Omens of Death (The Montague Pluke Cases Book 1)

by Nicholas Rhea

  He realised that one of his teams would visit the house during the routine house-to-house enquiries. If they did their job properly, they would establish the holiday whereabouts of the Crowthers and the identity of May’s niece. But Montague felt his duty was rather more immediate and as the teams returned from their first, uneventful enquiries in town, he said to Wayne Wain, ‘I am going home now, but en route I shall be visiting a house of some friends.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘They are away on holiday, so I am told on good authority, but as I saw a crow sitting on their roof yesterday, a sign that heralds a death, I felt I ought to call in.’

  ‘As part of this enquiry, you mean, sir?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that, Wayne, although there is no known link between the house and the dead girl. But yes, every enquiry in this town is now part of our murder investigation, surely?’

  ‘Might I ask why you wish to see the house?’ Wayne seemed to think that murder enquiry protocol was being breached.

  ‘I want to see whether there has been a death there.’

  ‘You mean the girl might have been killed at that house, sir?’

  ‘It is a possibility that I cannot ignore, Wayne. It has been troubling my mind. I know our teams will be visiting the house in due course, but in this case I have personal connections with the owners. So, do you wish to accompany me or are you going off duty?’

  ‘I’ll come with you, sir.’ Wayne had no intention of missing this. Pluke could be right; he might know something the others did not. After all, he was a local person with a very extensive local knowledge. As Pluke walked through the town, he received courteous greetings from the townspeople who were out and about, smiling, nodding and raising his hat where appropriate.

  ‘You know a lot of people, sir,’ commented Wayne Wain.

  ‘Indeed I do, Wayne, indeed I do. That is part of my job, but also part of the penalty of being a leading citizen in a small town. But in the case of my work, it is an enormous help — local knowledge is of paramount importance, Wayne, and it is one of the factors which has compelled me to return to the Crowthers’ house.’

  ‘Return, sir?’

  ‘I did make a quick visit this morning, Wayne, but learned nothing of great interest, except that there were indications of the presence of someone other than the Crowthers. My decision was made in the knowledge that a crow had settled on their roof, Wayne, not because of the girl’s death.’

  ‘And there was no sign of a problem, sir?’

  ‘There was one small indication of a possible problem, Wayne, one which I shall retain in my memory should it become relevant.’

  ‘Something you noticed?’

  ‘Something I noticed, Wayne.’

  ‘A piece of superstition?’

  ‘A piece of domestic practice which could be construed as a superstition, Wayne, hence my unwillingness to divulge it at the moment.’

  When they arrived, Montague rang the bell. He did not expect a reply but felt he should perform this basic arrival ritual. No one answered and so he said, ‘I think a circuit of the bungalow is called for, Wayne. The kitchen door is at the other side and I suggest that a peep through the windows might be helpful.’

  After only a few yards he halted and peered through the lounge window into the well-furnished room. He saw that the mirror above the fireplace was still draped with a tea towel.

  ‘See that, Wayne? A covered-up mirror? That was there when I called earlier.’

  ‘Stopping the reflection of car lights in the drive, perhaps, sir?’

  ‘I doubt it, Wayne. It’s not the sort of thing the Crowthers would do.’

  ‘The niece, perhaps? Drying the cloth?’

  ‘That is one interpretation,’ acknowledged Pluke. ‘There may be another. Now, I wonder where the niece is and what she’s doing here? Millicent referred to visitors with cameras.’

  Although it was almost nine-thirty, the evening was light, this being mid-June but none of the house lights was burning. Gingerly, Pluke walked around the path towards the kitchen door, passing the dustbin and opening a wooden gate before entering the back-kitchen garden. The glass-panelled door was now on his left. He knocked and waited. There was no reply.

  As he was waiting, Mrs Dunwoody at No 11a, grey-haired and plump and in her fifties, opened her kitchen door and shouted, ‘They’re away, Mr Pluke, on holiday.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Mrs Dunwoody. But I am told someone is living in during their absence.’

  ‘That niece of hers; she’s house-sitting.’

  ‘Ah, and where is she? Do you know?’

