Omens of Death (4 page)

‘In Padgett Grove, is it?’ asked Pluke with a hint of anticipation in his voice as he pondered the fate of the occupants of the Crowthers’ home.

‘No, sir, at the Druids’ Circle. A young woman. Nude. The man who found the body is there, I told him to await your arrival. He will show you the body.’

‘Really? A young woman? How odd it should be at the Circle! Suspicious death, is it?’ There was a note of hope in Pluke’s voice. It seemed the Crowthers had been spared.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield. ‘This one does look very suspicious.’

‘Does it really?’ Pluke’s heart began to pound as he anticipated a moment of forthcoming triumph. ‘Sadly, it means someone has lost a dear one. It’s Thursday for losses, Sergeant. All right, I’ll go straight away and I will take Detective Sergeant Wain. We’ll use his car.’

And as Detective Inspector Montague Pluke prepared for what appeared to become the first murder investigation over which he had command, and the first in the history of Crickledale, he muttered a line from Shakespeare: ‘Murder cannot be hid long’, and then added
sotto
voce
: ‘And neither can murderers.’

*

After seeing Montague off to work that Thursday, Millicent went about her domestic duties with her usual thoroughness before getting ready for the Coffee Club. She and her friends met regularly at the Coffee Pot for coffee and biscuits, and Millicent was so thrilled that Amelia Fender had something exciting to tell them about happenings at May Crowther’s house.

Chapter 4

When going about his mobile constabulary duties, Detective Inspector Montague Pluke favoured an official driver. Other persons of stature did likewise. Her Majesty the Queen, the Lord-Lieutenant of the County, the Chairman of the County Council and the Chief Constable each had an official driver. Montague, however, was acutely aware that his rank did not entitle him to a chauffeur, but because Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain always accompanied him during his crime enquiries, Montague had deemed it wise to let him drive. With his smart suits and tall, impressive appearance, Wayne could easily be mistaken for a chauffeur. Indeed, over the months Montague Pluke had come to regard Wayne Wain as his personal driver.

To be driven around by a smart young man gave Montague a distinct feeling of eminence within the police service and indeed within the town. The sight of him being chauffeured to official engagements had certainly impressed the citizens of Crickledale and there were times when he wondered if he should have a flag on the bonnet of his official car. In the light of present financial restraints, though, he felt the Chief Constable might not sanction such expenditure and he didn’t feel inclined to spend his hard-earned personal cash upon a flag. Besides, the car bonnet would need modifications to accommodate it, a further costly consideration the Force could not afford. Flag or no flag, he would be driven to the Druids’ Circle by Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain.

This arrangement both pleased and relieved the sergeant, because Montague’s driving skills were universally recognised as not being of the highest standard. All the police officers of Crickledale, members of the uniformed and plain-clothes branches alike, knew that Montague Pluke crashed his gears, had difficulty coordinating his arm movements and lacked anticipation when using the brakes, a defect which frequently manifested itself at highly critical moments. His driving was guaranteed to put other road users at risk — the term used by some was ‘hair-raising’ although Montague would have denied that. After all, he had never crashed a car and never had trouble steering or stopping his lawn-mower; furthermore, he had often said that persons of a nervous disposition should not allow themselves to be carried as passengers in motor vehicles. The more vociferous might retaliate by saying that only a raving lunatic would allow himself or herself to be driven by Montague Pluke. Puke might counter this by saying that his wife, Millicent, never objected. The short answer was that Millicent loved and respected Montague and could see no ill in anything that he did; in fact, so confident was she that she often closed her eyes when he was driving. This was in keeping with one of Montague’s favourite quotes — ‘love is blind’.

Having received clamorous complaints from experienced police officers who had accompanied him in the passenger seat, particularly those who had passed the Advanced Police Driving Test, Montague had decided he would always allow himself to be the passenger in an official vehicle. It was that momentous decision which had led to the present arrangement.

From a personal point of view, the fact that he was a passenger allowed him time to examine hedgerows, dry-stone walls, ditches and derelict buildings for signs of concealed horse troughs. Indeed, he’d found four in one day while investigating an outbreak of haystack fires, a just reward for his consideration to other road users. And now he was being driven to the Druids’ Circle.

‘You know where to find the Druids’ Circle, Wayne?’ He fastened his seat belt.

