Superstitious Death (17 page)

‘It is the examination of the very private matters of victims and murderers that enables us to detect crime, Sister Agnes.’

‘So when do you want to see her room, detective inspector?’

‘In a very few moments – with you present, if you would not mind.’

‘Of course, I have authority to provide you with every possible assistance.’

‘Now, before we examine her room, when did she leave for Crickledale?’

‘Around mid-morning, Mr Pluke, on Friday. She received her holiday money – fifty pounds – and a packed lunch, then set off. Our own transport took her to Newcastle city centre and we thought she would be catching a train to Thirsk or York perhaps. She was given a week’s holiday, we expected her to return the following Friday – the coming Friday, in fact.’

‘We have reason to believe she hitch-hiked, sister. She told a lady in Crickledale she had hitch-hiked from Newcastle to Thirsk on a lorry, and then got a lift in a private car. With no trouble, I might add.’

‘To save money, no doubt, in spite of the dangers.’

‘She was seen in Crickledale on Friday afternoon – we have a confirmed sighting – and later the same day she was seen walking towards a village called Barughdale. We have reason to believe she got no further than Harman’s Quarry – that’s where her body was found, sister. It is part of a complex called Harman’s Farm which is on the road between Crickledale and Barughdale.’

‘Harman’s Farm, Mr Pluke? Is that connected in any way to Harman’s Agricultural?’

‘Yes, Harman’s Agricultural is a farm machinery hire business which is based at Harman’s Farm. Why do you ask? Does the name mean something?’

‘Harman’s Agricultural is one of our long-term benefactors, Mr Pluke. In fact, that’s where Bega’s mother used to work as a domestic help. Is it near Crickledale? I do not know the geography of that area.’

‘You say her mother worked there?’

‘A long time ago, Mr Pluke, thirty years ago or thereabouts.’

‘Now I do find that most interesting. And to answer your question, Crickledale is about four miles from Harman’s Farm. Tell me about the support given by Harman’s Agricultural.’

‘They have been supporting us for many years. I recall the name – one of my duties is to administer the income from our benefactors, you see, and to compile our annual statement of income and expenditure for audit. All our benefactors receive a copy.’

‘Really? So Mr Burholme is a benefactor of this convent? He is the man who runs Harman’s Agricultural, sister.’

‘So far as I can recall, we have never known the name of the man behind the business. Several companies do provide us with support, Mr Pluke, invariably done year by year by banker’s order. We do not know who is behind the business – that does not mean it is secret or secretive, it’s just the way business operates. We have several supporters within the business community of the north of England.’

‘So if Sister Bega went to see Mr Burholme, or paid a visit to his business premises, why do you think she would do so?’

‘I have no firm idea, Mr Pluke. She has helped with the accounts from time to time, and with other administrative matters, so she might have recognised the name – Harman, that is – while passing by. She might have popped in to say thank you, or merely to see where her mother used to work. Perhaps her mother mentioned this to her? It’s the sort of spontaneous reaction one could expect from Bega.’

‘Right, well, can we now have a look at her room? Remember, this is a murder investigation, sister, otherwise I should not have embarrassed you with this. Detective Constable Helston, come with us, please. I’d like you to carry out the more intimate of inspections which may be necessary.’

By that, Pluke meant the searching of the nun’s clothing in her wardrobe and dressing table. They were taken upstairs to a long corridor whose floor was covered with brown highly polished linoleum. Sister Agnes led them to room number 8, tapped on the door as a matter of habit, smiled apologetically, and then led them inside. It was a small, plain room with a linoleum floor containing a single bed, a bedside cabinet with a bedside light, a wardrobe and a dressing table containing six drawers. There was also a small desk and chair facing one wall, above which was a crucifix. The room and its contents were immaculately tidy and clean.

‘Perhaps the dressing table to begin with?’ Pluke suggested to Paula Helston.

‘What am I looking for, sir?’ she asked,

‘We shall not know until we find it,’ was his rather evasive answer. ‘But I need to know, if possible, why she went to Crickledale and whether she went to Harman’s Farm in particular; if so, when. Also we need to know whether there are any people in her life that might be of interest to us. An address book, perhaps? Diary… seek and ye shall find, constable.’

While the keen young detective began her task, Pluke concentrated on the wardrobe. Other than a few items of clothing there was very little – then he saw the small brown suitcase lying in the bottom of the wardrobe, almost hidden by a long coat. He eased it out.