  ‘Well, she was here the other day but not for long, always rushing out somewhere. People coming and going. Vans and cars and things, folks wanting taxis. I said to my George that young lady’s never here; she’s always gallivanting off somewhere in that little car of hers, but I haven’t seen her today so I said to George she might have gone off early or something; you never know with young people…’

  ‘What does she look like?’ asked Pluke with sufficient volume temporarily to stem Mrs Dunwoody’s flow of words.

  ‘A bit of a glamour-puss if you ask me; not one for talking to the likes of me and my George. Too old for her, we are, I said to George. Not her kind of people. I said to George, that young lady’s got ideas above her station, I said, not a bit like her Aunt May…’

  ‘Appearance, Mrs Dunwoody. What did she look like? That girl?’

  ‘Blonde hair, Mr Pluke. Very clean it was, and long. Pretty face, I suppose, the sort men would go for… yes, very pretty. Smart with it…’

  Pluke looked at Wayne Wain who said, ‘Mrs Dunwoody, if we showed you a girl who is lying in a mortuary, could you tell us whether it is Mrs Crowther’s niece?’

  ‘A mortuary? Oh good heavens what a thing to ask… I’d better have words with George… he’s the one for that sort of thing. I always say when the police come knocking on your door it means trouble… George, are you there? George? What are you doing? George!’

  At her call, there emerged a grey-haired man in slippers who was bearing an egg cup containing the shell of a boiled egg, which had been smashed into the cup. He was trying to extract the shell to throw it into the waste bin.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Dunwoody,’ greeted Pluke, recognising the fellow. He did countless jobs around the town, including taxi-driving and work for the local undertaker. He was always to be seen rushing about Crickledale, running errands, cutting grass in the sports field, doing bits of painting and decorating, and even some bus driving in the summer. A man of all parts.

  ‘What’s up?’ he growled as he came from the kitchen. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Pluke. I’m in the middle of washing up, a late tea. Damned egg shell’s got stuck fast in here…’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you during important work, Mr Dunwoody, but have you seen the girl who’s staying here?’ Wayne Wain put to him.

  ‘Aye, bonny lass. Chatty with it!’

  ‘Mr Dunwoody.’ Montague spoke now. ‘There is a girl of similar description in the mortuary of the hospital. I need you to look at her and to tell me if it is the girl who was staying here. Will you do that?’

  ‘Aye, right. It’ll get me out of the rest of the washing up. Hang on while I get my shoes on.’ And he went inside to dispose of his stubborn egg shell.

  ‘We’ll check the house when we come back,’ said Pluke very quietly to Wayne, as Mrs Dunwoody said, ‘I always said no good would come of that lass. Much too flighty. She never dried the pots when she washed up, just left them to drain… and she never made the bed. And she had people in; it’s not as if it’s her own house, is it? You could look through the windows and see the sheets all over the place. Not brought up proper, she wasn’t. I don’t know what May would think to it all, if she ever finds out. Apart from that, my George couldn’t take his eyes off her, those shorts it was. I’ve never seen shorts as short as those shorts, Mr Pluke, then there was her skirt…’

  George reappeared, smiling, and said,
‘Right, Mr Pluke. Ready when you are.’

  On the way to the hospital, George let it be known that he had done this before, when a friend had been killed in a road accident, and so it was not a new experience.

  ‘Is it that girl found at Druids’ Circle?’ he asked. ‘Word’s got around the town, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘She was found there,’ confirmed Pluke. ‘Yes, that’s the girl we are going to examine.’

  ‘Then it’ll be a public footpath from now on, eh? Through those woods?’

  ‘Public footpath?’ queried Wayne Wain.

  ‘Aye, whenever a corpse is carried across a field or through a wood or anywhere that’s private, it becomes a public footpath,’ said Dunwoody with conviction.

  ‘The estate will never allow that,’ said Wayne Wain. ‘It’s private now, although they do allow the public to visit the Circle. But that’s with their consent — the public has no right of way.’

  ‘It’ll all stop from now on, mark my words,’ said Dunwoody. ‘Old law it is. Corpse roads become public rights of way, you can’t argue with that! So, what happened? Accident with that car of hers, was it? Somebody taking fright and getting rid of her?’

