But she did wonder whether Crickledale had any great men, and whether one of them was about to die. Unless it was an omen about the Prime Minister.
Chapter 15
Due to the unsettling news from the forensic pathologist, Montague Pluke’s concentration was not one hundred per cent upon the subject of his lecture. Somehow, tonight’s discourse on ‘The Civic Horse Troughs of Yorkshire’ was not as riveting as it should have been, because his mind persisted in wandering towards the Druids’ Circle and its naked mystery. The puzzle which embraced the turmoil of the girl’s last hours would not eradicate itself from his brain and compelled him to struggle with his talk in an attempt to make it fascinating. As he forged ahead, he gained a distinct feeling that his audience was not particularly interested in civic horse troughs, a shame because tonight’s attendance was greater than usual in spite of the weather. Montague attributed this to his own drawing power, but in fact numbers were high because several wives had insisted upon being accompanied by their husbands due to fears about the rampant murderer/rapist who was at large in the Crickledale district.
Montague lumbered among the lighter gems of his subject in a vain hope of creating some sparks of interest. He explained how, in Roman times, the civic leaders of the invaders had commissioned ornately carved stone troughs to be installed outside their palaces for the sole use of their horses. Horses belonging to lesser mortals were not allowed to drink from that water. Troughs were plentiful in the market squares of Roman villages, then known as the forum, but few had survived.
During the first century AD, there had been a particularly fine specimen at Verulamium, now known as St Albans, but no trace remained and perhaps the most noteworthy was a Roman stone trough at Habitancum which bore a carved figure thought to be that of Vercingetorix, the Gallic leader defeated by Julius Caesar.
Another trough of note in more modern times was that which Queen Victoria had ordered; it was a specially made cast-iron edifice with a triple bowl and brass fittings. It bore the royal insignia and had been placed near the gates of Buckingham Palace for the refreshment of her horses and only her horses. Common horses could not enjoy the royal water and in fact, one of the royal coach horses would never pass that trough without halting for a swift intake of a gallon or two. Others of renown included the Byzantine trough of Birmingham, an elegant five-holer known as the Quinquetrough of Killiecrankie, the Italian-style horse trough outside the medieval town hall in Bradford, and one of Dutch design near Hull docks.
‘Thus the humble horse trough embodies all that is great in the history of our splendid country. It is, in fact, a permanent record of the development of Great Britain,’ was Montague’s finale, and he accepted the polite applause of his audience with his customary grace. He announced he had a selection of his photographs if anyone wished to inspect them — they were laid out on a table behind him, each endorsed with details of the trough portrayed. He’d also brought copies of his book which was for sale, autographed, at the discount price of £3.50. Finally, when he said he was prepared to answer any questions, one gentleman raised his hand and asked, ‘Have you arrested that bloke what killed that lass, Mr Pluke?’ It was Jim Bealey speaking from the back row.
‘Well, Mr Bealey, this is hardly the place to ask that question, particularly as it is not linked to the history of civic horse troughs ...’ he began but was immediately interrupted by the chairman of the meeting.
‘Crickledonians would like to know whether you’ve caught him or are likely to catch him, Mr Pluke,’ said the chairman, Arthur Norris. ‘There is much concern in the town, I might add. Great and deep concern in fact. We appreciate there are matters of professional secrecy in a major investigation of this kind, but the townspeople are very alarmed and worried. I mean to say, if there’s a maniac murderer and rapist at loose among us, nobody’s safe, our wives, daughters and girlfriends are at risk, Mr Pluke. That’s why some menfolk have come tonight, to protect our women.’
This diversion was most irregular and Montague Pluke was uncertain how to frame his response. The fact that Tracy Bretton had died from natural causes had not yet been made public and he felt it was unfair to reveal that to the Local History Society before any official announcement was made. The police and the public should be first to know, not the Local History Society. The formal announcement was due in the morning, at the press conference and so, after a moment’s thought, he adopted a truly diplomatic response. ‘Mr Norris, we are conducting thorough enquiries and have made very sound progress. I shall make an important official announcement tomorrow morning.’