In spite of the oppressive heat, Pluke wore his ancient greatcoat and heavy suit, while Wayne Wain knew he must not dress casually, even if the sweat was pouring from him.

‘Yes, sir. In Druids’ Wood, that’s on Hunter’s Ridge,’ replied Wayne Wain.

‘It is one of the Nine Sights of Crickledale, Wayne. You knew that, did you?’ asked Pluke.

‘Yes, I did, sir, as a matter of fact.’

‘And can you name the Nine?’ challenged Pluke.

‘They comprise nine historic places in or near Crickledale, sir, places of interest to sightseers, visitors, tourists and historians. They are — the Keep of Crickledale Castle, the Vaults of the old Priory, the Crypt of St Agnes’ Church, the Bells of St Macarius Church, the ancient Nunnery of Trattledale, the Devil’s Bridge, the Tower of Turbulent Thomas, the Roman Baths and the Druids’ Circle. How’s that?’

‘Excellent, Wayne. And all are genuine, except the Druids’ Circle. That’s a folly and consequently not of any great interest,’ Pluke proffered.

‘I quite like it, sir, and some do say it occupies the site of a genuine temple.’

‘It does look impressive, I will agree to that, but it cannot rank alongside the genuine historic sites within the Crickledale district, those to which you have just referred. It was placed there as a folly, nothing more. It has had no religious, ceremonial or historic function.’

‘Yes, but with your deep interest in things historic, sir, I thought you’d have researched it ...’

‘The depth of my knowledge is primarily associated with horse trough history, Wayne, and secondly with other aspects of local history. I concern myself with the
genuine
article, not fakes, and most certainly not fake Druids’ Circles. I fail to see the point of studying a fake or regarding it as something historic or even of academic interest, even if it does stand on a site of some possible importance. One has to find the right balance in such matters.’

‘But surely it is now a part of our history, sir? History has to start somewhere, it has to begin at some stage of our life-cycle. Besides, the Circle is shown on all the tourist maps, it’s one of the Nine Sights.’

‘Why is it on the maps, Wayne? Why would tourists wish to visit something which is overtly false? It’s like visiting an amusement arcade to look at plastic wall decorations — they’re fakes too, made to look like the real things. Like false clay pipes and copies of horse brasses in some pubs. Cheap replicas, Wayne, not for the discerning. I live for the day when the Town Hall horse trough is formally included in the Sights of Crickledale — imagine that as the Tenth Sight!’

‘I see no reason why that should not happen, but some people find the Druids’ Circle very interesting and I do think it has a certain atmosphere. Mystique, even. Anyway, so far as your horse trough hunting is concerned, there are plenty of moorland tracks nearby, most of them disused nowadays. You might discover a long-lost horse trough or two. The horses of the past would surely need water?’

‘I’m sure there would be no troughs, Wayne. Those travellers would use moorland streams, they’d utilise natural water supplies. There are hundreds of springs on the moors and they are still producing endless gallons of purest water, even today. It means there was no need for them to spend days or weeks carving a horse trough from solid rock when there was a ready supply of water nearby. Those moorland springs never dry up, they even flowed during the winter of 1947 and the droughts of 1976 and 1995.’

‘Simple logic by simple people, sir?’

‘Simple, but not stupid, Wayne. Uncomplicated — and they were very practical. They had to work hard at merely surviving without carving horse troughs which weren’t needed. In their day, you didn’t find horse troughs for sale in supermarkets. If you wanted one, you made it yourself and if you didn’t need one you didn’t make one. There were other things to do.’

‘Quite, sir,’ conceded Wayne Wain, well and truly lectured.

The car moved smoothly away as Wayne drove from the police station yard into the traffic and along the road to the northern extremities of Crickledale. As Wayne drove, Montague Pluke aired his knowledge of the Druids’ Circle.

It was quite clear that he
had
researched it in some depth. He said it was built in 1840 by Lord Losky, partially to keep his estate workers employed during a particularly slack time, and partially to impress his friends and neighbours. Roughly oval in shape, its widest portion was about a hundred feet (30 metres or so) in width and its perimeter consisted of two main circles of standing stones, one immediately inside the other with some rising to more than ten feet (three metres or more) in height.

