Read Superstitious Death Online
Authors: Nicholas Rhea
Superstitious Death
© Nicholas Rhea 1998
Nicholas Rhea has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1998 by Constable and Company Ltd.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Crickledale’s annual ceremony of Shoggling the May could never be contemplated without the eminent presence of the man whose resolute efforts had led to the revival of the custom — Detective Inspector Montague Pluke. That was Mr Pluke’s own firmly expressed opinion. There was no denying, however, that it was his meticulous long-term research coupled with his dedication to historical accuracy that had created, deep within his breast, a noble desire to restore the festival as part of Crickledale’s municipal calendar.
There had been great rejoicing in the Pluke household with the announcement that the parish council had consented to the revival of Shoggling the May. It seemed only yesterday, but in fact it was fifteen years ago and Montague could well remember his celebratory efforts – he drank at least two large sherries that evening. Now, of course, the annual ceremony was firmly established.
One important factor which had emerged during his research was that, down the centuries, members of the Pluke dynasty had always been to the forefront of the shoggling celebrations. Likewise, they had always held positions of authority and stature in the town throughout Crickledale’s long and turbulent history. Ancient records showed that in 1743, when the May Shoggling ceremony had last been held prior to its recent revival, the chief shoggler was none other than Wesley Pluke (1703-1788), one of Montague’s renowned ancestors, while Theodolphus Pluke (1697-1756) had donated to the town a full complement of shoggling sticks made from the wood of a yew. Unfortunately, a past incumbent of the parish had used them as pea sticks and they had warped before vanishing during a spring clean of the parochial garden shed. Happily, a new set had been donated by a modern benefactor, a man called Eric Burholme who lived in nearby Barughdale.
Held on the Feast Day of St Eric (18 May) – a Monday this year – this happy occasion always began with a civic reception in the mayor’s parlour followed by a service at noon in the Anglican parish church. The service was preceded by fifteen minutes of bell ringing and was attended by the town’s civic and other dignitaries. Afterwards, the entire congregation comprising guests and visitors, including the senior class of primary school-children from the town, walked in procession to the historic town centre hawthorn, known locally as the may or may tree.
To this day, the hawthorn stands on Crickledale’s central green and, upon the arrival of the congregation, it endures a hectic session of vigorous shoggling, the task being undertaken by the children under the supervision and guidance of the chief shoggler – currently, Montague Pluke. Food, wine and soft drinks are then distributed on the green if the weather is fine, and in the town hall if it is not; this concludes the celebrations, after which the schoolchildren take the remainder of the day as a holiday.
The present hawthorn, however, is not the original Crickledale May Tree; hawthorns are not renowned for their longevity. The original is said to have died sometime in the fourteenth century due to years of over-vigorous shoggling, but the current specimen was grown from a fertile haw removed from one of the acknowledged offspring of the very first Crickledale May. Thus the modem descendants of both the Crickledale May Tree and the Pluke dynasty continue to influence the traditions of this pretty limestone-built North Yorkshire market town.
Acutely aware of his position of eminence in the proceedings, Montague Pluke had walked proudly through the town to his office that Monday morning. He hoped a large attendance would enhance the proceedings. As usual, he’d extended his greetings to those he passed
en
route
, raising his panama to the ladies and bidding good morning to the gentlemen. He preferred to walk from his home to the hilltop police station, the exercise, fresh air and contact with the public being of immense benefit in his demanding work. He believed the daily perambulation stimulated his considerable mental capacity and enabled him to cope with the unrelenting struggle against crime, criminals and petty malefactors. Like Montague Pluke himself, his famous morning walk through the bustling town centre was a vital part of the daily life of Crickledale. Some citizens maintained they could set their clocks by Mr Pluke; others left home to catch their bus or train when he walked past their lounge windows, while the tradespeople regarded his distinctive figure as a living symbol of an ever-vigilant, ever-observant, constantly caring police force.
