A Full Churchyard Read online

  ‘Who’s Rolly?’

  ‘You must have come across him, Mr Pluke. He’s an out-of-work builder. When the firm he worked for went bust he got himself work doing odd jobs around town. There’s always somebody who needs a job doing, anything from cleaning spouts to fixing loose tiles. Rolly Parkinson can turn his hand to any job and he’ll deal with anything. He does jobs for the CVC without wanting pay. Good chap to have around, Mr Pluke, he’s on our list of volunteers. We’ve a good team of carers in this town.’

  ‘You’re right, Mr Farewell, we are very fortunate. But have you noticed that when the winter is mild, the graveyards fill up quickly, not just here in Yorkshire but all over Britain?’

  ‘I don’t dispute that, Mr Pluke, and I must be honest by saying I’m most grateful for the extra income. We all need extra money in winter what with heating costs, petrol and food.’

  ‘So do your wages as groundsman include gravedigging?’

  ‘No, the parish pays for me as groundsman, to look after the churchyard but the undertakers pay for my gravedigging and most of Sooty’s work here, it’s all very welcome bits of income, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘You’re very fortunate, Mr Farewell and it is a wise and very Christian attitude by your employer.’

  ‘It is but I would never dig a grave on a Sunday, Mr Pluke, that wouldn’t seem right, nor would I come here on a bank holiday unless it was an emergency. But that has never happened. Me and Sooty work well as a team, helping each other, doing extra jobs here, trimming the hedges, cutting the lawns, getting rid of dead flowers and so on.’

  ‘You do keep the place nice, Mr Farewell.’

  ‘I do my best. Well, it’s been nice to talk, Mr Pluke, call again if I can help in any way but now I must be off. I’m not allowed an extended break and have to get this job finished before I knock off.’

  As Linton Farewell headed for the little shed behind the church to enjoy his break, Pluke walked along every aisle in the churchyard, noting all the new graves. They were easily identified because they all sported vases of fresh flowers, except for Mrs Langneb’s empty space, but some did not yet bear the names of their occupants. He could always double-check on the graveyard plan in the porch or get official access to the names of the recently deceased, should that prove necessary.

  Counting the forthcoming tomb of Mrs Langneb, he counted the eight fairly new graves. Nine recent deaths. A lot. Millicent was right, but it was worrying that it had escaped the attention of the town’s constabulary, himself included.

  But, he tried to reassure himself, that situation was absolutely normal because the police had no official interest in natural deaths, and all had been without suspicion. As he prepared to leave with his professional instincts making the situation rather unclear, he felt his chat with Linton Farewell had been useful but there was nothing more he could do without the necessary support from official files.

  It was time to return to the office to see what Wayne Wain had discovered.

  Chapter 3

  Wayne entered Pluke’s office clutching a file and announced, ‘I’ve remembered a case with something odd about it.’

  He was followed by Mrs Plumpton bearing a tray with two coffee mugs and some biscuits. Stooping to give her charms maximum exposure, she placed one mug on Pluke’s coaster and handed the other to Wayne, then departed in a cloud of perfume as Pluke sneezed.

  ‘Bless you,’ she called.

  As he recovered from both the vision and the sneeze, Pluke noticed that Wayne’s file didn’t relate to an undetected crime because it had string around it; that indicated the case was closed and papers had been placed in the Dead Section.

  ‘Sit down, Wayne, you look very dangerous, hovering with hot coffee.’

  ‘As you say, sir.’ He settled at the other side of Pluke’s spacious desk and made good use of a pile of papers as a stand for his coffee. ‘This’ll interest you, with your specialist knowledge.’

  ‘Horse troughs, you mean?’

  ‘No, I was thinking of local folklore and superstitious practices.’

  ‘Really?’ Pluke was now settled and the coffee was perfect. ‘But Wayne, from where I’m sitting that file appears to have come from the Dead Section. It means the matter has been finalized. We’re looking for an undetected crime, an unsolved case that’s suitable for a cold-case review.’