Huge crosspieces straddled them to provide an impression of Stonehenge. Two taller stones, each rising to over twelve feet (about four metres) with a massive crosspiece above, formed the Eastern Gate, which was used as the main entrance. A similar gate of smaller stones created the less prestigious Western Gate. Within the centre was what appeared to be an altar formed from a flat sacrificial stone standing on short stone pillars and this stood near a tall standing stone which was clearly intended to be a phallic symbol.

An additional asset was that it served as the gnomon of a massive sundial, its shadow ticking around the stones like a huge clock. Other standing stones adorned the central portion, and immediately inside the Eastern Gate, on the left as one entered, there was a cavern which extended deep into the hillside. This was thought to be a replica of a tomb, although it had no door. Further chambers were thought to replicate places of rest for the high priest and accompanying celebrants, while recesses around the complex provided seats for spectators and participants in ceremonial occasions.

It was clear to Wayne that Pluke knew a lot about the folly, even if he denied any special interest. He went on to say that it was surrounded by a mixture of deciduous and coniferous trees, while occupying a large glade in the woodland. There was an unmade track leading to it, but the track terminated at the Circle. Beyond lay only rough moorland without any clearly defined paths or tracks, all part of the local estate.

‘Many topographical writers have omitted the likelihood of the Circle occupying a genuine site,’ Montague went on. ‘If such a claim is true, however, it is just possible that this Circle might not be wholly false. The original stones may have been used. If that is the case, it lends a certain air of authenticity to the ‘Circle and if that were proven, I might take a more discerning interest. But horse troughs are my speciality, Wayne, and today my interest in the Circle is purely professional.’

‘I understand perfectly, sir.’ Wayne smiled.

‘Think about this, Wayne,’ Pluke went on. ‘The Circle’s stones must have come from somewhere. Contemporary records do not tell us where Lord Losky found them. Having examined reports about the site, I do not think they were carved especially for this modern construction. Their shape, size and purpose could have been determined centuries ago. So, Wayne, if the Druids’ Circle is not totally false, it might contain forces we do not yet understand.’

‘You could be right, sir,’ concurred Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain.

‘Now, is it open to the public?’ asked Montague Pluke, thinking there might even be a horse trough within the complex, a real one, not a fake. It would be very uplifting to discover a trough which had survived since druidical times, or even one made to match a well-executed folly. Were there such things as folly horse troughs, he wondered?

‘There is no resident warden, sir,’ Wayne Wain told him. ‘And no gates to prevent access; anyone can, and does, visit the place without restriction, around the clock too, I might add. There are occasional rumours of all sorts of bizarre goings-on here at night. I believe the estate has placed an honesty box inside a rock near the entrance, in a vain hope of defraying the expense of upkeep.’

‘Rumours of orgiastic events do surface from time to time,’ acknowledged Pluke. ‘Nothing has ever been proven. Now to the purpose of our visit. Who found the deceased?’ The car was now gathering speed as the two officers left the confines of the town and made for the hills.

‘A man called Winton, sir. Stephen Winton, a photographer. He was sent to photograph the site for a tourist magazine. He called us from his car phone; there is a car-park nearby.’

‘I cannot say I know him. Is he from Crickledale?’

‘No, sir, from Fossford.’

‘And he has been asked to remain there, pending our arrival?’

‘He has, sir.’

‘Thus he has presented himself as the first, and to date, the only suspect?’

‘That is very true, sir.’

‘It’s always a good start, Wayne. The person who reports finding the corpse must always be a prime suspect, if not
the
prime suspect.’

Montague had remembered that from his days on CID training courses. There were times when killers reported the discovery of their victims in the vain hope it would remove suspicion from them. The truth was it had precisely the opposite effect. Stephen Winton would be closely questioned.

In the meantime, as the officer in charge of the investigation, Montague Pluke had to make sure that everything necessary for the smooth running of the enquiry had been set in motion. Having never before initiated a murder investigation, he must rely heavily upon the professionalism of Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain. In such cases, delegation was a virtue.

Not to be forgotten, of course, was that there was no confirmation that this
was
a murder investigation. It had not yet been established that the girl had been murdered, even though there appeared to be circumstances of some suspicion. This meant there were questions to ask and answers to seek.

‘Has a doctor been called to certify death?’

‘Yes, sir, I’ve done that.’

‘And a pathologist to carry out an examination of the body at the scene?’