Omens of Death (The Montague Pluke Cases Book 1)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘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 released 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.

  Nonetheless, 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?

  Wayne was in the Control Room, checking the night’s inventory of minor crime and Mrs Plumpton was at work too, even though it was her normal day off. Pluke felt so proud of his team as she followed him into his office.

  ‘Anything of interest before we finalise things?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes, Mr Pluke, there’s a circular from Fossford about the murder of Stephen Winton.’

  ‘About time too!’ he muttered. ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘It links him with the finding of Tracy’s body but does not ask for any special enquiries in Crickledale,’ she answered.

  ‘Our officers are not required to work on their behalf, Mrs Plumpton, particularly as we have no crime to solve. A team of detectives will come from Fossford to make enquiries in Crickledale,’ he informed her. ‘And they will want access to the information we have assembled to see whether any firm links can be established. I have no objection to that; in fact, I welcome it, especially if it helps to bring the murderer to justice. Please give them every co-operation. I would have hoped I would have received similar co-operation from them, had our enquiry become protracted.’

  Followed by Wayne Wain, Pluke then made his way to the Incident Room where the formal closure of the investigation would be done at 10am; it would be followed by debriefing of the teams and completion of any outstanding paperwork. Horsley could have done that task in Pluke’s absence, but now that Pluke had arrived, he agreed to take the appropriate action.

  From a personal point of view, he was upset because it meant he had no justification in arranging in-depth enquiries into the lives of several Crickledale citizens, such as the Dunwoodys, Ephraim Holliday, the Crowthers, and even Ron Brown alias Marcel Boussicourt from Teesside. Likewise, he could hardly justify a searching investigation of the Camera Club or any of the other Crickledale institutions. In many ways that would be a shame.

  ‘So who will take the news conference?’ asked Inspector Horsley, bringing Pluke’s mind back to the facts of the case.

  ‘It will have to be me,’ said Pluke removing his panama and coat as he settled in to the morning duties. ‘As officer in charge of the former investigation, I must explain the situation.’

  And so the time came for the news conference. The press had been told, during their routine calls to the Control Room, that Detective Inspector Pluke was going to make a very important statement this morning, and this had been interpreted by many as news of an arrest or some other highly significant breakthrough. Accordingly, a lot of journalists and photographers arrived. The large turnout had been assembled in the lecture room at the police station and Mrs Plumpton had had the bright idea of using some of the surplus milk, sugar and coffee to supply them with drinks. This added to the importance of the occasion. For the police to give journalists refreshments at a news conference was indeed a major development and heralded news of some magnitude — at least in the minds of the waiting journalists.

  There was a loud hubbub of conversation as Montague Pluke led in his team, which comprised Inspector Horsley and Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain. They made for three chairs positioned behind a trestle table upon which someone had placed a white cloth, a carafe of water, and three glasses, another sign of the importance of this occasion.

  ‘Is it a multiple killer you’re after?’ shouted a journalist from their midst before they were seated.

  ‘Arrest of local councillor after death orgy in ancient druids’ stone circle,’ called another, trying to pre-empt tomorrow’s headlines,

  ‘Naked Model in Druid Death Drama,’ cried another, quoting the heading in one of today’s tabloids.

  There was a mood of cheerfulness among the journalists, as some photographers took pictures of Montague and his colleagues as they settled in their pre-arranged seats. A triple-headed news conference was indeed a rarity.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ shouted Montague. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he repeated upon seeing several female reporters, and he rapped the table with a gavel conveniently placed by Mrs Plumpton. They lapsed into a respectful silence.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Montague Pluke of Crickledale CID.’ He introduced himself, then his colleagues. ‘I wish to thank you all for the coverage you have already given to our quest for information surrounding the death of Tracy Bretton,’ he began. ‘I need not elaborate upon the facts already known to you — your papers have covered the story in their individual ways and the coverage has produced a lot of valuable information for my officers. But’ — and he paused for effect — ‘when her body was examined by a forensic scientist yesterday — having earlier been examined by a local pathologist who could not determine the cause of death — he concluded that Tracy’s death was from natural causes.’

  Montague paused at this point, but the importance of his words was overlooked momentarily as the reporters wrote down or taped his words. And then, seconds later, the reality of the situation dawned upon them. Pandemonium broke loose, as they all began to ask questions at the same time. Montague, relishing his moment of power, held up a hand to quell the noise and they lapsed into silence once again.