‘Her mother’s?’ he asked Sister Agnes, who was clearly embarrassed that this man should be hunting through a nun’s private belongings.

‘Yes, that came from her mother,’ whispered the nun as Pluke opened the case. Inside there seemed to be family photographs, a few items of feminine jewellery, some glass ornaments, a crucifix and rosary, a Catholic missal and some fairly recent birthday cards signed ‘Miriam’.

‘Which of these ladies is her mother?’ asked Pluke, passing some photographs to Sister Agnes.

She flicked through them until she came to one of a good-looking blonde woman standing near a sundial in what looked like a walled garden.

‘This is Josephine,’ affirmed the nun, handing the photos back to Pluke. ‘It’s the best likeness – she’s about forty-five in that picture.’

Pluke accepted it from her and passed it to Paula Helston for her to examine, saying, ‘I would like to keep this for a while, to show potential witnesses.’

‘I understand, Mr Pluke.’

‘Now, you said Josephine died two months ago,’ he continued. ‘Where was she buried, sister?’

‘Buried? She was a Catholic, Mr Pluke, the funeral was at her local church, the one at Westwood, Newcastle.’

‘A small funeral, I would imagine?’

‘Yes, there was a small congregation, a few friends and neighbours, former work-mates, several of us from here and Bega, of course. Josephine had no brothers or sisters. She was very much on her own.’

‘No tall, distinguished gentlemen attended the funeral then?’ Pluke had to ask.

‘No, definitely not. I’d have noticed.’

‘A sad story,’ Pluke almost muttered to himself. ‘So very, very sad.’

Their hunt through the meagre personal belongings of Sister Bega revealed nothing which would provide Pluke with a reason to explain why Sister Bega had travelled to Harman’s Farm. He realised, of course, that if this suitcase had contained anything relevant, such as a photograph or letter, then Bega would probably have taken it with her. So where was it now? And if she had been heading for Harman’s Farm in particular, it would surely have been for some very personal reason. 

The search thoroughly conducted by Pluke and Paula Helston produced nothing of value to their enquiry, save a small pile of handkerchiefs in one drawer, all identical to the one found with the body. When they had finished, everything was replaced in exactly the same position, a point Pluke made to Sister Agnes. It was impossible to see that a search had been made.

‘Thank you, sister,’ he said. ‘We had to undertake that, but it has not provided us with much information, except this photograph which may or may not bear fruit. But there is one thing – would Sister Bega have carried a small mirror with her?’

‘A hand mirror?’

‘Yes, one with a handle, a pink plastic frame and a round glass.’

‘Yes, we all have them for our travels. Our make-up needs are modest, Mr Pluke. A mirror and a comb are usually all we need.’

‘Handbag?’ asked Paula Helston.

‘No, we have no need for handbags, we do not carry make-up or credit cards or lots of money…’

‘When Bega was seen in Crickledale, she had a black hold-all,’ Pluke told the sister.

‘Yes, we all use those when we are travelling, Mr Pluke, they hold all our requirements from spare clothes to money to food.’

‘Well,’ said Pluke, ‘I think we can leave this sad little room. Please convey my deepest sympathy to all the sisters. But there is one final thing before we go. Could I see your record of payments from Harman’s Agricultural?’

‘Well, I am not sure, Mr Pluke, I would have thought such records were highly confidential!’

‘Sadly, nothing is confidential in a murder investigation, sister, and we could always apply for a warrant to conduct a very thorough search for any material evidence…’

‘Follow me to the office, then.’ She looked flushed now.

The office was very orderly too, and within seconds she drew a ledger from a shelf; it contained an alphabetical list of benefactors with the amounts they paid and how they made the payments.

Not computerised, it had been completed by hand and provided rapid access. 

‘I am not concerned with your other benefactors, merely Harman’s Agricultural.’ Pluke tried to assuage some of the nun’s anguish at having to show this to someone from outside the convent.

‘They have been making a monthly payment to us since October 1968.’ She indicated the appropriate entry. ‘At first, as you can see, Mr Pluke, the amount was modest – £60 a month – but it has risen due to inflation. We now receive £600 a month from Harman’s Agricultural.’

‘A steady record over thirty years, sister! Has Mr Burholme ever been to visit the convent during that time?’ asked Pluke.