  ‘No, we have reason to believe it is murder,’ said Detective Inspector Pluke, ignoring Wayne Wain’s puzzled frown at this bold comment.

  Mrs Peat from No 14 Padgett Grove, a member of the Flower Rota for the church, rang Millicent. ‘Millicent, I shan’t be able to replace the flowers this weekend, I’m going to see my sister in Brighton. Now, I wonder if you could stand in for me?’

  ‘Yes of course,’ Millicent said. ‘Only too pleased.’

  ‘Now, you know Mrs Dunwoody doesn’t like red and white flowers together. Something to do with her WVS work at the hospital. Hospitals won’t have red and white flowers in the wards and her George is most particular, like blood on bandages he says. Anyway, where was I?’

  ‘You wanted me to help out?’

  ‘Ah, yes. The church. Can you help, Millicent?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And I’ll make sure there’s no reds and whites together.’

  ‘Good heavens, Millicent,’ cried Mrs Peat. ‘I’m looking out of my window and there’s your husband and another detective; they’re at May’s place, talking to Ada. What a coincidence I should ring you now. I’ll bet it was all to do with that noise that girl and her friends were making… look, I’ll pop round to see you about the flowers…’

  ‘There is no need, it is all very clear…’ But Mrs Peat had rung off. Millicent knew that Montague’s investigations were very important and highly confidential and that she must resist all Mrs Peat’s questioning. Not that Montague told her very much about his work, but with Mrs Peat’s potential for gossip, you never knew how far things would go. On this occasion, Millicent decided she would listen rather than talk, because Mrs Peat seemed to know something about the goings-on at No 15 Padgett Grove.

  ‘Good heavens… your husband is at May’s place, talking to that Dunwoody man… I’ll bet it’s to do with the noise that girl and her friends were making…’

  Millicent didn’t say that Montague was engaged upon a very important murder investigation.

  Chapter Eight

  On the journey to the mortuary, it became clear to Montague and Wayne that George Dunwoody loved to identify dead bodies. In fact, it was almost a hobby with him. He’d seen hundreds, he told Montague, chiefly due to his part-time work of helping out at Crumble and Smirch, Undertakers, Embalmers, and Funeral Carriage Masters of Crickledale. During his part-time work he had, from time to time, been expected to handle corpses, to carry them down narrow staircases and lift them into coffins; furthermore, he’d often been asked to help identify those injured in traffic accidents or fires, and had done a bit of laying-out and measuring for coffins too. But his proudest moments were as bearer, especially if the funeral was a big one with a local personality as the dear departed.

  During their discussions, it transpired that George was often asked to identify deceased persons because he had once been a postman. He had met almost everyone in the town, often at the crack of dawn, and had thus viewed many Crickledonians in their natural early-morning state, ie, women with curlers and without teeth, or unshaven men suffering from a hangover after a night in the pub. It meant he could recognise the features of almost any local person, dead or alive, battered or not battered, in darkness and in light, and in conditions which would thwart other potential identifiers. People without their teeth did have a look of corpses, he jested. He added that if today’s corpse was a Crickledonian, he would know her. George added that he would never shirk from his public duty and was not afraid of helping Detective Inspector Pluke, even if the lass in question was a murder victim.

  What he did not tell Pluke was that it would be something to boast about in the pub on Friday nights. After all, it wasn’t everyone who measured corpses for coffins and got it right first time, even for those with humped backs and big noses — and even if the regulars were rather tired of George’s tales of the macabre, his involvement with Crickledale’s first murder case would enliven the conversation at the Bay Horse.

  When the small official party reached Crickledale Hospital, George was eager to display his knowledge of the network of corridors plus his considerable corpse-handling skills. After Detective Inspector Pluke had satisfied the receptionist that they were not invaders seeking to sit with a sick relative after visiting hours, they were guided by George to the mortuary suite.

  ‘I’ve been here hundreds of times.’ He led them into the bowels of the hospital. ‘But I’ve never done a murder before, Mr Pluke. There’s a first time for everything, eh?’