Extremely prominent in his ancient, tattered and over-large Burberry-style check-patterned coachman’s greatcoat with its fitted cape (a family heirloom), his beige spats (heirlooms too), his panama hat with its wide blue hand, his blue bow tie, his heavy black-rimmed spectacles and his profuse, over-long hair, Montague progressed with considerable aplomb. He beamed at Mrs Carstairs, the purple-haired lady who ran Help the Aged; he nodded at the sickly Minskip children at the bus stop and wondered if they would be at the shoggling ceremony; he waved to Whistling Jasper, the town’s most active window-cleaner on his ladder in the high street and raised his hat to the new mayor, Councillor Aldrich Thelpe. As he raised his hat, he called to Mr Thelpe, ‘See you at the shoggling ceremony, Mr Mayor,’ while simultaneously noting that the girl in the off-licence wore a skirt which was far shorter than usual.
He had to deflect his eyes as she dressed a lofty corner of the window and that’s when he tripped over a loose paving stone. In his opinion, such things – things like short skirts and low-cut blouses – were bad for the image of Crickledale, a very traditional market town which honoured decency and considerate behaviour. He recovered speedily from his unseemly stumble, just in time to bid a controlled good morning and raise his hat to the portly Mrs Ruth Cholmondeley, one of Millicent’s influential friends from Crickledale Ladies’ Circle – the president no less. She was most definitely not the sort of lady who would wear a short skirt, although she could justifiably wear a low-cut blouse. Montague blinked at the thought, recalling her visit yesterday evening when she complained that the bay tree in her garden had withered and died. Millicent had said it needed more water but Montague Pluke had placed another more sinister interpretation upon that news, an interpretation he felt he could not divulge to anyone at this stage.
Like her busy husband, Millicent – Mrs Pluke – was extremely prominent in Crickledale activities. Her many responsibilities included her work as secretary of several organisations, including the Women’s Institute, the Parochial Church Council, the Church Flower Group, the Local History Society and Meals on Wheels, plus being president of the Ladies’ Luncheon Club and chairwoman of the Town Hall Entertainments Committee.
As a family unit, therefore, albeit with no children, the Plukes were regarded as personages of considerable stature in this modest and contented market town. In addition to his civic prestige, Montague was a man of professional renown because he was the detective inspector in charge of Crickledale CID; furthermore, he was justifiably famous in another capacity. He was Yorkshire’s acknowledged expert on horse troughs and author of the standard work,
The
Horse
Troughs
of
Crickledale
and
District
since
the
16th
Century
,
fully
illustrated
by
the
author
. All his spare time, however limited due to his social and professional commitments, was spent in the never-ending quest to trace and record long-forgotten horse troughs. He had traced and catalogued more than three hundred, maintaining that there were thousands awaiting discovery in North Yorkshire alone, most of which were forgotten, disused and neglected.
In fact, he had been to Scarborough only this last weekend to inspect an exciting new discovery, a wooden horse trough unearthed during excavations at the Spa. It was due to his unrivalled knowledge in this field that he was much sought after as a lecturer on the history and design of horse troughs. His speciality was horse troughs used for ancient and modem civic purposes and he was contemplating a new book on the subject, as well as a further volume about those used for mayoral purposes.
On this Monday, however, Millicent had left home even before washing Montague’s breakfast pots, such was the urgency of her mission. In her capacity as a parochial official with several important posts, she’d had to rush off to the church to supervise the preparations for today’s ceremony; consequently Montague had left home without kissing her farewell. It was a slightly upsetting start to his day, a break in routine. One of Millicent’s responsibilities was to find the parish shoggling sticks in time for the ceremony. Those sticks, the handsome set donated by Eric Burholme, the local philanthropist, were not the Pluke originals of course; those had been seized and destroyed by Thomas Cromwell during Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries because Cromwell thought they were something to do with the Catholic Mass. Each year the sticks were put away after the shoggling and there was always a last minute search next time they were required. Somehow they invariably got misplaced and top quality shoggling sticks with the required angled tips were not easily obtained in these modem times. In acknowledging the urgency and importance of Millicent’s departure, Montague accepted that there were times when one had to put up with disruptions to one’s own daily routine, however inconvenient; a day of such civic distinction was one of those occasions.