‘Not while I have been here, Mr Pluke, not during the past thirty years or so, not since the commencement of those payments, in fact. I have been here all that time. I remember the payments starting but I do not know whether he and his wife did visit the convent prior to that. I have never seen him, Mr Pluke. His wife is dead, you know, she was an invalid. When she died, we had to amend our records, that’s how I know about Harman’s…’

‘And he does not maintain contact?’

‘No, other than continuing with the banker’s order. I once located the original banker’s order, Mr Pluke, which is buried deep in our filing system now, and both Mr and Mrs Burholme had signed the authorisation. They were joint directors of the business. I found it while checking back before I amended our records. I remember thinking it was an unusual job for a woman, directing an agricultural machinery hire business, but it was nice to get her support for our causes.’

‘So both provided that support?’ He frowned at this news.

‘Yes.’

‘And has Mrs Burholme any earlier links with the convent? As a schoolgirl perhaps? She was an invalid, and I wondered if she had ever come here…’

‘No, Mr Pluke. She had no links with us, she did not attend our school – in fact, they were not Catholics. Neither of them. They were not even Christians, which made their work for us that much more rewarding. They lived very good lives though, charitable and helpful to others.’ 

‘It would be interesting to know why they chose your charity,’ said Pluke. ‘Mr Burholme does appear to have kept his distance from you. He seems to be a person who did not get close to anyone.’

‘Well, Mr Pluke, for us it was a business arrangement, nothing more.’

‘Can I ask something?’ Paula Helston asked.

‘Certainly,’ agreed Pluke.

‘Did Mr Burholme send Christmas cards to the convent, or to anyone in it?’

‘No, not to my knowledge,’ replied the nun. ‘He does not know anyone here, does he? Except those who run the establishment.’

Pluke smiled and said, ‘Well, we must leave you now, sister, with grateful thanks for all you’ve done. I now feel I know a lot more about this case.’

‘You do?’ The nun frowned. ‘I felt I had not been very helpful.’

‘You have been most helpful, but there is one further matter, I am afraid. I refer to the formal identification of the deceased. In the absence of any relations, someone from the convent will have to visit Crickledale to view the body. A distasteful task, but very necessary. It cannot be tonight because the mortuary will be closed.’

‘I will come,’ said Sister Agnes. ‘Just let me know.’

‘My office will arrange a suitable time and will contact you,’ promised Pluke.

Minutes later, they were driving away from the peaceful place, with Pluke sitting in the passenger seat in his heavy overcoat and Paula Helston beside him at the wheel.

‘Well, Detective Constable Helston.’ He regarded her with a thin smile. ‘What did you make of all that?’

Chapter Fourteen

‘I wondered if that nun was trying to hide something,’ was Detective Constable Helston’s first comment as they drove from the grounds.

‘I didn’t think so,’ countered Pluke. ‘By that statement, I mean I don’t think she was trying to conceal anything criminal, she was not trying to frustrate our enquiry. I think her reticence was chiefly due to her role as temporary custodian of the convent. After all, it’s not very pleasant, when you are in temporary charge of an establishment, to have the police appear with a demand to inspect your sources of income, and the room of a recently departed friend, and to ask probing questions about her family. I think, under the circumstances, Sister Agnes was behaving with considerable restraint.’

‘They don’t own much, do they? Those nuns. Personal things, I mean, sir, the sort of things a woman would normally have. My dressing table’s like a chemist’s shop with make-up, face creams, hair spray…’

‘To us, their life does seem sparse, and yet they do not have to earn a wage, buy a house, clothe themselves, make their own meals or support a family. Everything is provided, including the roof over their heads. And even their handkerchiefs. Did you notice that the clean handkerchiefs in Bega’s dressing table were identical to the one we found on her body? Standard issue, I believe. A job lot. But by having very little, they do have quite a lot, Detective Constable Helston.’

‘You asked me what I made of our visit, sir. I don’t quite understand your question.’

‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘would you say our investigation has progressed?’

‘Yes, we have an identification for our victim, sir. That is very important.’

‘Vital to any such enquiry indeed. But what else have we learned?’

‘Not a great deal more, sir, except that there is a definite link between this convent and Harman’s Agricultural.’

‘Precisely,’ he nodded. ‘But it’s more than that, is it not? We have now established a link between the dead girl and Harman’s Agricultural. We are now firmly of the opinion that Sister Bega knew of the existence of Harman’s and that she also knew her mother had actually worked there. From that, we might even assume that Bega knew of the man who runs it. Eric Burholme, in other words.’

