But to his disappointment and surprise, no one questioned his mode of dress or referred to his presence at Mrs Langneb’s funeral, although he felt sure that many did make a mental note of his distinctive appearance and the reason for it. Maybe they would talk to him later? As he drew closer to his own house, he wondered if the people were reticent because they did not wish to become involved. Lots of people were like that – they did not relish the responsibility of being involved in matters that concerned the police. So did that mean they knew something he didn’t? Was the entire population concealing something secretive?
He congratulated himself upon realizing he might have discovered something vital. Had they not talked to him because they knew that something was going on within Crickledale society that the police should never know about? Did they not wish to spark off some kind of investigation? Then he was home.
‘I’m back, Millicent.’ She was not in the kitchen, but her voice came from the sitting room.
‘Good, then go and get changed into something more relaxing and in view of my busy and very trying day at Mrs Langneb’s funeral, I might have a sherry with you. Then before supper you can tell me about your day.’
‘I might relax my rules and join you for a sherry,’ he told her, thinking that he also had spent a somewhat curious day’s duty. A nice drink might help to calm his busy brain as it struggled to weave a sure way through the labyrinth of confusing strands of suspicion, superstition and supposition. By this time, he had convinced himself that something untoward was happening in Crickledale and equally he had convinced himself that as the head of the town’s Criminal Investigation Department, he must do something about it. But what? What could he do if he didn’t know what had been happening? And suppose the entire population was concealing information from him? Or was his imagination racing too far ahead? What evidence of criminality was there except some open doors and windows? And old folks lying on cold floors? And what was Millicent’s role in all these events – total innocence? Or something extremely secretive?
Ten minutes later, he was sitting in his favourite armchair in front of the log fire as Millicent poured two large helpings of sweet sherry. He thought she looked tense and agitated. Certainly she was unsmiling and was not her usual self.
Had the funeral upset her? Millicent was very sensitive and things such as the death of a friend or acquaintance, inevitably made a serious impact upon her sensitivities. Despite his increasing suspicion of all involved in the CVC he felt he must strive to be at ease with his wife. He would do his best to speak to her not as a potential witness or suspect, but as his ever-loving wife.
‘The meal is in the oven,’ she told him as she took a large sip from her glass. ‘I prepared it earlier, a casserole with vegetables all in one dish. So easy to prepare after a stressful day. Leftovers. Easy to serve too, and to enjoy.’
‘I’ll enjoy it, you can be sure of that,’ he said, adding, ‘Your good health,’ as he proposed a brief toast by raising his glass. And then silence. She remained silent as they sipped their sherry. He began to feel rather edgy because this unnerving silence wasn’t like the usual charming Millicent. He bore it for a long time and then tentatively asked, ‘Something wrong, Millicent? Is something bothering you?’
‘Yes, Montague! You are!’
‘Me? But I’ve done nothing, said nothing.’
‘Yes you have. You went to Mrs Langneb’s funeral, you and Wayne and that woman from your office, and now the town is buzzing with speculation and gossip! I said you shouldn’t go, most definitely I did not want you interfering with people’s lives, snooping on them.’
‘I was not snooping!’ he said firmly. ‘I was representing Crickledale police.’
‘Rubbish!’ she snapped. ‘There are times, Montague Pluke, when you talk utter rubbish but you can’t fool me. You were snooping.’
‘I was not. . . .’
‘Yes you were and you should not snoop on people, Montague, but there you all were, as large as life, disguised in your funeral clothes and asking all sorts of questions while no doubt getting Mr Carpenter to tell you his secrets. . . .’
‘I insist I was there in a non-investigative role, Millicent, nothing more than that. I saw you in church but had no time to talk to you . . . you disappeared so quickly afterwards. . . .’
