Omens of Death (The Montague Pluke Cases Book 1)

by Nicholas Rhea

  Millicent’s visitor had arrived while Montague was working late. Millicent, ever the welcoming host, offered Mrs Peat coffee even though she said she had merely come to discuss the altar flowers.

  ‘I am sure I saw a nude man in May’s house,’ she later whispered to Millicent when she realised that Millicent was not going to talk about Montague’s work. ‘Not that I was watching, of course, but, well, one of them opened the door to go outside to get something from the van, and the bare man darted across the hall… starkers, he was. Young, dark-haired. Quite big, too. And there were lots of people in the house, Millicent. Now, with all that stuff on the news and with Mr Pluke being there earlier, I did wonder if May’s house was involved because that would be awful…’

  ‘Mr Pluke never discusses his work with me,’ said Millicent proudly, but she became determined to learn more from Mrs Peat and then to ask Montague what was going on at No 15 Padgett Grove. After all, he had asked her about May and Cyril, hadn’t he? He’d never said why he was asking, the devious man!

  Chapter Nine

  Ephraim Holliday was the chairman, managing director, and proprietor of Holliday Holidays. This was a modest empire which comprised a chain of Yorkshire travel agents with its headquarters in Crickledale. Ephraim, a self-made man, lived quietly in an end-of-terrace house of gigantic proportions. In a desirable and peaceful part of the town, an area once favoured by Victorian businessmen, it boasted spearheaded iron railings which had avoided confiscation for the World War Two effort, and it was endowed with a garden full of rhododendrons and a summer house. The family home for several generations, it had seven bedrooms, lots of reception rooms, an attic, a cellar, and Adam-style fireplaces. It dated from 1802 and was in Heft Road, No 47, complete with a conservatory and highly polished brass doorbell. There was also a thing for scraping mud off shoes, positioned at the top of a wide flight of stone steps which climbed to the front door.

  Leaving Wayne Wain in the car, Montague Pluke climbed the steps and rang the bell which produced a prompt response. Ephraim, a tall, heavily built man of some half-century in age and with iron-grey hair, appeared in carpet slippers and an old cardigan. He was smoking a large curved pipe and looked like Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘Why, hello, Mr Pluke! To what do I owe this honour at this time of night?’ He puffed a cloud of smoke into the mild night air.

  Montague explained that it was not a social call, nor a matter relating to one of the town’s voluntary organisations, nor indeed an official visit to ask whether anyone had seen a burglar or armed robber legging it through the streets.

  He went on to say that his arrival was part of an investigation into a suspicious death which had occurred in or near Crickledale. Montague managed to create an immediate air of mystery by saying he wished to trace two of Ephraim’s customers, Cyril and May Crowther, who were thought to be holidaying in foreign parts. Suitably horrified and shocked, Ephraim admitted Pluke to his hallway with its ornate umbrella stand, Victorian mirror, and tiled floor, then after hearing that the Crowthers might be able to assist Pluke with his enquiries, he offered to escort the detectives to his business premises in town from where he could trace the wanted man-and-wife team.

  Five minutes later, with Ephraim’s slippers exchanged for sensible town shoes and his capacious pipe tucked into the pocket of his cardigan, Pluke and Wain followed Holliday’s grey Volvo into the town centre until it drew to a halt outside Holliday Holidays in Market Street. The travel agent’s window was brightly illuminated and filled with a selection of model aircraft flying over Alpine views and blue Adriatic seas with a backcloth of colourful brochures and glamorous posters. He led them to his desk at which there was a computer VDU and keyboard. It was the work of but a moment or two to access the Crowthers’ file.

  ‘Cyril and May have always been very good customers,’ proffered Mr Holliday. ‘I’ve never had trouble with them before. I always thought they were nice people. They have always paid cash for their holidays, Mr Pluke. They habitually take an overseas break at this time of year… now, here we are. Yes, they departed at 11am on the 17th — Saturday — by air from Manchester Airport. For two weeks.’

  ‘Where did they go, Mr Holliday?’ checked Pluke.

  ‘Majorca, it was part of a package tour, and I booked them into the Hotel Palacio on the Costa Blanco.’

