Omens of Death (The Montague Pluke Cases Book 1)

by Nicholas Rhea

  Montague, his heavy coat looking incongruous in the sultry sunshine, carried his panama in his hand as he peered at the surrounding buildings in their varying states of ruin. He was seeking the crow, but it was not here today. A few smaller birds did flit among the stones — he noticed a yellowhammer, a linnet, siskin, and a family of long-tailed tits. A kestrel hovered in the distance, the smaller birds having not apparently noticed it, and as Montague began to move away from the parking base, a stoat scuttled into the undergrowth ahead of him. A wildlife haven, he thought. How marvellous. The influx of tourists would soon destroy that.

  ‘I’m going to examine that house over there.’ He pointed to his left. ‘That’s the one that was in the paper, Laverock Cottage.’

  ‘Be careful,’ she said, not mocking his earlier concern but noticing the precarious condition of some of the walls.

  Montague wandered off, simultaneously scanning the landscape for indications of long-forgotten horse troughs and at the same time keeping an eye on the stonework around him. Certainly, much of it did look unsafe. Weeds and miniature trees were growing from cracks; a pair of jackdaws flew from an old chimney breast as Millicent followed his slow progress.

  ‘I think this was a farm cottage,’ he called to her. ‘Scullery, two rooms downstairs, outhouses… and that one over there.’ He pointed. ‘That would be the farmhouse, the owner’s place. I’ll bet there is a horse trough or two hereabouts… there must have been…’

  ‘Maybe a developer has taken them away,’ she suggested. ‘And sold them in a garden centre?’

  ‘They’d need some hefty lifting gear to do that, and the roads to this place aren’t particularly good,’ he observed.

  ‘We got here all right,’ Millicent retorted. ‘And we don’t have a four-wheel cross-country vehicle.’

  ‘Yes, but we couldn’t take a horse trough without some help, not that we would, of course,’ he countered. ‘Now, this would be what we would call the lounge of the cottage. They called it the house. Scullery at the back, house here, where they ate, sat by the fire, and lived. Two little bedrooms at ground level and a pile of stones in the corner of what used to be one of them.’

  The stones were like an elongated cairn; instead of tumbling from the walls at random to form an untidy mess along the ground, these had been carefully assembled in a fairly symmetrical pile about three feet (one metre) high. The pile was slightly more than six feet (two metres) long and would be about four foot six inches (one and a half metres) wide. Thus it was oblong in shape and stood upon the grassed floor in the corner of the former bedroom. Montague noted that it was orientated east to west.

  ‘Someone’s arranged the stones like this,’ he said, noting that some had moss on their southern edge. ‘Neatly arranged, aren’t they? Probably stored for future use.’

  ‘There’s a funny smell,’ Millicent said, her nose twitching.

  ‘A dead animal,’ he said, then sniffed the air. She was right. There was a smell and it was the scent of death — and it was coming from this pile of stones. He thought of that crow.

  ‘Millicent, I am going to examine these stones,’ said Montague, and for this he removed his voluminous overcoat. He hung it, and his panama hat, on a piece of stick protruding from a standing wall.

  ‘What on earth for, dearest? You’ll get filthy dirty; there’s no water out here to wash your hands…’ Millicent had seen him do this before. ‘There’s not a trough under there, is there?’

  On many occasions she had watched him scrape away dirt and remove huge stones with his bare hands, especially if he thought there was a horse trough hidden beneath.

  At such times he seemed oblivious to the dirt he inevitably transferred on to his hands and clothing. Today was such an occasion. Montague did not respond as he began to lift away stone after stone, each the size of one used in the building of houses and dry-stone walls. Starting at the eastern end, he tossed them into the nettles nearby. And then he found the foot. A human foot. A man’s foot, clad in a smart, highly polished black shoe… he moved several more stones and quickly realised that this pile had been used to conceal a corpse. Did it contain a great man?

