature of witch-lore, was now used to attract nothing more complicated than good fortune and general happiness. On the coast, however, an eggshell left intact would cause ships to turn around at sea or even produce a shipwreck. Montague did not wish to be responsible for such disasters and was always exceedingly careful to prevent them by smashing his eggshells into fragments.
When Millicent had finished her breakfast, he left the table with his right foot first and kissed her farewell with a light peck on the cheek. So far, all his preparatory omens had been successfully completed which meant his day had had a very good start. It had begun by him getting out of the right side of the bed before his ablutions and then putting on his right shoe first before settling down to breakfast. To add to his happiness he had found a knot in his right shoelace, a very positive indication of forthcoming good fortune. En route to work, he would take immense care not to walk under any ladders and would ensure he caught sight of that black cat that always sat on the mat outside the Town Hall.
He hoped he would not see any crows perching in the churchyard, either on the boundary walls or upon any of the tombstones – a crow in such a position was a sure sign of a funeral in the very near future. Then he realized he had seen a lot of crows in and around Crickledale during the last few months, so had one been sighted in the churchyard ahead of Mrs Langneb’s death?
‘Montague, have you got your mobile?’ came Millicent’s voice from the kitchen.
‘Yes my dear, I have.’
‘And is it switched on?’
‘I’ll check.’ It wasn’t, so he switched it on. ‘It’s on now.’
‘Then make sure it stays on all day.’
‘Yes, dear.’
Detective Inspector Pluke’s morning walk through the streets and marketplace was as regular as the striking of the church clock, the queue at the newsagents and the buses that carried people into York. People checked their watches and clocks upon the appearance of Mr Pluke as he strode towards his office on the hill. Inevitably, his timing was immaculate. At 8.30 a.m. precisely he left home, a pleasant house not far from the town centre and arrived at the police station near the church at 8.50 a.m. precisely. He took the same route every day and passed the same pillar boxes, shops, bus stops, pubs, lamp posts, people, prams and dogs.
He offered his sincere ‘good mornings’ to those he passed and raised his blue-ribboned panama to every lady he encountered. The sight of Mr Pluke’s hat rising and falling among the throng of early shoppers and hurrying workers was one of the familiar sights of a Crickledale morning. He was even reputed to have patted some dogs and admired babies in prams, inevitably without losing a precious second.
A Crickledale workaday morning without Mr Pluke was rather like the London rush-hour without Big Ben, red buses and crowds of moving people.
Much of the mystique and interest that surrounded Detective Inspector Pluke was due to his curious style of clothing. His wide-brimmed straw panama hat with its pale blue band was most distinctive when perched on his head of thick grey-black hair. Montague had always worn his hair far longer than some thought suitable or advisable for a senior police officer. Indeed, when he was a young constable in uniform, his hair was always so long and untidy despite admonitions from his senior officers that he was eventually considered unfit to wear police uniform and so he was transferred to the CID. It was customary that detectives did not look at all like police officers and there was no doubt that the then Detective Constable Pluke looked nothing like a police officer. With his heavy-rimmed spectacles, long hair and curious dress style, he exuded the demeanour and air of a bespectacled and absent-minded professor who wrote learned articles and tomes about horse troughs, which was exactly what Pluke did in his spare time. He had become a noted authority on horse troughs and their history, being the author of The Horse Troughs of Crickledale and district since the 16th century – fully illustrated by the author.
There is no doubt that many ageing male Crickledonians were overtly envious of Mr Pluke’s thick hair and wondered if he used a secret horse-based recipe to maintain it. Did horses provide a secret potion that made Pluke’s hair look like an untidy mane or long horsetail? Or did he wash his hair in horse troughs? But if there was a secret to his wonderful head of dark untidy hair, he had never revealed it.
In addition to his hair, his heavily patterned beige-coloured overcoat was equally striking. Some believed it was the very first overcoat manufactured by Burberry but Montague Pluke had always denied that, claiming it was a very old coaching coat that had belonged to an ancestor who was a coachman on the famous Highflyer. Made by a Pluke matriarch, it had been passed down the male line whilst retaining its fitted cape on the shoulders, numerous huge pockets inside and out, splendid epaulettes and wide belt. There were those who felt the coat ought to be placed in Crickledale Folk Museum but Montague would not do such a thing with a treasured family heirloom. He wore it every day, summer and winter alike, and it was said to have survived at least two major horse-drawn coach crashes, one stable fire and a motorcycle-and-sidecar accident. His heavily chequered beige trousers matched the coat but were rather shorter than was fashionable. Some thought he resembled a circus clown because when he walked, his trousers revealed pink socks, grey spats and brown brogue shoes. His overcoat’s amazing colour scheme was said to be rather like a Macmillan tartan with faulty shades.