  ‘Good, I need to speak to one or other of them.’ Pluke was relieved that their departure date provided both with a good alibi; if it could be proved they had actually departed on that day, neither could have caused the death of their niece. She had been seen alive after they had gone, Montague realised.

  ‘Shall I obtain the telephone number of the hotel?’ suggested Holliday. ‘What time is it in Majorca now, you might well ask… not too late to make a call to their room or to reception… unless you wish to ring Interpol to arrange an arrest?’

  ‘I am not thinking of arresting the Crowthers, Mr Holliday, certainly not upon the information currently in my possession, and in addition I am not fully conversant with the extradition procedures involving British holiday-makers in Majorca. I merely wish to have a conversation with them about the deceased. Now, can we be sure they took the flight?’ asked Pluke.

  Inspector Pluke wished to eliminate the Crowthers positively from his investigation, at the same time as notifying them of the decease of their niece. Ephraim, now sensing Holliday Holidays was not going to be the focal point of a sensational headline-hitting hunt for killers across continental Europe, approached his sophisticated computerised holiday booking system. This enabled him to access the flight records and to confirm that a Mr and Mrs Crowther had taken their seats on the 11am flight last Saturday to Majorca. Or, to be precise, someone bearing their names and in possession of their passports, had taken the flight.

  They were booked in the hotel for two weeks i.e., to return a week on Sunday, leaving Majorca at 2am. Thus it was almost certain they had been out of the country at the time of the supposed death of the blonde in the Druids’ Circle. That pleased Montague — the idea that Cyril and May might have been involved in a suspicious death was dreadful to contemplate; their guilt would have had a drastic effect upon the town’s social activities. You couldn’t really have a murderess or even a suspected one running Crickledale Flower Club or hosting a coffee morning.

  ‘You can ring from here,’ invited Ephraim, showing them the telephone.

  Even if the Crowthers were not going to be escorted back to England with an armed guard, Ephraim was anxious that his part in an international police enquiry should be seen to be as great as possible. Apart from confirming his role as a worthy citizen, it would be good for publicity, especially if men from Interpol used his agency to book a flight to Majorca to arrest and bring home any guilty parties. Ephraim reckoned to understand secret police jargon and was sure that the phrase ‘we need them to help with our enquiries’ was tantamount to saying they were suspected and would have to be interviewed, with an arrest in due course. So what on earth had Cyril and May got themselves involved in? puzzled Ephraim. A drug-smuggling racket, arms dealing, forgery cartel, white slave traffic?

  While Ephraim pondered possible publicity, Montague fretted about the offer of a free telephone call. He had to consider whether or not this was an attempted bribe, but felt it wasn’t. It was, he believed, a genuine desire by a leading Crickledonian to help the police, although Montague did realise he would be imparting terrible news of a devastatingly personal nature to the Crowthers, news that would be overheard by a third party. Yet, on reflection, there would be nothing that would not appear in tomorrow’s papers or become public knowledge in the town. It didn’t matter, he decided, that Ephraim would overhear the conversation — in fact, it might be of advantage to the enquiry if he did so, because, with his knowledge of the comings and goings of many Crickledonians, he might be able to provide useful information at some future stage. Perhaps the killer had fled overseas? The house-to-house enquiries would include his abode in due course a
nd so Pluke decided to avail himself of the telephone call. He considered his decision to be very politically sound.

  ‘That is very noble of you, Mr Holliday,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘I will dial the hotel for you,’ offered the travel agent, eager to please and determined not to disappear into a back office where he could not overhear conversations. In an amazingly short time, Pluke was speaking to the receptionist of the Hotel Palacio.

  ‘Good evening,’ began Pluke in his best speaking-to-foreigners English accent. ‘I am an English detective. My name is Detective Inspector Pluke of Crickledale Criminal Investigation Department, Yorkshire, England; yes — Pluke. That is correct. P-L-U-K-E.’

  The person at the other end was clearly attempting to write this on a message pad because Pluke was obliged to pause before continuing, ‘I wish to speak with Mister or Madame Crowther English holiday-makers who are residents at your hotel.’

  ‘Putting you through to their room, sir, room 316,’ said the voice in remarkably good English and with remarkable speed.

  ‘Hello,’ said a masculine Yorkshire voice.