‘I was busy in the kitchen, I had work to do. That’s why I was there. I’m a Crickledale Volunteer Carer with many responsibilities. After the service, I was helping to arrange plates of sandwiches and cakes, make the tea, wash up and whatever else needed to be done. But I must admit I was shocked to see you huddled in that corner with Wayne Wain and Mr Carpenter, talking in hushed tones . . . and don’t think it went unnoticed! You can’t fool me that you attended the funeral as a mark of respect for Mrs Langneb, Montague. You hardly knew the poor woman . . . as I’ve said all along, you were snooping and you know I dislike people who snoop, whoever they are. Police or nosey neighbours.’
Rarely had he seen her in such a state. Normally she accepted the difficulties of his work and duties, but in view of her open misery, he decided to tell her a little about his current activities. He hoped it would put her more at ease.
‘Millicent, I am working on a cold-case review, one whose content and aims must remain confidential. I’m sorry if you dislike what I do but I cannot get permission from my wife every time I have to undertake sensitive tasks or make difficult enquiries in this town. And this case is proving to be one of the most difficult.’
‘Montague, I know what you’re up to and I keep insisting there is nothing suspicious about any of those recent deaths that involved the carers. You take not the slightest scrap of notice of what I say but this afternoon, you certainly stirred up some malicious and worrying gossip. You should have heard the ladies in the kitchen, Montague! Your presence was noticed and so was that of Detective Sergeant Wain – and that secretary of yours done up like a dog’s dinner and flouncing all over the place, asking more questions. A band of professional snoopers if ever there was one. You may as well admit what we all know, Montague. You were snooping, all of you.’
‘We were gathering intelligence. . . .’
‘Intelligence? You certainly need some of that, Montague Pluke. This afternoon’s debacle was totally unnecessary. Mrs Langneb died a perfectly normal and natural death. Snooping Pluke, that’s what you are!’
Montague lowered his voice. ‘Millicent, I tell you quite sincerely that we were there on confidential police business and Mrs Plumpton attended as a close friend of a friend of Mrs Langneb. She accompanied that friend to the funeral because the friend did not like going alone. Mrs Plumpton was due to some time off work and used it to attend the funeral with her friend. That’s all there was to it. You are listening to the silly stories that circulate among people on such occasions. . . .’
‘Say what you like, Montague, you made me feel very embarrassed among my friends. The ladies in the kitchen thought I was snooping too, they wouldn’t talk to me. They said I was a police informer . . . they were horrid, Montague. And I thought they were my friends.’
At this point he detected moisture in her eyes. That certainly announced that she was very, very upset. Now he could see why. But, he asked himself, why would the ladies in the kitchen think she was spying on behalf of her husband?
Did it mean there was a very good reason to spy on Mrs Langneb’s funeral – or make discreet enquiries about her death? He sensed deep undercurrents within the CVC, probably internal matters of no concern to the police but interesting nonetheless, and perhaps relevant? Certainly, some of the carers had attended the funeral and enjoyed tea afterwards.
‘Were any of your critics from the CVC?’ he could not miss the opportunity to ask that question. ‘The kitchen workers, I mean. Or had a professional caterer been asked to provide the funeral tea?’
‘Some of the helpers are carers, yes, but that’s what th
e CVC does, it helps others in all sorts of ways and we depend on volunteers. The tea was done by a professional caterer, but it was cheaper if we provided unpaid assistance on the day. That’s why we were there. I hope you don’t read something sinister into their presence as well, Montague Pluke!’
‘I’m not . . .’
‘If you continue like this you’ll be blaming all our charities for causing the very work that needs the attention of charities. . . .’
‘Really?’ was all he could think of saying. ‘Millicent, the simple truth is I am just doing my job, for the good of society. So can you tell me which of the carers were helping in the kitchen?’
‘You never stop asking questions, do you? Why do you want to know that?’
‘Because of my delicate enquiries, Millicent.’
‘So you were snooping! And now you want me to be a snooper! They were right. . . .’
‘I can ask elsewhere, Millicent.’
‘All right, there was me, Mrs Barnett and Mrs Roseberry.’
‘Thank you,’ and he made a mental note to investigate those ladies. He must have met them somewhere in town, perhaps at one of Millicent’s church events.