  He recalled the lore of the thunderstorm, and said to Millicent, ‘Millicent, I fear I have discovered human remains, fairly recently dead, I would say, judging by the condition of the leg and clothing. Buried under this pile of stone, and he didn’t get under here either by himself or by accident. He is dead, the smell says so; there’s no way any human body could survive the crushing weight of these stones. And he didn’t crawl in there by himself.’

  As if to reinforce his opinion, he shouted at the still form but won no response, then reached down to touch the leg. Baring the skin, he found it was cold, dead…

  ‘Oh, Montague, what is going on around here, I ask you?’ She remained calm as she always was. ‘People will think this is the murder centre of England…’

  ‘No one has said it is murder, Millicent. It might be an unauthorised burial. Now take the car, find a telephone, and ring the Control Room at Crickledale Police Station. Tell them where I am and that I have found human remains of recent origin and tell them that a doctor, the Scenes of Crime department, and the usual call-out personnel are required. Tell them the death is definitely suspicious. I shall wait here until they arrive. You’ll come back for me?’

  Millicent bravely did as she was asked and roared away in their private car, chugging through the narrow lanes in search of a telephone, while Montague began to inspect his immediate surroundings. Ferns grew from many of the walls, these once being encouraged as a protection against thunder and lightning, but the most prolific plant hereabouts was the elder. Thickets of elder trees grew around these ruins, these berry-bearers once being planted to keep away evil spirits and to drive away warts, sore throats, and fits. They were used as a deterrent against lightning too — this place was riddled with superstitious reminders. But they had not prevented the crow from settling upon the roof of this ruined cottage. That alone suggested the man had died here.

  Taking his notebook and his camera from his pocket, he began to make notes about this discovery, drawing a rough sketch of the scene showing the direction in which the corpse lay, its relationship to the walls of the ruin, the width of the burial mound of stones (by pacing it), and an estimate of the height. If the size of the burial mound was relevant, it must conceal a very large person. He noted the man’s shoe was good-quality black leather and his trouser leg was black and of good-quality material too, rather like an evening suit. The sock on display was also black. The remainder was still covered up and Montague was tempted to remove the stones, but desisted, knowing that the scene must be left as nearly as possible in its original state.

  As with the Druids’ Circle death, he wondered whether the body had been brought here and dumped, or whether the victim, presumably male, had been lured here and killed on the spot. Or was this merely a strange burial? All were possibilities and quite feasible — he and Millicent had had no difficulty arriving and a determined killer could easily despatch a victim in these remote surrounds, either by hitting him on the head with a stone, or by shooting, or strangling…

  As he wandered around, taking photographs and making notes, he realised this was an ideal place for death, remote, quiet, devoid of witnesses. So who would know of its existence? It was quite possible, of course, that the article in the newspaper had generated a lot of new interest, as it had done for Montague, but that had appeared only yesterday.

  Until the body had been extracted from its cairn-like burial mound and identified, there was little more he could do. Millicent returned after fifteen minutes or so to announce that the police of Crickledale were en route.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be taking those stones off him?’ she asked, as Montague wandered around with his hands behind his back, peering at interesting things.

  ‘No,’ he said with firmness. ‘We must leave the scene exactly as it is; that’s the only positive way of securing a complete
investigation from a scientific point of view.’

  ‘But he might be alive, Montague…’

  ‘No, dearest, he’s very dead. Dead as can be. Certifiably dead.’

  ‘Who can it be, I wonder?’ was her next question.

  ‘Someone of importance,’ he answered, thinking of the thunder and the quality of the black shoe. ‘A large man, too, I would suggest. A great man, perhaps? But I cannot hazard a guess at this stage, for we have not received any reports of missing persons in this locality, Millicent. At least, there was none when I left the office this morning.’

  And so they waited, with Millicent struggling to recall a conversation she’d heard at one of her social functions. Hadn’t someone passed a comment to the effect that a certain person had not been seen in his usual haunts? It had been a fleeting comment, one that would not normally have meant anything, but now, in retrospect, it might be important. She would try to recall who had said it, and what they had said. She took to wandering around the ruins, like Montague with her hands behind her back, as she fought to recall the words and then, as the Pluke pair perambulated, the first policeman arrived. It was a uniformed constable in a small beat car and he recognised Montague, inspected the protruding foot and said, ‘I’ll secure the scene, sir, I was sent to confirm that there was a body here…’

  ‘There is a body, Constable, and it is dead; not only that, it is dead in circumstances of some suspicion, as I am sure was made clear to the Control Room.’