‘Aye, that’s mebbe so, but have you arrested anybody?’ persisted Mr Bealey.
‘No, we cannot arrest anyone until all the facts have been gathered and assessed,’ countered Pluke. ‘We need evidence before we can arrest a suspect. We need to be sure we have arrested the right person. In any murder investigation there are many suspects, most of whom are eventually eliminated from the enquiry. It’s a long process, one that’s very delicate. We cannot proceed to arrest those who we feel are guilty unless we have very firm evidence of their guilt to present to a court of law.’
‘There’s that bloke in Fossford an’ all,’ continued Bealey. ‘Him that was murdered. I heard it on the news. And he found that lass at the Circle. Two dead, eh? Two with links with yon circle of old stones. So how many more, Mr Pluke? How many more must die before they catch the bloke who’s doing it? As ratepayers, we need to feel safe in our beds. Well, council tax payers. Anyroad, they should bring back hanging, that’s what I say.’
‘All I can suggest is that we all wait until tomorrow’s announcement.’ Pluke found himself sweating as the audience began to grow restless in their concern about the harrowing events in Crickledale. He felt he had to quell any disturbance before it developed into a full-blown riot. ‘Now, any questions about horse troughs? Are you sure how, when and why the first drainage holes were incorporated in troughs made from stone?’
‘You’d have been better talking about them murders, Mr Pluke,’ said Bealey, rising from his seat to leave the premises. ‘It would have done us all more good.’
‘Well, if there are no more questions ...?’ The chairman stood up. ‘I will ask Mrs Gurden to propose a vote of thanks to our esteemed speaker, Mr Montague Pluke.’
‘I think he ought to do summat about those goings-on on the cricket field,’ muttered a woman from one of the centre rows. She managed to voice her complaint in a moment of utter silence as the applause faded, before Mrs Gurden, her back as troublesome as ever, could struggle to her feet to proffer the formal vote of thanks. And even though she had not intended her comment to be broadcast to the audience, Pluke heard it.
‘Not more thefts from the pavilion, Mrs Holtby?’ he asked her before the chairman could formally bring the meeting to a close, simultaneously recalling one of his major investigative triumphs.
‘Thefts, Mr Pluke?’ There was a note of provocation in her voice. ‘Nowt so simple as that. No, this is sordid stuff, immoral behaviour, carnal goings-on. Not the sort of behaviour you expect on the cricket pitch of a town like Crickledale, even in modern times. Indecent exposure if you ask me, all of them folks cavorting about in their birthday suits up and down between the wickets and in and out of the pavilion at full moon ... nudists, I reckon, from a caravan rally or summat. Your men should be stopping all that sort of thing. It’s not decent, allowing that sort of thing in Crickledale, especially before a cup match.’
‘We have had no complaints ...’ began Pluke, wishing to explain that the police could not take action unless there was a formal complaint.
‘I should think not, all of them fellers ogling those young women, husbands of folks who ought to know better. You’d not expect fellers to complain about nude women cavorting on their cricket pitch, would you?’
‘Well, er, some might ...’
‘That sort o’ thing would fill the spectators’ gallery in no time if it happened in daylight. By, I don’t know,
things is changing and not for the better if you ask me.’
‘I note your concern, Mrs Holtby, but which men were ogling them?’
‘Them that lives around the cricket field for a start. I know all about it, my Stan told me ... disgusting it is. Was. Behaviour like that. Naked as the day they were born, some of them women. And being filmed an’ all.’
‘Filmed?’ questioned Pluke.
‘Aye, some had cameras and lights.’