‘I’m going to lay the table,’ she snapped and headed for the kitchen. He watched her leave – she was certainly behaving uncharacteristically and he wondered why. She was usually so supportive of his work in Crickledale, a truly wonderful wife, partner and friend, especially during his most difficult times. So what on earth was going on within the realms of the Crickledale Carers?
He decided it would be best to say no more, especially this evening. Daringly, and in her absence whilst she worked in the kitchen, he poured himself another generous sherry but he was not looking forward to his meal in the present chilly climate. But, he told himself, he had successfully confronted some terrible situations. However, what could be worse than Millicent falling under increasing suspicion of being involved in something illegal? He found himself wondering whether she would actually help a sick person to die . . . as an act of charity?
That evening he was very much alone with his dark thoughts.
On Wednesday morning after checking at the Control Room to learn yet again there were no serious matters requiring attention, Detective Inspector Pluke and Detective Sergeant Wain walked across town to the offices of Crickledale Volunteer Carers. The office was housed in a very pleasing bungalow in Millbank Road, one that had formerly belonged to a wealthy owner of factories in Leeds and Bradford. When the owner’s wife was alive, they had used it for holidays and weekends but after her death he had donated it to the CVC for their unrestricted use. It was his way of saying ‘Thank You’ for the care they had provided for his wife. Pluke wondered if they had helped her to die.
The bungalow was large enough to provide two offices, a conference/meetings room, a waiting area, a kitchen and even en-suite limited bedroom accommodation for those who suddenly found themselves homeless. There was a press-button security lock on the outer door and after pressing it and announcing his name and that of Wayne Wain, they pressed Buttons 2 and 6 and were admitted. A pleasant middle-aged woman met them in the foyer. She was tall and attractive with short blonde hair and an easy smile.
‘Ah, Mr Pluke and Mr Wain. I am Sarah Allanby, the secretary. We spoke yesterday.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ chorused both Pluke and Wayne Wain. ‘It is good of you to see us.’
‘Our chairman, Mr Furnival will see you in the conference room; I shall be there too and so will one of our professional carers, Mrs Juliet Jarvis. Her colleague, Mrs Frankland, is with one of our clients just now. So please follow me.’
She led them along a short corridor to what had clearly been a spacious lounge in the former bungalow; it was now a conference room with a large oval table, a dozen chairs and an open fireplace filled with flowers. Place-settings with pads, pencils and water glasses were waiting on the table and Pluke noted that the required seats were identified with name plates. The six places occupied one half of the table; the rest of it remained empty. Mrs Allanby indicated their places and they settled down, with Mrs Jarvis and John Furnival, the chairman, walking in together. Pluke noted they were smartly dressed and well groomed. Even that small point indicated a highly professional group of people.
Furnival detached himself from his companion and came over to greet Pluke and Wain who rose to their feet to meet him. They all shook hands.
‘Detective Inspector Pluke, how nice to meet you. I have heard so much about you and your work for the citizens of this small town. And Detective Sergeant Wain – you too. I am John Furnival, chairman of the CVC; you have already met Mrs Allanby, our secretary and this is Juliet Jarvis one of our professional carers. Most of our carers, as I am sure you appreciate, are volunteers as indeed is your very capable wife, Millicent.’
‘Have we met, Mr Furnival?’ asked Pluke, shaking his hand. ‘I seem to know your face but I cannot recall our paths ever crossing?’
‘I am sure our paths have crossed, Mr Pluke, after all this is a very small town.’
He then shook hands with Mrs Jarvis, a tall, powerful-looking woman in her mid-forties. Dark haired and with an air of absolute efficiency about her, she gripped his hand firmly.
‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Pluke,’ her smile was welcoming and warm. ‘We are so pleased that your wife is one of us, such a helpful and lovely lady. But I don’t think you and I have ever met, have we? Except perhaps at the hospital some years ago? I used to be a nurse there but left due to all the unnecessary red-tape and filling-in of pointless forms with little boxes to tick. The NHS is being stifled by paperwork, Mr Pluke. It is so sad.’ And then she turned to shake hands with Wayne.