  ‘For those who missed the importance of that announcement,’ he repeated, ‘I stated that Tracy Bretton died from natural causes.’ He paused again. ‘She was not murdered. The investigation is therefore concluded. There was no crime.’

  One of the journalists, a large, solidly built man, stood up and spoke for the others. ‘But Mr Pluke, if my memory serves me right, and bearing in mind this is not the first news conference, m
ay I remind you that your earlier statements led us to believe that the body was found naked at the Druids’ Circle with no apparent means of getting there. Added to that, you told us that the deceased girl’s car was fired on the moors and, from our own investigation, we know there has been a lot of porn-film-making in this town, and that she was a porn model… and now the man who found her is dead, murdered, in Fossford… and you say there is no crime?’

  ‘I am saying that Tracy Bretton was not murdered. That is a statement of fact. She died from natural causes,’ emphasised Montague. ‘That is the opinion of not one, but four pathologists. All experts, I might add. I might also add that it was not the result that I foresaw.’

  ‘But she was naked… dumped…’

  ‘I am aware of that. I am vividly aware of all the surrounding factors, gentlemen, but facts are facts,’ Montague said loudly. ‘Whatever the circumstances of Tracy’s arrival at the Druids’ Circle, she died from natural causes. Whatever happened to her mortal remains after death, she was not murdered. This investigation will therefore close as of this moment.’

  ‘But you will be trying to find out what happened, surely?’ pleaded the same large reporter. ‘And there is the Fossford murder, surely associated with this one?’

  ‘Fossford police are making their own enquiries into that death, albeit without the death of Tracy Bretton being categorised as murder. We shall help them with their enquiries if they ask. Officers from Crickledale police will make enquiries about the burnt-out car — don’t forget she might have driven it to the moor herself and disposed of it in that way — and there will be enquiries about the possibility of an offence in contravention of the Burial Laws so far as the body is concerned. However, we cannot rule out the fact she might have lain down and died in that cave without the aid of any other person. And that is not a criminal offence. But because the girl was not the victim of murder, this investigation is over. The coroner has ordered that the body be returned to the relatives for burial. The case is closed.’

  Sensing they would receive no further enlightenment from Montague Pluke, the journalists rushed from the meeting to file their first copy or to catch any local news bulletins. But if Montague Pluke thought that announcement would end the press coverage of the death of Tracy Bretton, he was sadly mistaken. It prompted the reporters to decide to find out for themselves what had really happened. Having phoned in their headline news to the effect that Tracy Bretton was a murder victim who had not been murdered, they turned their attention to the known facts. The finder of her body had been murdered, her car had been burnt to a cinder on remote moorland and her body had been dumped naked in the burial chamber of a fake Druids’ Circle — but she had not been murdered. All these factors combined to deepen the mystery of the Druids’ Circle and to ensure that it became part of Crickledale folklore.

  After dismissing the detectives, Montague Pluke thanked Inspector Horsley for his meticulous supervision of the Incident Room, to which Horsley replied he hoped they would work together again; he had enjoyed the experience, even though the enquiry had had such a premature and unsatisfactory finale. The closing down of the Incident Room would be completed by lunchtime, and so everyone could have the Saturday afternoon off duty, a rare bonus for a detective.

  Montague Pluke went home. Millicent had his lunch ready and he settled down with her to explain the situation, before enjoying his lamb chops with new potatoes and peas. She was sad about the news and unhappy for Montague.

  Being already prominent in Crickledale, she had hoped she might become known as the wife of the man who solved Crickledale’s first murder enquiry and arrested a vicious killer. But it was not to be.

  ‘I think we should get out of the house,’ said Millicent after lunch. ‘After all, it is Saturday and you do need a break. I think a walk would be nice.’

  ‘And I agree, Millicent,’ sighed Montague. ‘To go hunting for horse troughs in the fresh moorland air would be most invigorating.’

  ‘You always said you had never been to Trattledale,’ she reminded him. ‘That deserted valley.’

  ‘It was going to be turned into a reservoir,’ Montague recalled. ‘It’s full of deserted farms and cottages, ruined buildings galore, but access has been closed to the public for years.’

  ‘That’s right; well, there was an article in the Gazette about it,’ she said. ‘Yesterday’s edition. I know you haven’t had time to read it, but those plans have been abandoned now that the Water Authority has been privatised, and the National Park Authority is trying to get money from the National Lottery to repair all those tumbledown houses. They’re going to revive the dale, Montague, they’re even talking of turning them into a theme park or a holiday complex…’

  ‘Have you got the paper handy?’ he asked.