‘Well, all I can say is that if we get a complaint from the cricket club, or even from a member of the public, we shall investigate the problem.’ Pluke was proud of the diplomatic streak he was displaying right now ‘And I assure you, Mrs Holtby and everyone else, that once the Crickledale police do get a formal complaint of improper conduct on our cricket pitch, it will be investigated with the full weight of the law. I might add, however, that the cricket club and its grounds are private property and the police do not have complete jurisdiction over all the events which occur there. There are certain practices, some of which might involve consenting adults, which may occur in private without penalty, but which may become illegal if they were in a public place, like being nude in certain circumstances, whether or not there are consenting adults.’
As Montague waffled on, everyone looked at Mrs Holtby, wondering if she would dare to state formally that she would make a complaint about the matter, but she shook her head.
‘Will you make an official complaint, Mrs Holtby?’ Pluke directed the question specifically to her.
‘Nay, Mr Pluke, not me. You won’t get me having my name put down in police records. Besides, I never saw nowt, it’s just what I heard.’
‘Well.’ Pluke smiled. ‘I suggest that whose who are concerned should have a word with someone in authority at the cricket club or perhaps a householder in one of the houses which overlook the ground, and ask a responsible person to make a formal complaint to us at the police station. The matter will then be investigated, taking into account all that happened and, of course, basing any action upon the criminal law relating to that particular subject.’
That solid statement seemed to have the desired effect because there were no more questions, no more comments — and no formal complaint about frolics on the field between the stumps, near short leg or close to silly mid-on. Christine Gurden thanked Mr Pluke for his fascinating account of Yorkshire horse troughs and said that his revelations would make her excursions on to the moors and into the dales much more interesting in the future. She had no idea that Roman horses were so particular in their drinking habits or that there was so much to know about horse troughs. She was particularly interested to hear that an early horse trough in Scarborough had once been supplied with the original spa water. By drinking it, the horses of the time had produced superb shining coats and could gallop all day on one fill-up. It worked some wonders for humans too.
Following her remarks, the gathering dispersed. As the people returned to their homes, Montague gathered up his notes and photographs, thanked the officials for their hospitality and walked away with Millicent on his arm.
‘You were so good, Montague,’ she oozed. ‘You spoke with such authority and your knowledge is astonishing. I was so proud of you.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ He smiled in the darkness as they moved steadily through the deserted streets of Crickledale. ‘But I felt the minds of most of the members were upon the murder and not upon the subject of my discourse.’
‘That is not surprising, it is big news, Montague. There is concern in the town. I know you hate to talk about your work, but these crimes have upset a lot of people. Women dare not go out alone at night — you saw how many had husbands with them at the meeting.’
‘I wish someone would make complaints to us if they are worried about events and goings-on in the town. There has been no complaint about those people prancing about on the cricket pitch. How can we undertake our duties if people do not keep us informed? How can we protect the public if we do not know what they need protecting against?’
‘They probably don’t want to bother you, with you being so busy keeping crime down. I mean, frolicking naked on the cricket pitch is hardly a criminal matter, dear, and from what I heard, some of those who witnessed it thought it was hilarious, not the sort of thing to complain about to a hard-worked police force.’ She wondered what some of the men must have looked like and what position the stumps were in at the time of the frolicsome cavortings.
‘You knew about it?’ He sounded shocked.
‘Well, yes, we ladies do keep informed of things that happen in the town, you know. Our meetings are important for that reason, we do keep up to date.’
‘But you did not mention it to me, Millicent!’ And he sounded shocked and hurt.
‘You always insist on keeping your police duties quite apart from your domestic life, Montague, so I did nor feel I should trespass upon your off-duty time. I do not like to worry you with such things when you are relaxing after a hard day’s work.’
‘Well, there could be exceptions in exceptional circumstances ...’
She could not miss this opportunity. ‘Montague, I would like to mention that there is a lot of concern about May’s and Cyril’s house, all that activity in recent times, and that murder of the girl, and whether she is their niece ...’
‘What activity precisely?’ he pressed her.
‘Well, Mrs Peat from No. 14 saw all sorts ...’