During his brisk walk to the office, he avoided passing under Whistling Jasper’s ladder and bade ‘Bless you’ to a grey-haired lady who sneezed near the bread shop. Upon arrival at the magnificent stone-built police station, a former manor house, he crossed the threshold with his right foot first, then turned towards the small ground-floor control room.
‘Good morning, sir,’ greeted Sergeant Cockfield, pronounced Cofield, the officer in charge of the control room. ‘It’s all very quiet this morning.’
‘That is good news,’ smiled Pluke. In his late forties, Cockfield was a large man with a bald head whose uniform and spectacles always looked a shade too small. ‘Everything’s under control, then?’
‘Yes, sir, all’s very quiet in the town. We’ve had no reports of overnight crime, vandalism or disturbances.’
‘Excellent. That augurs well, a splendid start to the day, although I am somewhat concerned about Mrs Cholmondeley’s bay tree. It has died, you know, and yet we have not been too short of water. A very ominous omen indeed.’
‘Really, sir? Ominous, eh?’
‘For someone, yes. Now, you know about the shoggling ceremony this morning? There are two venues, the first at the church followed by another at the Crickledale May Tree itself.’
‘Yes, sir. The uniform branch has matters under control. Sergeant Wilson will be in charge. Point duty officers, traffic patrols and traffic wardens will be on duty at both locations – it’s all been arranged and a full operation order has been prepared.’
‘Traffic cones and crowd barriers in position too?’
‘Yes, sir. I think we can cope with the influx of sightseers, sir. About fifty are expected, I believe? The usual number.’
‘Yes, sergeant. Personally, I would have hoped for a larger turn-out by the townspeople, but one must remember many will be at work or doing their weekly washing today. Now, what is the official weather forecast?’
‘The thundery weather of the weekend has cleared, sir, we do not anticipate any downpours or thunderstorms. Today is expected to be dry and clear, with some high clouds and sunshine, along with a mild westerly wind.’
‘That is excellent news. Now, as you know, I shall be playing a leading role in the shoggling ceremony,’ and Pluke expanded his chest. ‘As founder of the modem ceremonial, I shall be taking a key part in the ancient ceremonial, with my wife, of course. I’m the official shoggler, no less.’
‘Of course, sir. I noted your names are on the list of official guests. As you instructed, we made the usual security checks of the invited guests and I don’t think there will be any anti-shoggling demonstrations or any unseemly behaviour which is likely to disrupt the proceedings. We are all confident of a smooth, trouble-free event,’ smiled Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield. ‘But there is one matter of procedure to decide – if a crime is reported during your absence from the office, shall I contact you at the shoggling ceremony, or should I wait until afterwards?’
‘Refer any such reported incident to Detective Sergeant Wain. He will contact me if it is a reported crime of some importance and urgency. Murder, rape, robbery, arson, that sort of thing. Detective Sergeant Wain will cope with any lesser problems such as car thefts, burglaries or shoplifters until my civic duties are over. I will instruct him to liaise with you on those matters.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Happy that well-thought-out and diligently prepared local procedures would keep the Crickledale criminals firmly under control, Montague climbed the stairs to his office. He hung his panama on a hat-stand just inside the door, then removed his baggy overcoat to reveal a jacket of similar colour and style beneath, its breast pocket full of pens, propelling pencils and pocket torches. He hung his coat on a peg fastened to the wall then bowed slightly to the sun which was visible through the east-facing window. Next, he rearranged the items on his desk, making sure the plastic model of a horse trough (his paper clip container) was in precisely the right place.
Then he edged his blotter to a more perfect position, checked that the ancient evil-thwarting hagstone which served as a paperweight was dusted and, once he was satisfied that his desk was absolutely to his liking, he settled upon his chair. As he did so, his substantial secretary, Mrs Plumpton, in her voluminous purple dress, flowed into his office in a cloud of strong perfume and shifting flesh. Some of her bits and pieces seemed to be balanced one on top of the other, like a juggler doing tricks with beach balls, but nothing ever fell off or out. She was bearing a cup of hot coffee.