  ‘Is that Mr Cyril Crowther? The Mr Cyril Crowther of No 15 Padgett Grove, Crickledale, Yorkshire, England?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘Aye, that’s me. Who’s that?’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Montague Pluke of Crickledale CID.’

  ‘Oh, now then, Mr Pluke, ’ow’s things? Are you in t’same hotel or summat? Wanting us to ’ave a drink with you in t’bar? Now that’s a good idea, eh? Or mebbe you’re ringing from ’ome. We ’aven’t been burgled, ’ave we?’

  ‘Er, no, it’s not that…’

  ‘Thank God! ’As somebody rung to say our May’s forgotten to turn up at one of her meetings?’

  ‘I am ringing from England, Mr Crowther…’

  ‘Aye, I guessed that. You can call me Cyril, you know…’

  ‘I am ringing from England with some very bad news for Mrs Crowther.’ Montague realised that Mr Crowther sounded rather jolly and wondered if he had been having champagne in the bath or drinking foreign brandy from pint glasses.

  ‘She’s in t’bath, Mr Pluke. Now there’s a sight for you, eh? I’ll bet you’ve never seen owt quite like that. Any ’ow, ’ow can I ’elp? She didn’t come away and leave t’oven on, did she?’

  ‘No, it is a very serious matter, Mr Crowther.’ He thought of ringing back, but decided it was not fair to use Mr Holliday’s telephone a second time. ‘I have some very bad news for your wife. It concerns her niece.’

  ‘Niece? She ’asn’t got a niece, Mr Pluke,’ returned Crowther.

  ‘Has she not?’ This revelation caused Pluke seriously to reconsider his strategy and he paused for a long moment before continuing. ‘But there was a young lady living at your bungalow, a blonde-haired lady in her late twenties…’

  ‘Oh, ’er. That’s Sharon. Nay, Mr Pluke, she’s not a niece. She’s an ’ouse-sitter, she said she ’ad to be in town for work and ’ad nowhere to stay, so we said she could use our ’ouse, us being away. She’s the daughter of a friend of a friend of May’s…’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, that’s rather remote from your own family, isn’t it? The daughter of a friend of a friend. It certainly eases things a little from my standpoint, Mr Crowther, because I have some awful news concerning her. I need to trace her family very urgently. She has been found dead, you see, in the Druids’ Circle. You know the stone circle in the forest? We have reason to believe she met her death in suspicious circumstances…’

  ‘Oh, bloody ’ell!’ There was a long silence. ‘What a thing to ’appen! Not murdered, you mean? Bloody ’ell… what shall I do now? Shall we come ’ome as soon as our May gets out of t’bath?’

  ‘I don’t think that is necessary, Mr Crowther, particularly as you are not her next of kin. But I do have to have her identified and that ought to be done by relatives; besides, they do need to be told — by us, I might add. I must know the name and address of her next of kin.’

  ‘Old Dunwoody next door to us is pretty good at identifying bodies, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘Yes, but we do need a relative at this stage, Mr Crowther, for a positive identification. Perhaps you can tell me whom to contact?’

  ‘She’s from West ’Artlepool, Mr Pluke. Sharon Pellow. ’Er mother’s a friend of a friend of our May’s. They, Sharon’s folks that is, live at Apedale Gardens. I can’t remember t’number off — ’and, but ’er dad works for British Rail, summat to do with cleaning carriages on t’East Coast expresses. ’E sings in pubs, they reckon ’e does a smashing Elvis.’

  ‘Thank you very much. That is most helpful. Now, I can confirm she is definitely not a relation of yours. You see, Mrs Dunwoody next door to you led me to believe the girl was Mrs Crowther’s niece.’

  ‘Did she, by gum! So that’s why you rang me?’

  ‘Mr Dunwoody explained that the blonde girl was the daughter of Mrs Crowther’s sister, June. I understand someone had told him so.’

  ‘Mrs Peat at No 14 it would be, Mr Pluke. She’s a nosy old cow and Ada Dunwoody’s not much better. May told Mrs Peat about that lass being ’er niece to stop her quizzing us about why we’d let a woman who wasn’t a family member live in our ’ouse. We knew she’d gossip about it, pass the word around. It made things easier at the time, saying she was family, as I am sure you will understand, knowing the Mrs Peats and Mrs Dunwoodys of this world. Poor lass, though. Suspicious death, eh? What a bloody awful thing to ’appen.’