  ‘I know, but listen to this. An elderly woman was found dead on the floor of the former pantry in her cottage. She was called Adelaide Croucher . . .’

  Pluke interrupted. ‘I don’t recall that name, Wayne.’

  ‘Then I’ll refresh your memory. Miss Croucher used her former pantry as a utility room, a cool store for food and vegetables. It was also big enough to store her cleaning materials and the vacuum cleaner.’

  ‘That may be so, but I still can’t recall the case,’ muttered Pluke. ‘Or her name.’

  Wayne ploughed on. ‘When the doctor examined Miss Croucher, he certified her death and his brief examination suggested there were no suspicious circumstances and no sign of an attack upon her. However, he had previously visited her and treated her on fairly regular occasions so he was familiar with her medical record. He stated he had no doubt her death was from natural causes – in simple terms, old age. The coroner didn’t order a post mortem or an inquest, and consequently neither the CID nor the uniform branch investigated the death. The file was therefore closed. That is absolutely normal in those circumstances. It was the end of the matter.’

  ‘So why are you trying to resurrect this case?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘I think it was peculiar because she was lying on the floor of her pantry face-up with all the windows open and doors unlocked. Anyone could have entered her house and it was never established how she reached that ground-floor room from her bed. She was in her nightclothes but her bedroom was upstairs.’

  ‘Is that all, Wayne? You’ve nothing more sinister than that?’

  ‘What is not apparent from this file is that the police did attend the scene – it was me. I was there, that’s how I remember it. Her neighbour had reported her lying dead and suspected an attack upon Miss Croucher so she called Crickledale police. PC Carey was on town duty patrol and was directed to the scene.’

  ‘Are you suggesting there were suspicious circumstances, Wayne?’

  ‘I’m saying there was something odd about this case.’

  ‘Can you explain, Wayne? I need to be convinced.’

  ‘At first sight, it did look as if she had been attacked by an intruder and it was pure chance that I happened to be there. Taking everything into account, I believe there was, and still is, an element of suspicion about the case.’

  ‘You’ve not explained things very clearly, Wayne. If you say you nursed an element of suspicion, why wasn’t her death categorized as suspicious? Why wasn’t it investigated?’

  ‘There was an investigation but it was a normal and very routine sudden-death enquiry which determined she had died from natural causes. It meant there was no police interest from that point. And that’s all that was done.’

  ‘So when did this death occur? I still can’t understand why I wasn’t aware of it.’

  ‘It was about three years ago, you were on annual leave, sir. You went to Siena and later found the missing Golden Horse Trough that was associated with that big horse race around the market square, the Palio. I think you were away for nearly three weeks. It was all over by the time you returned. In any case, there was no reason why you should have known about Miss Croucher’s death.’

  ‘That must explain it, Wayne. If you had been concerned, you would have talked it over with me. But, as you say, I was in Italy. It was quite wonderful, a holiday to treasure. So Miss Croucher’s death, even though you found it puzzling, was not considered a matter I should have been made aware of upon my return to duty?’

  ‘No. The duty town inspector decid
ed no further action should be taken. The file was closed. It’s stuck in my memory because one of the funeral directors also thought it was odd . . .’

  ‘Which director? Can you remember?’

  ‘Not off the top of my head, no. But I expect his name will be in the file.’

  ‘We’ll find it if we need it. So in what way did he mean odd?’

  ‘I think he was talking about all those open windows and unlocked doors and the fact she was lying on her back in her nightie on the pantry floor with no sign of an attack or break-in. It was probably a combination of those factors but the funeral director never explained what he meant by odd. He couldn’t explain – I think he was relying on his instinct. Perhaps it was nothing more than a passing comment? Something said spontaneously without much thought? But I couldn’t forget it had come from a person who was very experienced in dealing with dead bodies. In spite of all that, Miss Croucher’s death was treated like any other routine sudden death, with no suspicious attached. The undertaker’s men removed her body to their chapel of rest and she was eventually buried in Crickledale churchyard. Her cousins who lived in Suffolk came to the funeral but she had never married and had no local dependants. She wasn’t wealthy even if she owned her own cottage; I doubt if there was anything in her house of interest to thieves.’

