A Full Churchyard

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘I’ll bet you can tell a few stories! Anyway, back to Miss Croucher. You think she hadn’t been moved before you arrived?’

  ‘No, Dr Simpson had certified her dead but she’d been left until t’police had come and done whatever they do in such cases. Examine t’scene, take photographs, look for fingerprints and so on. Nothing must be touched at what they think is the scene of a crime. That’s summat I’ve learned in this trade.’

  ‘Absolutely right. And were you there as the police started their work?’

  ‘I got there towards the tail-end of their examination, Mr Pluke. They took photos and tested for fingerprints and such before I arrived. I think they thought there was summat odd about it all. I got there after I’d been rung up by t’police to ask me to take her off to t’hospital for a post mortem which I did, then afterwards I took her to our Chapel of Rest to await t’funeral.’

  ‘A perfectly normal task for you?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Nowt odd about all those routine bits and bobs. Because there were no suspicious circumstances, her funeral could go ahead. Even though t’police found nowt suspicious I still think there was summat very odd about it.’

  ‘You’re something of an expert in these matters?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I was an expert, Mr Pluke. Let’s just say I’m very experienced.’

  ‘Were the doors and windows open whilst you were in the house?’

  ‘Oh aye, folks often do that when there’s a dead person lying there. Some say it’s to let fresh air into t’place and others say it’s an old fashioned belief that allows t’soul or t’spirit to depart in peace. Round here, it’s more likely it’s because Sooty Black will have been to sweep the chimney – that’s his way of helping folks, a clean sweep for no charge, even if t’spot smells of soot afterwards. He helps out with the carers, they know when chimneys need sweeping, Mr Pluke. Some around here smoke a lot.’

  ‘It’s mainly the old folk who still have coal fires, isn’t it, Jacob.’

  ‘Aye, younger folks have central heating – folks often open their windows because that makes it too hot.’

  ‘Opening windows after death is a very old belief, Jacob.’

  ‘Aye, and it’s still going strong, Mr Pluke. Mind you, while t’police were doing their examination, with t’body still on t’floor, they closed t’ground floor doors leading outside. For privacy, you understand. Crowds do gather to gawp at such goings-on.’

  ‘Do you often come across that sort of thing?’ asked Wain.

  ‘Oh aye, quite often. If t’deceased is upstairs in bed, awaiting us to turn up and carry ’em off to t’Chapel of Rest, all t’windows will generally be open upstairs. . . .’

  ‘Upstairs?’ queried Pluke.

  ‘Nowadays just upstairs but sometimes on t’landing. Downstairs there might be a door standing open but with t’windows shut and curtains drawn. To be private. But with t’mirrors turned to face t’wall, fires put out, food taken away – folks still have all kind of customs when loved ones die, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘Similar customs, are they?’

  ‘Aye, broadly similar although they vary from family to family. We never comment, we just let ’em get on with such things and do what they feel necessary. It helps with t’mourning process, so they tell me.’

  ‘So can you recall anything else that was unusual or odd whilst you were in Miss Croucher’s house?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘I didn’t go upstairs to her bedroom, Mr Pluke, there was no need. So that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘And was there any local gossip about the manner of her death, Jacob?’

  ‘Oh aye, there’s allus gossip, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘Such as?’ pressed Wayne.

  ‘Normal stuff with some saying she’d been helped to die. . . .’

  ‘Helped to die?’ queried Pluke.

  ‘Aye, it used to be done in t’olden days, Mr Pluke, when somebody was suffering. Relatives or friends would give a helping hand; there’s a tale here in Crickledale where a woman’s husband was having a tough time dying so she helped him on his way by cutting off his breathing with his own best tie knotted tightly around his neck. They said he went off like a lamb.’

  ‘And such cases were never regarded as murder?’

  ‘Good heavens no, Mr Pluke, they were done out o’love and kindness. Folks reckon it was a great act of generosity to help someone over t’final threshold, from life into death in t’easiest possible way. It goes on, Mr Pluke. It allus will in my opinion.’

  ‘Even today you mean?’