  ‘I am just doing what I was told, sir…’

  ‘Well, you have seen the object to which my wife referred, so perhaps you would now radio Control Room and get Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield to call out the support services? I mean the services one normally expects when there is a suspicious death! And get the Task Force out to remove this pile of stones, under my supervision, and have Detective Sergeant Tabler liaise with me here at the scene, at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ responded the constable, hurrying to his car.

  ‘My word, Montague, you are impressive when you are in charge!’ Millicent beamed. ‘Does this mean you are on duty now?’

  ‘Yes I am.’ And he thrust out his chest, never before having had Millicent so close at hand while conducting an investigation.

  ‘How exciting,’ she oozed, with pride in her voice. ‘You are so forceful when you are on duty, Montague.’

  ‘One has one’s responsibilities, Millicent.’ He smiled. ‘One is trained, throughout one’s career, to cope with sudden and unexpected events. Now, I am afraid I must let you go. I shall be here for some considerable time, so I suggest you return home. I exhort you to keep this to yourself for the time being, but I am afraid there is nothing you can do here. I will be transported home in due course, but I might be late.’

  ‘Can’t I be of some assistance?’ she almost pleaded. ‘I would love to help you.’

  ‘This is no longer a horse-trough-hunting expedition, Millicent. It is the scene of a suspicious death and all unauthorised persons must vacate or avoid the area. I must ask you to leave and take the car with you; there can be no exceptions in such an important case. I shall contact you later. I must now establish another Incident Room at Crickledale, but I fear the Chief Constable will not like it. He will begin worrying about money again, but is money more important than justice, Millicent?’

  ‘Of course not, dearest. Well, seeing you are so determined to get rid of me, I will leave.’ And she politely left the scene with a final wave from her car as she departed.

  Half an hour later, the police doctor from Crickledale arrived, examined the leg and said the fellow was dead. He did not carry out a full examination because all the vital bits of the corpse were still beneath the stones. He was followed quickly by Scenes of Crime teams, the Task Force, Detective Sergeant Tabler, the Force Photographer and other back-up services. Montague gathered them around and outlined his discovery and how he had made it. Photographs were taken, with instructions to show the protruding leg, and when all the experts had studied the cairn, Montague gave word for it to be dismantled. Stone by stone, the Task Force began their work, with each stone being examined before being set aside in an orderly fashion. It did not escape anyone’s notice that any one of those stones could have been the murder weapon — and what better place to conceal it than a miniature mountain of similar pieces?

  A video film was made as the pile decreased and eventually the body of a large man was uncovered. From his standpoint, Montague could not see his face, but the fellow was very well dressed in what looked like an expensive dark suit.

  The doctor came forward, examined the body and said, ‘Good God, see who it is? Yes, I can confirm he’s dead, but cannot certify the cause of death. You’ll need a postmortem, Mr Pluke. Poor old Moses…’

  ‘Moses Nettlewren?’ gasped Pluke, coming forward to examine the chubby features of the Clerk to the Crickledale Magistrates.

  ‘I fear so,’ said the doctor. ‘And shot in the head by the look of it.’ He pointed to a blood-encrusted hole in the side of Moses’ head just below the hairline on the temple. ‘I would guess that is the cause of death, Mr Pluke, but you will need confirmation.’

  ‘Poor old Moses…’ Pluke felt a sense of shock and dismay at the realisation that one of the men with whom he had worked so closely had been murdered. The weapon was not in evidence, but no suicide could have shot himself in the head and then heaped those boulders upon himself. This was murder, most definitely. ‘Poor, poor Moses. What on earth has he done to deserve this?’

  Detective Sergeant Tabler had come to his side now. ‘He was close to the wheels of justice, sir. Maybe a villain had it in for poor old Moses. We shall need to examine court records now, over the years, to see if Moses was instrumental in having someone put in prison. But who’s going to tell his mother?’