  ‘There is indeed,’ responded Montague, remembering this was also his first murder-type investigation and adding, ‘We have yet to confirm she was murdered, Mr Dunwoody. At the moment, it is officially nothing more than a suspicious death; I shall be pleased if you will treat the possibility of it being a murder with the confidentiality it deserves. All we need from you is a name for the deceased if, of course, you recognise her.’

  ‘Aye, well, I know that. I shan’t go blabbing in the pubs about this, you know. I know when to keep a secret. Us folks in the public eye must behave right, eh?’

  ‘That is very reassuring.’ Inspector Pluke beamed, unconvinced.

  When they reached the mortuary suite, the attendant, a cadaverous character called Clarence, bade them wait near the empty operating plinth as he went to Drawer number 14 and hauled it open. It was like a giant filing cabinet in which each drawer could be filled with a corpse instead of masses of paper, and each was refrigerated. As the huge drawer eased out of the bank of cabinets, it filled the room with the distinctive sweet-sickly smell of death and disinfectant. Montague saw that it contained the body of the girl found at the Druids’ Circle. She was the only resident this evening, the other drawers being empty if the blank labels were any guide.

  Pluke saw that the subject of their visit lay feet first in the cabinet, her head at the handle end of the drawer with her blonde hair spilling around her. Below the neck, her nakedness was concealed beneath a white shroud which reached down to her feet. Only her face was visible. Montague Pluke was pleased about that, pleased that her modesty had been respected.

  ‘That’s the one,’ muttered Wayne Wain at his side.

  ‘Mr Dunwoody.’ Montague spoke with authority, his voice echoing in the sepulchral space of the mortuary as he carefully avoided the use of George’s Christian name. ‘Can you examine the body of that young woman in drawer number 14 and tell me if it is the woman you recognise as the niece of Mrs Cyril Crowther?’

  ‘Aye, right.’ And George moved manfully towards the head of the drawer, cap in hand, and peered at the dead face. His decision took a fraction of a second.

  ‘Aye, Mr Pluke, that’s her. Mrs Crowther’s niece, I’d swear to it.’

  ‘And do you know her name?’

  ‘No, sorry, Mr Pluke. No idea.’

  ‘But you’ve
seen her at the Crowthers’ house?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘When was the most recent occasion, Mr Dunwoody?’

  ‘Well now, that’s a good question. Today’s Thursday, eh? Which means yesterday was Wednesday and the day before that was Tuesday, haircutting day. I’d say Tuesday, Mr Pluke. Tuesday morning. When she left in her little car.’

  ‘Left where, Mr Dunwoody?’

  ‘Cyril and May’s house, Mr Pluke. She was house-sitting, so I understood, they’re away on holiday and I definitely saw this lass go off in her mini on Tuesday.’

  ‘Where to? Any idea?’ asked Wain.

  ‘Turned right she did, outside the bungalow, but I have no idea where she went from there.’

  ‘What time was that, Mr Dunwoody? When she left the house?’

  ‘After breakfast. Coffee time. Half-ten, summat like that.’

  ‘And did she come back?’

  ‘She must have done because the lights were on, later, that was. I never noticed her, though. Mind, folks can come and go from that house, by the front door that is, without us knowing.’

  ‘And her car? Did you see it parked outside upon her return?’

  ‘No, but she did use the garage. Cyril drove his car to the airport, you see, so the garage was empty for that lass to use.’

  ‘What colour was her car, then? And registration number?’

  ‘Red, a dull red. Nearly plum-coloured, I’d say. But, well, Mr Pluke, I have no idea of its number, I mean you don’t, do you, take car numbers, unless you are a car number spotter. There was no cause, was there? She was just a lass having a break herself, looking after the house for her aunt…’

  ‘What was she wearing? When you last saw her? Can you remember that?’

  ‘Now you’re asking hard questions, Mr Pluke. She allus dressed well, in mighty short skirts or shorts… thin blouses… white I think. I nobbut noticed the top in the car, driving seat. A white T-shirt, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘Any idea where she lived, Mr Dunwoody? Her home address? I need to know who she is and where she lived or her parents’ name and address. Or next of kin.’