  ‘Oh aye, not that t’authorities will ever know. Doctors know about it and I reckon Miss Croucher was given a helping hand.’

  ‘And that didn’t puzzle you? Or trouble you?’ asked Wayne.

  ‘Nay, not in t’least. What puzzled me was how she’d got herself downstairs without using her stairlift. I wondered if she’d managed to get down and lie on her back on that cold floor to help herself to die. . . .’

  ‘If she was desperate she might have been able to achieve that,’ offered Wayne. ‘She might have got herself downstairs without using the chair lift.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ ventured Pluke. ‘I think she was aided in her death and that the helper accompanied her downstairs as she used her lift, and then laid her gently on the floor to die in peace – and the helper then restored the lift to the top of the stairs.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ asked Wayne.

  ‘To give the impression that Miss Croucher had struggled downstairs alone, perhaps to get herself a drink or something to eat, and once downstairs, the appearance would suggest her effort had been so great that she had collapsed.’

  ‘Onto a cold stone floor? That would finish her off, sure as shot,’ said Jacob. ‘They reckon it’s the sudden shock that does it.’

  ‘I can believe that, Jacob. And so she died at peace,’ suggested Pluke. ‘Or, of course, the killer might have sent the lift back to the top of the stairs so that Miss Croucher could not make use of it to return to the warmth of her bed.’

  ‘Aye, well, I heard she couldn’t climb stairs on her own,’ put in Jacob Carpenter. ‘She wasn’t very good on her legs.’

  ‘You said killer, sir?’ Wayne Wain was alarmed by Pluke’s apparent carelessness. After all, Pluke had stressed he did not want the townspeople to be terrified by lurid stories of a killer at large. So why had he used that word, even just between the three of them? It might have been overheard.

  ‘I think you meant helper?’ suggested Jacob. ‘These cases aren’t murder, Mr Pluke, these folks aren’t killers. It’s a case of helping suffering folks to find peace in death. I’m sure you don’t want to alarm the population of Crickledale by suggesting there is a sadistic killer on the rampage hereabouts.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I want to do, Jacob. But within the world of criminal law, the term killer can be applied to those who commit various degrees of homicide – murder, manslaughter, infanticide, assisting suicide, causing death by dangerous or by careless driving whilst under the influence of alcohol or drugs, self-defence and even misadventure. If someone helped people like Miss Croucher to die, then such a person is a killer – but I accept that not all killers are criminals and not all are murderers.’

  ‘We need to be careful with our phraseology,’ suggested Wayne Wain. ‘I’m sure Jacob doesn’t believe there’s a murderer at large in the town. So, Jacob, if we think someone has helped Miss Croucher to die in peace, can you tell me whether similar occurrences have come to your notice?’

  ‘On and off over t’years, yes. Mrs Langneb was found lying on her floor, Dr Simpson told me that. And with doors and window open. There was talk she’d taken a tumble but Dr Simpson found nowt wrong with her, except she was dead.’

  ‘Any more similar cases?’

  ‘There was a few but I can’t remember t’details. Anyroad, I wou
ldn’t want you chaps digging up my past customers to have their remains examined by forensic scientists,’ protested Mr Carpenter. ‘That would set t’alarm bells ringing.’

  ‘I don’t think that will ever happen,’ Pluke tried to reassure him. ‘If the causes of death of some of our recently deceased Crickledonians were considered natural by doctors and other experts, then it is doubtful whether such causes would be revealed in post mortems carried out after exhumation. To all intents and purposes, these deaths were all from natural causes. And that’s the official result.’

  ‘Well if they do decide to have exhumations, somebody would have to re-bury ’em all, Mr Pluke. I might earn myself a few good jobs, paid for by the Home Office. I wouldn’t complain about that and publicity is always good for business.’

  ‘Very true indeed, but back to my question, Jacob. So the outcome of our chat is that we think other Crickledale residents have been helped into their graves?’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it, Mr Pluke. Folks of Crickledale are a caring lot, they never want friends or loved ones to die in pain or mental agony or merely spend a long time dying when things can be made easier or speeded up a bit. But if you’re going to ask me who those folks were, those who did the helping, then I can’t tell you that because I’ve no way of knowing. And I can’t remember.’