  ‘She is a friend of my wife, Sergeant, such a nice lady and very good with pastry, I am assured. My wife was here when I found the body…’

  ‘That’s two murdered bodies you have found, sir, in a very short space of time,’ commented Sergeant Tabler. ‘I trust you now regard yourself as a prime suspect?’

  ‘I do understand the implications, Sergeant, and I shall be willing to co-operate with the investigating officers. I know the routine, so I shall now ask the duty sergeant to inform Mrs Nettlewren. Poor old Gertrude…’

  Leaving the experts to conclude their work at the scene, Montague Pluke adjourned to Tabler’s car to make his preliminary report.

  ‘Detective Inspector Pluke to Control,’ he said into the handset of the radio. ‘I confirm that we have a murder investigation on our hands.’ And he gave the precise location. ‘Full turnout please. Establish an Incident Room at Crickledale Police Station, inform CID, the Chief Constable, and the Divisional Commander. Do not inform the press yet — I will arrange a news conference for this evening at six at Crickledale Police Station. The deceased has not been formally identified, but I know him to be Mr Moses Nettlewren, the Magistrates’ Clerk for Crickledale. Please arrange for a sympathetic officer to visit his mother to break the news.’

  And so a real murder investigation, led by Detective Inspector Montague Pluke, got under way in Crickledale.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The setting up of the new Incident Room occupied Detective Inspector Montague Pluke and his team during the remainder of that Saturday afternoon and into the evening. He recruited the same personnel he had deployed for the Tracy Bretton death, except for Wayne Wain, who could not be contacted because he was not at his usual place of abode. Messages had been left for his return — Pluke needed his assistance.

  Although the preliminaries were undertaken that evening, with Pluke and his teams working into the late hours of Saturday night, the investigation of the death of Moses Nettlewren began in earnest on Sunday. Montague considered Sunday a moderately good day for the beginning of a new enterprise, even though it was widely considered a day of rest. There were certain exceptions
to the day-of-rest syndrome, of course, such as ministers of religion who were performing their duties and senior police officers who were conducting murder investigations. It was also a good day for setting eggs under a broody hen, but not very suitable for picking hazelnuts or cutting one’s hair or nails. Furthermore, there was an old belief which indicated it was unwise to make plans for the future on a Sunday.

  For that reason, he decided not to make the initial stages of this investigation too formalised — there were comparisons he needed to make with the Tracy Bretton and Stephen Winton cases, so he decided to postpone any detailed plans until tomorrow. It was a fact, of course, that Monday was an excellent day for starting new enterprises, and certain things like married life, so detailed plans made on a Monday in the light of what transpired on Sunday should benefit the investigation.

  As he walked through the town that Sunday morning with the streets almost deserted save for a scattering of dog walkers, joggers and churchgoers, he mused upon the findings gleaned since the death of Moses. Moses Nettlewren had been formally identified by his bewildered and tearful mother, after which his huge body had been removed to the hospital mortuary; the initial PM, hastily conducted late last night, had confirmed that death was from a bullet wound in the brain. Forensic examination of his clothes and of the scene would be undertaken today while house-to-house enquiries had already started.

  One problem with house-to-house enquiries near the scene was that there weren’t many houses in Trattledale. There were several farms and cottages along the lanes leading into the dale, however, any one of which might contain an observant person who had seen cars or people driving around the time of Moses Nettlewren’s death. That, according to the pathologist, had probably occurred on Friday afternoon or Friday evening. Already, Moses’ movements and contacts at the material times were being checked, in an attempt to determine when and where he had last been seen alive, and by whom. Montague himself had seen Moses on Friday morning during his walk to work, and it had been ascertained last night that Moses had been at work during the day on Friday. He had left the office at 4.30pm, as was his usual practice, and his behaviour had been perfectly normal at that time. His secretary had expressed her opinion that he was going straight home — he did so every Friday as a rule, calling at the fish and chip shop en route to get tea for himself and his mother.