  ‘You said she was elderly?’

  ‘Yes. 89 and very frail although not suffering from any serious illness. Her funeral was a quiet affair. The house was willed to her neighbours, the folks living at Weaver’s Cottage next door. West was their name. They’ve now knocked both cottages into one large property.’

  ‘You said you were involved, Wayne? Why was that? It seems an unlikely case for a CID officer to deal with. Uniform deal with routine sudden deaths.’

  ‘Sergeant Cockfield-pronounced-Cofield received a call to say a woman was lying dead on the ground floor of her cottage with all the doors and windows open. He despatched PC Grant Carey to make an immediate investigation because the address was on his beat.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘By chance, I was walking past Tiler’s Cottage when PC Carey arrived. It was about 10 am. I stopped for a chat and he told me a neighbour had rung to say Miss Croucher had been attacked in her own home. Because it had all the signs of a suspicious death, I asked if I could help him. There was no need to break in. Both the back door and front door were standing open as they were when the neighbour found her.’

  ‘Unlocked doors wouldn’t be unusual in Crickledale at that time of day, would they? You said it was around ten in the morning.’

  ‘It was, on a nice warm day. But those doors weren’t merely unlocked, they were standing open. I could also smell smoke or soot and thought she’d been cleaning or airing the house . . . anyway, PC Carey asked if I could help him by having a look at the scene – in case it was a crime scene.’

  ‘Did he say why he wanted help?’

  ‘He was a young constable. He felt he needed support in case there was something suspicious or evidence he might not notice. After all, he had been told the woman had been attacked and it was the first time he’d dealt with a suspicious death so I agreed. In any case, scenes of death are always of interest to a detective.’

  ‘One is never off duty, Wayne, one is always alert to the possibility of serious crime even in the most innocent of circumstances. You did the right thing.’

  ‘I had a good look around. She was lying on the old pantry floor in her nightdress. She was on her back with her hands crossed over her stomach with her legs straight out.’

  ‘Very neat – folks who collapse and die don’t normally arrange themselves so neatly, do they? And neither do victims of murderous attacks.’

  ‘They don’t. I didn’t think she’d collapsed or tripped, she was far too tidy for that. It was just as if she’d been arranged for burial. Then I realized all the windows were open around the house, upstairs and downstairs – the pantry had no windows.’

  ‘And you said the doors were wide open?’

  ‘Standing open, yes. My first examination showed there were no signs of forcible entry or attacks on either Miss Croucher or the house. I told PC Carey that I saw nothing suspicious even if the circumstances were extremely peculiar and I advised him to call a doctor. After all, she could have opened her own doors and windows. I explained to PC Carey what he should do next and once I was satisfied that he could deal with the matter, I left him and took no further part in that investigation. So far as I’m aware, it was never established how she managed to get downstairs – she had had one of those stair-lift chairs and I noticed it was at the top of the stairs, not the bottom as you’d have expected.’

  ‘So PC Carey dealt with it as a routine sudden death?’

  ‘Yes but he was supervised throughout by the town’s duty sergeant. Being such a young constable, he wouldn’t have been left entirely alone to deal with that.’

  ‘Hmm,’ frowned Pluke. ‘I agree there’s something odd about this one. I’ll need to study the file.’

  ‘Some time ago, sir, you explained about the ritual opening of windows and doors when death occurs, but at that time I couldn’t recall the full implications. Sadly you weren’t there to have a look at the scene.’

  ‘I would have wanted a lot more questions answered.’