His jacket, worn under that greatcoat, was of similar style and design, rather like one designed for gamekeepers to carry guns and pheasants, except that his pockets bulged with fountain pens, propelling pencils, a pocket watch, digital camera, mobile phone, several notebooks and other assorted things that might come in useful sometime. Some notebooks were to record new discoveries relating to horse-troughs whilst his official police notebook was for police duty records. To enhance the appearance of his jacket he always wore brightly coloured shirts with white collars, meticulously maintained and ironed by Millicent. There was little doubt that his skill in discovering long-hidden horse troughs on the North York Moors and his remarkably sharp powers of observation, were strong aids in his ability to detect crimes.
And so it was on that morning in late January that Detective Inspector Montague Pluke wove through the crowds of Crickledale as he progressed towards the police station. He was heading towards his office on the first floor of Crickledale Sub-Divisional Police Headquarters. The police station boasted splendid views across the little town and in some ways was ideal for keeping observations on streets and their possible trouble spots and to check whether people were behaving responsibly. As he neared his destination, he passed the Town Hall where his highly trained eye had, some years earlier, discovered a huge stone horse trough that had been almost invisible among the stonework. It had been laid on its side and filled with rubble, then used as a gigantic building block and, thanks to his powers of observation and his resultant lobbying, a replica had been constructed. It was now a handsome feature of the town centre, complete with flowing water and a tethering ring that had once featured in a bull’s nose. As he passed that edifice every morning, he always felt a glow of pride – he believed he was upholding and indeed furthering the Pluke family’s impressive contribution to the illustrious history of Crickledale.
For example, sir Wylyngton Pluke had occupied the Manor House in 1422 whilst Wortham Pluke (1349-93) had been a wandering minstrel. However, it was Justus Pluke (1553-1609) who had established the Pluke dynasty’s long association with horse troughs through his futuristic design of horses’ heads that he had carved upon the water inlets to stone horse troughs throughout England. He had received national commendation for that innovative work.
During his walk, Pluke was pleased there were no crows in
the churchyard, no church-bells ringing without human aid and no reports of death watch beetles tapping in old houses. That suggested no ominous deaths were imminent, and, after all, it did suggest that Mrs Langneb and the other eight had died naturally.
Nonetheless, as he approached the end of his walk to work he did experience nagging feelings that there could have been a cover-up of some kind. He found those thoughts distinctly disturbing.
When Montague Pluke arrived at the police station – a handsome Victorian pile – he stepped through the impressive main door by using his right foot first. But instead of climbing the stairs to his office, he diverted, as always, to the tiny Control Room. The officer in charge was Sergeant Cockfield-pronounced-Cofield and, as ever, his Control Room door was standing open.
‘Good morning, sir,’ beamed the sergeant, as Pluke entered on time. It was precisely 8.50 a.m. Sergeant Cockfield-pronounced-Cofield left his computer and approached the counter.
‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ responded Pluke. ‘Not a bad morning for the time of year. Now, before I head up to my office, have we, over the weekend, received any reports of sudden or suspicious deaths, major incidents, aircraft crashes, train derailments, arson and other malicious fires, motorway blockages, major crimes, robberies, criminal damage, riots, floods, drug-fuelled outrages, mass shoplifting expeditions and looting, thefts of bicycles from garden sheds or people drinking alcohol in the streets?’
‘No, sir, I’ve just carried out an up-to-date review from all sources and it’s been an exceptionally peaceful and quiet weekend, both here and throughout the entire Force area. There is absolutely nothing to report. We’ve not even had any cats marooned up trees, lost dogs or stray homing pigeons.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. It proves we are keeping crime and social disturbances under control so, in this welcome lull, I propose we undertake a cold-case review. We need something interesting and demanding to occupy us during quiet times.’
‘Anything particular in mind, sir?’
A Full Churchyard Page 1