  ‘I realize that. . .’

  ‘I’m not privy to confidential knowledge among families or officials. It’s not my job to pry into things once t’professionals have given t’all-clear for a burial. I just let things be as I get on with my job.’

  ‘But you do visit the interiors of many homes where people have died, don’t you?’ pointed out Wayne.

  ‘I do, Sergeant Wain, yes I do. And I’ve seen windows open and mirrors turned to face the wall and such like, but that doesn’t mean the deceased was helped to die. Such things happen after death which is when I turn up.’

  ‘That is a good point, Jacob,’ smiled Pluke. ‘You’re part of the process that follows death, you seldom precede it. Well, I think we have taken up too much of your time. It has been a pleasure talking and you’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘Right but think on this, Mr Pluke. Don’t go round suggesting there’s murderers at large in Crickledale, ’cos there isn’t. This is a kindly place, not given to cruelty and so on. Helping a friend to die is a kindness, Mr Pluke, never forget that.’ He rose and left them. Sipping their cold tea, they watched him leave.

  ‘He bears out what I’ve been thinking, Wayne. Someone – a person working alone or perhaps as a member of a team – is helping to despatch the good people of Crickledale into the hereafter. It’s done as an act of kindness, so it would seem, but I believe that is a clever cover story. Say what you like, and in spite of what Mr Carpenter thinks, I’m convinced we have a killer or killers in town, Wayne. As I’ve pointed out already, I doubt if they are doing it out of kindness, so we must look into the question of missing property. And as we say in major incidents, there is already a large body-count.’

  ‘I agree with all you’ve said,’ nodded Wayne. ‘So where do we go from here? We seem to be going around in circles.’

  ‘It’s vital that we establish links with all these deaths, Wayne. Common factors we can identify – and we must establish the motives surrounding all the assisted deaths. Stealing from the deceased, for example, promising to ensure treasured items accompany them to the grave whereas they never get there . . . there is ample scope for crimes here, Wayne.’

  ‘So it’s back to our files?’

  ‘It is, but before we go, we should make our presence known to the vicar – she’s new here – and I think we should have words with any members of Mrs Langneb’s family who have come to bid her farewell.’

  ‘Why, sir? We were not friends of Mrs Langneb?’

  ‘No but polite and considerate behaviour will be expected of senior police officers in such circumstances.’

  And so they moved from their seats and joined the small group of mourners standing around with plates of food in their hands. Pluke headed for the vicar who seemed to be temporarily alone. He knew her name from chats at home with Millicent although he had never met her. She was a recent arrival and would not know details of past deaths or funerals.

  ‘Ah, Ms Williams. So nice to meet you at last.’

  ‘You must be Detective Inspector Pluke?’ she had a winning smile, he decided. Warm and friendly but business-like. A woman in her mid-fifties, he estimated, with well-tended fair hair and a good skin. ‘I am Susan Williams.’

  ‘And I am Detective Inspector Pluke. This is my deputy, Detective Sergeant Wain.’

  As they shook hands, Wayne managed to produce his most charming smile as he gazed into the blue eyes of the vicar, and she in turn thought he was wonderful . . . if only she’d been younger. . . .

  ‘It’s good of you to come to Mrs Langneb’s funeral,’ she said. ‘She has few relations and most of her close friends have died but I know she was never alone. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve grown to learn that Crickledale has an enviable reputation for caring for its elderly and ailing.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ smiled Pluke. ‘As the two most senior detectives in Crickledale, we feel it is our duty to be part of a caring society. After all, we are public servants with a great responsibility to the community. But work calls, Miss Williams. We must return to the office.’

  ‘It’s good of you to make yourself known.’

  ‘That is our pleasure. I just wanted to ask if you knew whether any of Mrs Langneb’s relations are here?’

  ‘No, Mr Pluke. She has a nephew and a niece, both of whom live in the south of England, but they called me to say they are not able to attend her funeral.’

