A Full Churchyard Page 7

  What a blessing Wayne had recognized the irregularities in Miss Croucher’s supposed ‘natural’ death, otherwise crucial evidence would have been lost. As he scrutinized the remaining photographs, they emphasized the well-kept and clean condition of her house but also confirmed that when the body was found, all doors and windows had been standing wide open. Not merely unlocked but standing open. To some observers that would have been perfectly natural if someone had been cleaning or airing the premises, or it might have indicated a very hot day with attempts to gain some fresh air. But all the windows? Upstairs and down? In winter? There were only two doors – one at the back and one at the front – and they were standing open too.

  Pluke was becoming more convinced that this was not a natural death. But how could he prove his theory? One way was to discover more about what had happened to Miss Hullott and compare the circumstances.

  From what Millicent had told him, there had been remarkable similarities between her death and that of Miss Croucher, although the critical difference had been that Miss Hullott’s death had not been subjected to a police investigation. There would be no police file, no photographs, no evidence. Then Pluke recalled the undertaker who had expressed an opinion that Miss Croucher’s death was, in his words, odd. Wayne hadn’t had an opportunity to interview him yet but that task was now becoming very important.

  Who was that undertaker? Could it have been someone from a distant town? If the fellow was local, had he also dealt with Miss Hullott’s funeral? Could that be a common factor? There were several undertakers in Crickledale, but it wouldn’t be too difficult interviewing them all without spreading alarm around the town. And could Linton Farewell, the gravedigger, have been involved? Or his chimney-sweeping colleague, Sooty Black? As Pluke pondered the best way of interviewing them without raising the spectre of a serial killer at large in the town, Wayne returned from the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages. He strode into the office and announced, ‘Sir, I’ve found that common factor!’

  ‘Well done, Wayne? So what is it?’

  ‘When I checked the days – not dates – of death of the nine people who have died within the last few months, five were on a Thursday. So I checked further back and discovered that over the past two years, twelve occurred on Thursdays out of the twenty deaths recorded in Crickledale.’

  ‘Do you think that’s significant?’

  ‘It could be, and there’s more. Most were elderly women, although one or two men were on the list. And there were a couple of teenagers who were killed in a traffic accident.’

  ‘Did your friend at the Registrar’s office give any indication of why so many are linked to a particular day of the week?’

  ‘I didn’t ask, sir, I didn’t want to spark off rumours. I reasoned it was up to us to find out.’

  ‘A wise decision. So how many of those twenty deaths were reported to the police? How many were thought to be suspicious?’

  ‘It’s very difficult to determine merely from the Registrar’s files but at a rough estimate, I’d say half of them. That’s the impression I’ve gained after considering the delay between the dates of the deaths and the dates of the funerals.’

  ‘In other words, you’re speaking of the time that’s necessary to organize a post mortem or a police investigation?’

  ‘I am, yes. It means we must go through all our old files very carefully. From the Registrar’s files, I’ve noted the names of those likely to be of interest so it’s merely a case of checking one name against another.’

  ‘That seems simple enough. I agree. This revelation might be just what we need to justify our investigations. Well done. Your common factor theory has borne fruit.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling we are about to uncover one of the worst cases of serial murder since Jack the Ripper?’

  ‘Because we are efficient police officers, Wayne. We form a good team.’

  ‘Like the killers, perhaps?’

  ‘Now that is a possibility! Indeed it is! I am so pleased you said that. I’ve been wondering how poor old Miss Croucher was man-handled downstairs. That would require a feat of considerable strength, probably impossible for a person working alone. So perhaps you’re right. A team of killers is operating?’

  ‘On Thursdays?’

  Chapter 7

  The work of locating and checking the relevant old files in the dusty loft would be time-consuming and dirty but, fired with determination to secure an answer to their suspicions, Pluke’s small team set about their task. Even with the enthusiasm of Pluke, Wayne and Mrs Plumpton, it would take several hours, probably extending into tomorrow but they worked with a will until today’s home-going time.