‘Knew of him, sir?’

‘You are alert. Yes, I did not say “knew him”. Perhaps she did not know him personally, but I am sure she knew of him, knew something about him, was aware of his existence. Enough to persuade her to visit him, perhaps?’

‘I can understand that, sir. If she’d worked in the office of the convent from time to time, looking after the accounts perhaps, she would probably know about Mr Burholme and Harman’s Agricultural. If she had known her mother used to work there, then the name would become more important to her. Not everyone knows where their mothers worked in their youth, of course – I haven’t a clue where my mother worked before I was born. But these facts are too closely linked to be ignored and I now believe she was making for Harman’s Farm. You don’t think she did just happen to be passing last weekend, recognised the name on the gate and, on the spur of the moment, popped in to express her appreciation for years of support?’

‘Is that what you think?’ he returned the question to her.

‘Well, no…’

‘And neither do I! I think it was quite a deliberate act on her part, a journey of exploration as she told her friend. I wonder what she expected to find there?’

‘Did she go to meet a person, perhaps? You asked that nun about tall, distinguished gentlemen at Josephine’s funeral. Were you thinking of one such man, Mr Burholme, sir?’

‘Yes, I was.’ 

‘But why did you think he might have gone to the funeral of a woman like that, sir, a domestic? It was years since she’d worked for him. He’d never have known she’d died, she lived nearly ninety miles away.’

‘He didn’t go to the funeral, that’s the point. I agree he was hardly likely to know she had died. Who’d tell anyone that a domestic servant who’d worked for them thirty years earlier had died? It’s not impossible, I agree, but it is unlikely and suppose Josephine worked for him a little more than thirty years ago?’

‘Oh… sir… good heavens… yes, I think I see what you are saying. You are saying that he might have had an affair with Josephine while she was working in his house, and that Sister Bega – Miriam – was the result? That means she could be his daughter!’

‘I thought that was what you were suggesting when you asked about Christmas cards?’ Pluke smiled.

‘Well, sir, I did wonder if he knew anyone here, a friend perhaps, or relation. I thought it odd that he supported the convent for no apparent reason.’

‘Well, perhaps there is a very good reason, Detective Constable Helston. If Bega was his daughter, then his wife would have been alive at the time which would mean he could not marry Josephine to formalise the birth. Besides, her parents, who were very strict, so it appears, took her away from the farm and from the influence of Eric Burholme. She was made to give birth in secret.’

‘Josephine did enter the convent to have her child, sir, we know that.’

‘Yes, we do, and that child was Miriam. There is no doubt about that. Consequently Burholme, said to be a nice, generous gentleman, decided he should pay for the girl’s upkeep – and he did so with his wife’s knowledge and consent. He set up that system of long-term donations to the convent.’

‘Which he continues to pay to this day, sir.’

‘Indeed he does. Another fine example of his munificence.’

‘In that case, you’d think he would have shown some interest in the child he was supporting, sir, especially as she matured into such a very sincere young woman.’ 

‘Yes, that’s what I would have thought but it seems there was no contact between Burholme and Miriam for thirty years. Is that the reason she turned up on his doorstep, probably unannounced? To confront him about the discovery she’d made in her mother’s papers? I have a feeling she might not have known the identity of her father until she examined the contents of the little suitcase left by her mother. And then she set out to meet him. That was her journey of exploration.’

‘But surely, sir, if that is the case, he would not have killed her, his own daughter, not after all the support he’d given. He’d never have resorted to murder to conceal that kind of secret…’

‘It is that very thought which makes me feel sure he did not kill her. Right from the outset, I have not been convinced we are dealing with murder. But whatever the cause of her death and in whatever circumstances it happened, I am sure that he buried her.’

‘But why, sir? Why try to conceal the fact she had died, especially if it was through a tragic accident? There is no shame in that.’

‘That is what is puzzling me. That is what we must establish, Detective Constable Helston. That is why I am delaying an interview of Mr Burholme. I am waiting until I have amassed as much information as possible about this strange affair, facts which I can put before him and which he cannot deny.’

‘She has a look of him, hasn’t she? The dead girl, I mean. There is a resemblance to Burholme.’

‘Tall, blonde… yes, and a similar helpful outlook. Everyone says Burholme is helpful and kind and thoughtful… and that is how I assessed Miriam’s character. A chip off the old block, as they say. So, Detective Constable Helston, whereas my investigation was going around in circles, it now seems to have taken the shape of a triangle.’