  ‘I kept it for you.’ She went across to the magazine rack in the lounge and returned with the Gazette, open at the page in question.

  It showed a view of upper Trattledale with a hamlet comprising a ruined farmstead, outbuildings, and several cottages. There were other similar ruins in the dale. Of those in the photograph, most had their roofs missing, several had walls missing too, and in every case the ruins were overgrown with vegetation. It was a picture of dereliction and desertion, the result of the dale being cleared of its resident population in readiness for the flooding which had never happened.

  ‘I know we have never been there and I thought we might visit the dale, to seek more horse troughs, before those plans are put into action. I mean, Montague, there could be abandoned horse troughs galore up there and if the place is going to be renovated, they might be disposed of, lost forever, unless you record them.’

  ‘I intended making a visit years ago,’ he mused. ‘Then it was placed out of bounds to the public. When the Authority bought the land, they closed all the roads and cordoned off the dale.’

  He quietly studied the report, examined the photographs and said, ‘Yes, I think I would like to visit Trattledale. I will enjoy a break from police work.’

  ‘I’ll get the car out while you get ready then,’ she offered.

  He found his map of the moors, made sure he had his notebook and camera in his pocket, and then, as Millicent was locking the garage doors, picked up the newspaper to re-examine the report and to have another look at the photograph of the ruins.

  It was then he noticed a crow upon the roof of one of the derelict buildings.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Montague Pluke recognised the hamlet in the picture. It was called Little Larrock and was situated deep in Trattledale. Years ago, this long-dead community had comprised a ruined nunnery, a flour mill, several farms, and a handful of cottages. It had featured in some early topographical books and its subsequent fate had spawned articles in the local press and magazines, as well as the occasional feature on radio or television. As time went by, however, doubtless exacerbated by its ‘No Entry’ signs and lack of vehicular access, it had gradually ceased to be of interest and the place had become derelict in readiness for its transformation into a reservoir. But that had never happened and the dale had developed into a wilderness, a haven for wildlife.

  Now that the Water Authority had abandoned its scheme, access was again permitted, with hikers and tourists visiting the ruins and exploring the neglected paths. There was a haunting beauty about the place, a hint of moorland mystery and romance. It was firmly back on the tourist trail.

  Larrock was an old local word meaning skylark, a bird that frequented this isolated region. Reclining in a slightly elevated part of Trattledale, the hamlet featured in folk stories of Yorkshire because, years ago, a man had died while building one of the houses. That would have occurred some hundred and eighty years ago, but the story lingered because of a superstition linked to such an accident. It was thought that if a person died while working upon a new building, that building would always be an unhappy one and that other deaths would occur on the premises.

  As a matter of local history, Montague Pluke had r
esearched that death — the name of the deceased did not come readily to mind, but there was no doubt it had been accidental. There was no question of murder or suicide, but the house in question — the one on the extreme right of his picture — had endured a long history of sadness. Illness, bad fortune, and problems with livestock and children had all come to residents of Laverock Cottage. The latest sadness, of course, had been the plan to turn the entire dale into a reservoir and thus drown the houses and fields, but in spite of the good news, it would require a lot of hard work before people could return to live there.

  All the buildings were in ruins. No one could afford the cash to rebuild them and there would be problems of drainage and power supplies, but newspaper reports hinted there were those who felt that the dale’s old spell of bad fortune had come to an end. Montague Pluke feared otherwise. He knew that someone else would die in Laverock Cottage. The legend of Laverock Cottage had not come to an end. That was the message from the crow. So when had the picture been taken, he wondered? The article had appeared yesterday and the paper would require an up-to-date illustration, so it was highly feasible that the photograph had been taken during this past week.

  A new picture, in other words.

  ‘I think we should be careful if we plan to explore those old ruins,’ he suddenly said to Millicent, without explaining why.

  ‘Yes, of course, dear,’ was her response, knowing he was always careful whenever and wherever he went exploring. He had a constant awareness of the dangers of falling rocks, stones, tiles, and hay-bales, especially on the thirteenth of the month. Today was not the thirteenth, yet she did not question his judgement or scoff at his caution.

  Having exercised due care along their route, they arrived at the ruined hamlet shortly before three o’clock that Saturday afternoon. Millicent parked the car upon what had once been the stone floor of an outbuilding; it was covered with thistles and other plants which had found sustenance in cracks and tiny holes. Around the floor upon which she had parked every wall had gone, every vestige of windows and doors had vanished and only an occasional blue roofing slate lay among the nettles and briars. But the solid base provided a most useful parking place.