  Before leaving, however, Pluke addressed them.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he said to Wayne in his most serious voice. ‘I think you and I should attend Mrs Langneb’s funeral tomorrow. It will be interesting to see who the mourners are, and who turns up for the funeral tea. We might become privy to local gossip about the spate of recent deaths. Unguarded gossip can be a good indicator of the genuine situation. And you might locate the undertaker you need to interview. It’s important we chat with Rachel West to see how much she can recall about Miss Croucher’s death – that might provide valuable guidelines as we assess other cases.’

  ‘Is there something particular you want to check?’

  ‘I’d like to get a list of tomorrow’s mourners – that should be printed in the Gazette afterwards if the local correspondent proves efficient, and we shall be able to make enquiries from the undertaker who is dealing with Mrs Langneb. He could prove useful. On top of that, funerals do attract interested crowds, Wayne, not necessarily people who are closely associated with the deceased. There is a certain rather morbid curiosity on such occasions, not to mention a free meal afterwards.’

  ‘What about a photographer, sir? Shall I ask one to attend? A police photographer, I mean.’

  ‘I think that would be intrusive especially as this is not a murder enquiry.’

  ‘Nonetheless, photographers are always useful.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. But in this instance, I think it would prompt suspicion about our presence, along with the inevitable silence as people become too frightened to speak openly. We are merely gathering intelligence at this stage . . . snooping as Mrs Pluke would describe it. I think we need to adopt a low profile.’

  ‘I could take my own digital camera, I can hide it in the palm of my hand and take pictures without anyone realizing.’

  ‘Your persistence wears me down, Wayne! But that could be useful.’

  ‘Will you require me at the funeral?’ asked Mrs Plumpton who had been listening keenly to this rather curious conversation. Pluke realized he had slipped up a little by speaking in her presence but she rarely missed anything of note!

  ‘With your local knowledge, it would be very useful to have you there, Mrs Plumpton, the files can wait a while,’ enthused Pluke. ‘By all means join us. You can be our unofficial detective. Perhaps you could listen to conversations, get a feeling from the mourners about reasons for, or gossip about, the high local death rate. If you need to provide an explanation about the heavy police presence you can say that the Home Office is becoming increasingly interested in the part played by local police officers in cases of sudden or accidental death, or even deaths from natural causes. You could say we are looking into it. In some ways, I suppose, we are role playing and so it will be interesting to receive your honest observations on today’s events.’

  ‘I’d love to help, Mr Pluke. I’ve often thought I would make a good detective and am willing to use up some of those extra hours on my overtime card. I knew Mrs Langneb very slightly so that will help. She used to work in the shop where my mother bought her fruit and vegetables. She knew an awful lot about pomegranates. I was a very little girl at the time.’

  ‘An extra pair of eyes and ears will be ver
y useful, Mrs Plumpton. If Detective Sergeant Wain and I can attend during work hours, then so can you. There is no reason to use your accumulated overtime,’ agreed Pluke. ‘You may consider this as work.’

  ‘Thank you, that is most kind.’

  ‘If things are quiet, and if we get all those files sorted out before lunch tomorrow, we can celebrate at Mrs Langneb’s funeral tea. You truly deserve an outing, Mrs Plumpton.’

  ‘You are so thoughtful, Mr Pluke. I really am looking forward to doing some real detective work. . . .’

  And so it was agreed as they set about their dust-laden task. When he returned home that night after work, Montague Pluke was smothered in dark sooty dust; even his distinctive suit was sullied by its presence.

  ‘My goodness me, Montague, what on earth have you been doing?’ shrieked Millicent. ‘Get those filthy clothes off and take a shower before you dispense all that dust around the house. I don’t want you sitting on my best furniture in that mess. I cleaned the brasses only last Friday . . . really, you are the limit.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, Millicent. I’ve been in the police station loft looking for old files. I can leave my things here to be shaken and vacuumed or whatever you do to remove dust because tomorrow I shall require my dark suit. I have decided to attend Mrs Langneb’s funeral, and will proceed there directly from work. I will see you there, I am sure.’