  ‘There were several I asked myself. How had she got downstairs with her stair-lift left at the top? Her bed had the covers in place if she had never slept in it. Her breakfast things were on the kitchen table, untouched, as if she’d put them out the previous evening but not used them. And when, exactly, had she come downstairs? Was it in the dark? The lights were not on in the house when I entered.’

  ‘This gets more intriguing . . .’ muttered Pluke.

  ‘My thoughts exactly. And there’s more. How did she come to be lying there so sedately – at peace, in fact? Those were the sort of things a detective would – and should – notice. The sort of things that needed answers. I did wonder whether a villain had attacked her and sent her stair-lift back upstairs, then straightened the bed covers to give the impression she’d never been in bed.’

  ‘Thanks, Wayne. That’s a neat summary and I think this is perfect for a cold-case review. Now I need to know more about it.’

  ‘This will put my mind at rest, I’ve often worried that a killer might have got through the net.’

  ‘Then let’s not waste any more time. Do you want to continue in here or shall we find somewhere more private?’

  ‘I would suggest somewhere more private,’ Wayne was thinking of Mrs Plumpton’s flapping ears but she was on the phone, something to do with a query from Headquarters about a shotgun certificate.

  ‘Right, follow me and bring that file.’ Pluke rose to his feet but did not don either his hat or his coat as he led the way downstairs to the interview room. It was part of the cell block. Without any prisoners or recently arrested persons, it would be quiet in there.

  When passing the Control Room doorway, Pluke addressed Sergeant Cockfield-pronounced-Cofield.

  ‘DS Wain and myself will be in the interview room for half an hour or so, nicely away from flapping ears, Sergeant. I mention that in case someone needs to know our whereabouts – but we shall be discussing confidential matters so kindly do not disturb us unless it is an emergency.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  When they were settled at the small table with the thick door closed, like an interrogator and his victim, Pluke invited Wayne to proceed.

  ‘I’ve taken a photocopy of the file, sir, so you can examine the original drawings, statements and house-plans. There are copies of official photographs taken at the time, Dr Simpson’s certificate and a resume of the scientific investigation of the house interior.’

  ‘Scientific investigation? So there was an official enquiry?’

  ‘Only because at the time, it was thought the dea
th was suspicious. The examination, done by Scenes of Crime officers, was nothing more than preparation of the file for the coroner. He accepted Dr Simpson’s opinion that death was from natural causes, so no further action was necessary. There was no post mortem or inquest and the coroner issued a burial certificate.’ He handed Pluke the secondary file.

  ‘In spite of our procedures failing to confirm there was suspicion, Wayne, I agree there’s cause for concern. It was never established how the poor woman had come to be on the cold floor of her pantry or why her windows and doors were wide open. Every detail is vital, so can you please outline the entire case once more? I need to know all the facts before I decide how to tackle our cold case review.’

  Wayne Wain reminded Pluke that Miss Adelaide Croucher, a spinster aged 89, had lived all her life at Tiler’s Cottage, March Street, Crickledale; the cottage had belonged to her parents and she had inherited it. There were no other members of the family and Miss Croucher had worked in the local printers in the town centre, mainly with secretarial work interspaced with some proof reading and editing. She had no mortgage and existed on her old-age pension, her savings and a tiny pension from her former employer. She was not wealthy and hardly a target for burglars and thieves.

  Throughout her long life she had never suffered a serious illness, but in recent years had become increasingly frail and unable to cope with stairs or the walk into town to do her shopping. She had had a chair-lift fitted to her staircase. She didn’t own a car or invalid carriage and depended heavily on the support of carers from Crickledale Volunteer Carers (CVC), one of whom was Mrs Pluke. Their volunteers and her neighbour – also a CVC volunteer carer – called regularly to ensure she was never without food or essentials such as firewood and coal. The carers also did her washing, ironing and household cleaning. Miss Croucher could cope with routine and less-demanding work. It was the more strenuous activities that defeated her – such as taking a bath, making her bed or changing a light bulb.