  ‘It is indeed very tragic, Mr Crowther. So, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you come to offer your house to her? To someone you did not know in person?’

  ‘It was through a friend of May’s, Mr Pluke. One of those women she meets at ’er clubs and societies and things. Sharon is that woman’s friend’s lass, and she said Sharon was looking for somewhere to live for a couple of weeks in Crickledale, summat to do with a job she was doing, and what with one thing and another, our May offered that lass our bungalow while we were away. It seemed a good idea, ’aving somebody living in and looking after things. I thought it would keep burglars away — I never reckoned we’d get a murdered lass instead. It was murder, you said, Mr Pluke? I’m not ’earing things, am I?’

  Montague explained how and where the body of the girl had been found, adding that she had been nude when found in somewhat suspicious circumstances. He did add that murder had not yet been confirmed, but admitted it was a murder-style investigation. Pluke added that he would now contact the girl’s parents and invite them to examine the body with a view to identification. He added that there was no need for the Crowthers to come back to England before the conclusion of their holiday — he also explained that their house would be examined by the police and forensic experts because it was where the girl had been living. It might, he said, contain vital evidence of her friends, contacts, and even her killer.

  Cyril said he understood. ‘I reckon we’d better come back, though,’ he said eventually. ‘I mean, Mr Pluke, if our ’ouse is involved, we should be there, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘It is not absolutely necessary, I assure you,’ affirmed Pluke. ‘But clearly, I am not in a position to prevent you coming home. There is absolutely no reason to return ahead of your normal scheduled flight, and it would give us time to examine your house whilst it is unoccupied. That would make it easier for all of us.’ Montague Pluke was thinking of the time it would take to strip-search their house and personal belongings.

  ‘Does that mean you’ll poke and pry into our private belongings, Mr Pluke?’

  ‘My officers will have to conduct a very thorough search, Mr Crowther.’

  ‘I think I’d rather ’ave burglars, Mr Pluke. Our May will worry about ’er mucky washing and dust on the mantelshelves. Ah, ’ere she is now, looking like an ’alf-drowned ’en after a thunderstorm. Have you ever seen a naked old ’en wearing a shower cap, Mr Pluke? Well, there’s one ’ere. ’Ang on while I tell ’er.’

  As Crowther imparted the awful news to hi
s freshly bathed wife, Montague put his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and said to Ephraim Holliday, ‘Sorry it’s taking so long; he’s telling his wife now.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Mr Pluke. I’m glad to be of assistance. How awful, how terrible that this should happen in Crickledale of all places… you never think things like that will happen here, do you?’

  ‘Did you, by any chance, come across the young lady in question in the course of your work or private life?’ asked Pluke, keen to take advantage of the lull.

  ‘Not to my knowledge, Mr Pluke. My dealings with the Crowthers ended when they collected their flight tickets, and they never mentioned that their house would be occupied. But they wouldn’t need to tell me, would they? Not being a neighbour.’

  ‘Of course not. Ah, he’s back. Yes, hello, Mr Crowther.’

  ‘May says to tell your men not to look in t’bottom drawer in t’main bedroom because it contains her mucky washing. She’s a mite fussy who sees her knickers and my underpants, especially clarty ones. And she says to ignore that pair of socks with ’oles in t’toes… She ’adn’t time to do t’washing before we set off, you see, undies and things.’

  ‘Tell her I will pass the message on and that our officers will behave with the utmost confidentiality.’ Pluke tried to sound reassuring.

  ‘And tell Mrs Pluke that our May forgot to remind ’er about making tea tomorrow night, for t’Local History Society meeting. It was ’er turn, our May’s that is, and she forgot to find a replacement.’

  ‘I will tell Mrs Pluke and am sure she will find a replacement.’

  ‘And we’ll come ’ome as soon as we can. We won’t be ’appy out here now, will we? May says she wrote a postcard to that lass, Mr Pluke… ’ow sad, eh?’

  ‘You might care to contact me upon your return?’ suggested Pluke. ‘To acquaint yourselves with any developments in the case?’

  ‘Aye, right,’ said Crowther. ‘Is that it, then?’