  ‘Mrs Langneb’s funeral? You never knew her, Montague, so why are you going to her funeral? It’s not just for a free tea and a few glasses of sherry, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s more than that, Millicent. I felt it my duty, as a leading public figure in the town, to add my support,’ he lied smoothly. ‘And she was a very good donor to police charities. Once long ago, we found a purse she had lost and she thanked us with frequent donations to the Police Widows’ Supplementary Pension Fund.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ she retorted. ‘You’re up to something, Montague.’

  ‘I am simply attending a local funeral, Millicent, nothing more than that!’

  ‘You don’t fool me, Montague Pluke. Is it something to do with all these deaths in town? I do hope you are not investigating Miss Langneb’s death or indeed any other that’s occurred recently. You’re not snooping on the lives of private citizens, I hope?’

  ‘I never snoop. . . .’

  ‘You do, you are always snooping but you call it detective work. Look, Montague, her death is not in the least suspicious and neither are any of the others that have occurred recently. I don’t know why you are wasting precious police time on such things.’

  ‘Millicent, I have my duty to perform. . . .’

  ‘Let me finish, Montague. I have already said you should not snoop on private individuals. I know you’re worried that there have been so many deaths in Crickledale but that’s your nasty suspicious mind at work. I’m aware of the deaths too, they were all old people who died naturally for no other reason than their age. For heaven’s sake don’t get it into your head that there are murderers galore at large in this town. People die when they get old, but with so many of them in CVC care, I am worried too. In the minds of some people, it could reflect badly upon the CVC, but murder is not on my mind! It’s more to do with poor administration and natural circumstances.’

  ‘I’m a senior detective, Millicent, I must do my duty as I see it. . . .’

  ‘People die, Montague, it’s part of life. And don’t you dare take that filthy suit off upstairs. Go out into the backyard and do it there.’

  He obeyed, thankful the neighbours couldn’t see him removing his dirty clothes and hanging them over the washing line. Then he went inside to change into his gardening clothes and returned outside to thrash his work-suit with a carpet beater that looked something like an antique tennis racquet. That would soon dispense with the dust and he hoped the neighbours wouldn’t complain about the clouds of filth. As it was a fine, dry evening, he left it there as he went in once more and changed into a casual shirt and slacks. Then he made for the lounge where Millicent would have poured him a nice glass of apple juice to relax him before their evening meal. As he settled in his favourite chair, she joined him.

  ‘Montague, I am sorry for that outburst, it was most unlike me. I know you have a very demanding job with never-ending responsibility and you become aware of matters that ordinary people never encounter. There are times the pressure must be intolerable. I don’t have your calm approach to problems. Please forgive me.’

  ‘The spouses of police officers never have an easy time,’ he smiled weakly. ‘You were right to chide me if your fears were genuine, but I fear my actions are connected with my duty. I can say no more at this stage.’

  ‘Good heavens, Montague, do you actually mean that detectives will be at poor Mrs Langneb’s funeral? I can’t believe it! Not in Crickledale. You realize that your mere presence will get the people talking; gossip and rumour will be rife in the supermarket aisles and tea-rooms. I can’t really see why you’re doing this! The town can do without that kind of rumpus – the CVC has enough to think about without its carers being regarded as criminals. . . .’

  ‘I can’t avoid people making ill-informed comments about our presence, Millicent, so I’ll maintain a discreet silence. Detective Sergeant Wain and Mrs Plumpton will accompany me – Mrs Plumpton knew Mrs Langneb fairly well. If anyone tries to extract information, tell them we’re conducting a survey for the Home Office concerning the role of local police officers at funerals and weddings. You can add that the precise nature of our survey is highly confidential but that members of the public have absolutely nothing to fear.’