‘Saw all sorts?’
‘A nude man, and parties and things ...’
‘My God, what is happening in Crickledale?’ he burst out. ‘People witnessing all manner of doubtful activities with never a word to the police ... really, Millicent, I am most disturbed at this lack of co-operation from the public. How can we do our job in such circumstances? These are matters of grave importance ...’
‘One of your detectives did come to take a statement from her, Montague. Now, you must not get too excited, dear, people do gossip and none of us wants to trouble you in your off-duty times ... I know they were making fun about the cricket field, it was hardly a matter of great concern ...’
‘But it could be linked to the murders, Millicent ...’
‘You can’t be serious, Montague?’ she cried.
‘I am very serious, Millicent.’ He spoke strongly. ‘I am most interested in the references to photographing the antics on the cricket field. Since beginning this investigation — this very trying investigation — I have come to believe there is a great deal of photography of naked people going on in Crickledale.’
‘Oh, Montague, how dreadful!’ She hoped she sounded shocked and not intrigued.
‘I truly believe so. I am not speaking out of place when I say that Cyril’s and May’s house might have been used for that purpose, without their knowledge I might add, and I believe it may be occurring in the surrounding countryside.’ He felt he could tell her a little of the background to his enquiry. ‘After all, the beautiful landscape around us is idyllic and lends itself to romantic thoughts and unwise freedoms. If this sort of thing is happening, then I, as custodian of the Queen’s Peace in Crickledale, should know who is involved. And I don’t. All I know is that a lovely girl has died, who is not the niece of May or Cyril.’
‘No?’
‘No, she was house-sitting for them. That is all, and using it as a set for filming — and I believe some local people are involved, Millicent. I need to know who they are.’
‘Maybe you should speak to the Camera Club?’ she suggested. Millicent had never heard Montague speak about his work at such length. She hoped he would continue. This was much more interesting than horse troughs. He even smiled when she mentioned the Camera Club.
‘Now that’s a good idea,’ he agreed as they reached their front door. ‘Yes, Millicent, that is a very good idea indeed.’
And he walked into his comfortable home with a smile on his face.
*
Because the natural cause of Tracy’s death had not been relea
sed to the press, all the Saturday morning papers carried front-page articles about the progress of the murder investigation of Crickledale. The bizarre circumstances surrounding Tracy’s death had ensured maximum publicity combined with speculative reporting, even though it was noticeably devoid of facts and truths. The tabloid stories had dreamt up tales of black masses, witchcraft, sun worship, multiple orgies and pornographic film-making. There were hints of Bacchanalian revels in wooded glades or terpsichorean sprees beside crystal-clear moorland streams.
The tales were guaranteed to attract tourists to the places mentioned — already an ice-cream van had been noticed near the entrance to the Druids’ Circle, according to local intelligence. In addition, Crickledale Estate was contemplating a gate across the road to the Druids’ Circle, plus a turnstile, and were considering an increased fee. £1 did not seem adequate for such a famous place and huge crowds were expected during forthcoming weekends.
Most of the accounts now incorporated the Druids’ Circle along with ribald stories of goings-on rumoured to have taken place there. It was mainly rubbish, but it did get the townspeople talking — and that is what the CID required. But it was too late now. There had been no murder. There was no such crime to solve in Crickledale.
None the less, there were things to conclude in the office and on that Saturday morning Pluke’s walk through the town took far longer than usual. Greater numbers of Crickledonians stopped him to ask about progress — and in all cases he said there was to be an announcement later that morning. Although it was a Saturday, the town seemed extraordinarily busy, even at this early hour, and after much raising of his panama and bidding of good-morning, he arrived at the office half an hour later than usual. He went through his normal arrival routine, tidied his desk, checked the correspondence, then noticed that Wayne Wain had also come to work. That was dedication and it would be noted in Wayne’s personal record. But why had he come in if the investigation was over?
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