  ‘Oh dear, such a pity.’

  ‘I think they were hugely disappointed she did not leave her cottage to them in her will. Their absence is a protest, I feel, Mr Pluke, but Mrs Langneb did tell me, during one of my visits to her, that they had never been to visit her in her entire life. Not even following the death of her husband.’

  ‘It’s a bit early to be thinking of wills and legacies, surely?’

  ‘It is, Mr Pluke, but I am sure you, as a policeman, know what some people are like. For some, that is their only thought after the death of a member of the family.’

  ‘So who has inherited her house? Do we know?’

  ‘Not yet and I have no idea who might be, Mr Pluke. If that’s all her family can think about, it makes me very sad.’

  ‘I think it is true that the love of money is the root of all evil. Please excuse us leaving now but we must hurry back to our office, Ms Williams, we have work to do.’

  And so they left.

  As always, when Pluke entered the police station with his right foot first, he checked with Sergeant Cockfield-pronounced-Cofield of the Control Room to see whether his presence was needed at any major crime, but there was nothing.

  ‘It remains the quietest time I have ever known, sir,’ confirmed the Sergeant. ‘Something usually happens even if it’s only a small crime or a tiny incident of some kind but right now there’s nothing happening, absolutely nothing! I fear it might be the calm before the storm. Mrs Plumpton has left a message to say she has returned to her office after the funeral, and that she told me she would take any of your calls in your absence. But there have not been any.’

  ‘Thank you. So if that storm does come, we shall be in our offices, Sergeant.’

  Once in his office, Pluke invited Wayne to join him but at that moment, Mrs Plumpton burst in.

  ‘I left the funeral before you,’ she oozed. ‘I thought you both would like a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit. Funerals are always so testing. Shall I make one?’

  ‘Yes please, Mrs Plumpton,’ smiled Pluke. ‘Then come and join us with your own tea and biscuit. We shall discuss the usefulness or otherwise of our pr
esence at Mrs Langneb’s funeral to see what valuable information we have gleaned.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ beamed Mrs Plumpton. ‘I was going to suggest a meeting as soon as possible because I have something very interesting to tell you both.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘It was so exciting, being a real detective, Mr Pluke. After years of working in your office, I’ve discovered I’d like to become a dedicated solver of crimes. It’s so fascinating listening to people tell their stories and then following up with enquiries that provide answers. . . .’

  ‘That’s one of the great appeals of our work,’ agreed Pluke.

  ‘And such important work it is too. So necessary for the good of our entire society. . . .’

  Pluke was now sitting at his desk with Wayne at his side whilst Mrs Plumpton settled opposite. Her black and frothy funereal dress was a shade more modest than most of her working outfits, but it did reveal lots of curious wobbles and chesty flesh.

  ‘So what have you discovered that makes you so excited?’ Montague asked her, before immediately wishing he’d never used that phrase.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ was her anticipated response at which Wayne grinned widely. ‘But it was something to do with your cold-case review.’

  ‘I can’t wait, Mrs Plumpton. It seems your detective acumen has been very well exercised.’

  ‘I think it has, definitely. Now, you’ll recall that when you decided to look for suitable subjects for your cold-case reviews, I found all those files in the uniform branch’s cabinets. They related to minor crimes in the town and included all our undetected crimes, some having been committed long ago.’

  ‘I remember it well, Mrs Plumpton. After all, it was only yesterday afternoon but I must confess I have not yet had an opportunity to examine them in detail.’

  ‘Well, Mr Pluke, this is the interesting bit. One of them relates to a theft from an old gentleman’s house, his gold watch.’

  ‘An interesting case but sadly undetected. That’s surprising because it was recorded in both the Lost Property Register as well as a Crime Report. Surely there can be little doubt the old man had mislaid it . . . we don’t really want lost objects being recorded as stolen, it distorts the crime figures. If we did that with every item of lost property, our crime figures would rise to alarming proportions . . . I must speak to the town inspector about this. Inspector Horsley must be made aware of the implications of such actions.’