Furnival was a tall, well-built man with barely an ounce of fat on his body. In his late fifties, judging by his appearance, he seemed fit and healthy with a good head of grey hair and rimless spectacles. Pluke felt he oozed charm and confidence.
‘I am sure we have passed one another as we have walked to work through the town, Mr Pluke. Like you, I walk to work every day but unlike you, I am a fairly new resident of the town – a mere five years.’
‘You’ll find we are lovely people who will make you feel most welcome, Mr Furnival. I hope you found a warm welcome when you arrived.’
‘Yes, I did. I soon felt very much at home. You may like to know that I am a retired senior fire officer from West Yorkshire and as you know, the Fire Service has long enjoyed a reputation for its out-of-hours care for the community. Like police officers, we have to retire at a comparatively early age and so I decided this is how I could continue my former charitable work. Firefighters are always such hard workers for those less fortunate than themselves, they do such a lot of charitable work in their spare time, much of it unknown to the wider public.’
‘I am very aware of all that, Mr Furnival, many police officers do likewise. They regularly come across the poorest in society. Anyway, we’re glad to meet you and your staff.’
‘How can we help you?’
Chapter 12
‘As I am sure you know, Mr Furnival . . .’ began Pluke.
‘Call me John.’
‘And I’m Wayne,’ chipped in Wayne Wain.
‘And I am Detective Inspector Pluke.’
‘Oh,’ said Furnival.
Pluke never explained why he did not immediately resort to the use of forenames especially during informal situations, but Wayne knew his boss felt it was most certainly not advisable during criminal investigations or indeed in any police enquiry, nor when meeting anyone for the first time. An added factor was that within many police stations there were distinct barriers between the higher ranks and subordinates and also civilian employees. The emphasis was upon formality, correctness and mutual respect. Pluke also expected children and young people to refer to him by his full name and rank; he thought it wrong for youngsters to call him Monty. Not even
Millicent used that form of address. He was always Montague to her.
‘As I’m sure you know,’ Pluke began to explain, ‘the Government is making severe cutbacks in public services and the police are no exception.’
‘We’re acutely aware of that, Detective Inspector Pluke,’ agreed Furnival. ‘It’s happening to the Fire Service too and the cuts are permeating down to our level as carers, through local and district councils. Everyone is affected.’
‘From our point of view, and in common with all police forces, we’ve been instructed to examine the ways in which we execute our duties and responsibilities with a view to finding less expensive but equally efficient methods. I refer to all our work, not only criminal investigations.’
‘That won’t be easy, Detective Inspector. So how are we involved?’
‘Your work rarely involves the police, Mr Furnival, but one area under scrutiny is the way that sudden deaths are dealt with. In particular, the Home Office is concerned about the police role and the time spent in dealing with deaths that do not develop into either criminal investigations or involve an inquest.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought the police could ever spend too much time on that sort of thing, Detective Inspector Pluke. It’s vital police work, that’s how criminality is uncovered and offenders detected.’
‘That’s true, but the top-and-bottom of it, Mr Furnival, is that the Home Office seems to believe that a lot of police time and expense is spent on unnecessary enquiries. In their view, this includes the investigation of deaths that occur from purely natural causes. My task, therefore, is to identify areas where savings can be made without jeopardizing criminal justice.’
‘It’s a tall order, Mr Pluke. If the police are anything like the Fire Service, their time and expenditure will already have been cut to the bone.’
‘Then you can understand our dilemma. What I must do is to make our political masters feel they are doing something useful,’ and Pluke produced one of his rare smiles. ‘If I can be seen, in my official returns, to reduce the time and effort of my officers – CID officers that is, the uniform branch will make their own decisions on this matter – then it will please the Home Office boffins. As I am sure you know, Mr Furnival, reforms are quite alright so long as they don’t change anything.’
A Full Churchyard Page 12