  ‘That’s a load of political gobbledegook, Montague, and you know it. You are investigating Mrs Langneb’s death for no other reason than there have been so many others . . . you are making a mountain out of a mole hill, Montague, and spreading suspicion where there is none. There’s no wonder people get upset!’

  ‘We are merely doing our duty. . . .’

  ‘You and your colleagues should be ashamed of yourselves, Montague, doing such things at a funeral. . . .’

  ‘You’ve expressed yourself forcibly, Millicent, so we must let the matter rest and say no more about it.’

  ‘But you still intend going to the funeral?’

  ‘Of course.’

  And so began Pluke’s evening with him now not daring to mention Mrs Langneb’s death or indeed any other. He wondered why she was so tetchy about this subject and her comment at lunch about the CVC putting their clients at peace before death was still troubling him.

  But tomorrow was another day. The funeral was not until 2 p.m.

  Next morning, Tuesday, was fine and dry. Fortified by his early morning good luck rituals, Montague Pluke decided not to trim his fingernails whilst preparing for the funeral even though it was safe to do so on a Tuesday without incurring ill fortune. Likewise, he could trim his hair, especially those bits that stuck out from beneath his hat, because that was considered also safe on a Tuesday. Fortified by his good luck and success-making rituals and beginning his day’s work by leading with his right foot, Detective Inspector Pluke walked to work through the town centre, but this time his progress was markedly different. Although he followed his usual route, he was now dressed in a funereal black suit with black shoes, black bowler hat and black tie. In his right hand, he carried a black umbrella and in his left, a pair of black leather gloves. Such was his transformation that some of his regular encounters did not recognize him, despite him raising his black bowler to all the ladies.

  However, it was to the credit of the townspeople that some did recognize his heavy black-framed spectacles, long dark hair now neatly trimmed and hat-lifting movements as he moved through the town and its people. But despite his care, his progress did lead to whispers along the route some of which were loud enough for him to hear – ‘I think Mr Pluke must be going to Mrs Langneb’s funeral but can’t think why. Why would our
most senior detective want to attend her funeral? Isn’t that what detectives do when they’re looking for a killer? They attend funerals of murder victims and there has been a large number of deaths recently in Crickledale . . . I said to my husband there was something fishy about them . . . doors and windows open, folks lying dead on the floor. . . .’

  And so the gossip circulated and indeed intensified, as Detective Inspector Pluke strode purposefully towards his office. Some might have suggested that his remarkable appearance may have been a ploy to get people talking and gossiping – which was precisely what he needed. And precisely what was happening. Upon arrival at the police station and after checking with Sergeant Cockfield-pronounced-Cofield that there had been no dramas overnight, no murders, rapes, burglaries, sudden deaths, kidnappings of wealthy businessmen, train crashes or helicopters making urgent landings on Crickledale cricket field, he announced he would be in his office all morning where he would be continuing his research in old files. He added he would be out this afternoon attending a funeral along with Detective Sergeant Wain and Mrs Plumpton. The sergeant nodded his understanding and so Pluke ascended the stairs to his office, fully confident that his day would be a success. As usual when he entered, he flung his bowler onto the hat stand and scored a hit, then Mrs Plumpton allowed him time to rearrange his desk before delivering his coffee.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Pluke,’ she oozed as she wafted in upon clouds of powerful sneeze-making perfume. As he sneezed, he saw she was dressed in what looked like the dress worn by Queen Victoria at Albert’s funeral, except that it was cut low enough to reveal parts that would never have been viewed by the most ardent of royal observers. ‘Your coffee.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Plumpton, and may I say how smart you look this morning. Black does suit you, if I may be so bold as to compliment you.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Pluke, how thoughtful and kind, that is really nice of you. And I must return the compliment. It is not often we see you in such splendid and apt clothing. And you’ve had your hair trimmed! My goodness, it does like nice and I must say it also makes you look extremely dignified.’