‘A triangle, sir?’ she frowned.

‘A three-cornered square, Miss Helston. A triangle with Burholme at one point, the deceased Miriam at another and the third point carrying the mystery which links them both and which Burholme apparently wishes to conceal. But the fact that she was found buried at Harman’s Farm does prove she
did
arrive there.’ 

‘It doesn’t prove she met him, though, does it? Or is there some other mystery, sir? Something in addition to her probably being his daughter?’

‘Let us not be too hasty in assuming that she is his daughter. We have been speculating, Detective Constable Helston, no more than that. We have no proof of his paternity. But if this young woman died accidentally on his farm, why would Eric Burholme take such drastic steps to conceal her presence? That is the question we must answer.’

‘It’s more than not wishing to admit to that paternity, sir?’

‘It’s much more complicated than that, Detective Constable Helston. There is an argument that he has already admitted paternity by giving money to the convent who raised Miriam, alias Bega. He did so throughout her life, and yet there is no sign of his love for her. I find that odd.’

‘Then blackmail, sir? Did Bega discover his true role and decide to leave the convent for a new life, raising money by blackmail? Recognising that business and farm as her rightful inheritance perhaps? Even exploring the possibility of going to live there with her real father?’

‘They’re feasible theories, but I did not get the impression that Bega was unsettled, or unhappy in the convent, or that she was the sort of woman who would resort to blackmail. I very much doubt if she would have abandoned her chosen life to live with a man she did not know, whatever the relationship. No, I think she turned up unexpectedly on his doorstep and died soon afterwards in some kind of freak accident, whereupon he decided to bury her in the odd way she was found. But I cannot be sure why he would want to do that – and, remember, at this point we do not know whether he realised she might be his daughter. It’s feasible he might have had no idea of the relationship, if indeed there is one.’

‘But you have some idea, sir? About his other secret?’

‘I have a very vague notion which I shall not reveal just yet – simply because I might be totally wrong. But time will tell.’

‘Then you’ll have to ask him, sir?’

‘Yes, I will, won’t I?’ and he settled down in his seat to enjoy the rest of the drive back to Crickledale as darkness enveloped the landscape. Suddenly, however, after some fifteen minutes, he jerked into action and sat bolt upright in his seat, clutching at the dashboard of the speeding police car.

‘Oh dear,’ he gasped. ‘I have done a dreadful thing!’

‘What is it, sir?’ The shock had caused Paula to wobble the steering wheel, an unintentional act which created a small weaving motion of the vehicle, and which resulted in someone blasting a car horn behind. But Pluke never noticed the near mishap as Paula asked, ‘It’s obviously very important.’

‘Very!’ he said. ‘I forgot to warn Millicent that I would be late home this evening. She will have prepared my dinner, it will be as dry as a horse trough in a drought.’

‘Oh, I thought your reaction was connected to our enquiry!’

He looked at his watch. ‘I think, under the circumstances, I should return home directly, without going into the incident room – it will be closed anyway. And you may do likewise. We shall meet tomorrow morning when I shall deliver my summary and my thoughts to the conference of detectives.’

‘Yes, sir,’ sighed Detective Constable Helston, wondering what sort of an ogre lurked within Mrs Pluke.

*

During Montague’s absence that day, Millicent had shown photographs of the deceased girl to her friends and social acquaintances, but none had recognised her. At the mention of Eric Burholme, however, Mrs Plunket-Greystone did relate a curious incident. Mr Burholme had kindly given her a lift home to Greystone Manor following a demonstration of a new piece of machinery in the Yorkshire Dales. As they drove down the dale in his BMW, an oncoming car had caused Mr Burholme to take evasive action and he’d finished his journey in the ditch.

The offending car had departed. Burholme had managed to reverse his own vehicle from the ditch where it had not suffered any damage, other than acquiring an adornment of pieces of hedgerow and clumps of grass. Before leaving the scene, Burholme had meticulously removed every piece of grass and twig from the bodywork of his car, and had then raked over the tyre marks in the verge with a piece of wood. By the time he departed from the scene, there was not a trace of the accident. Upon leaving, he’d said to his passenger, ‘No one will ever know I was there, Mrs Plunket-Greystone.’ And he had driven home without further explanation. Millicent felt she ought to tell Montague about that. Montague would know he’d been there, she smiled to herself.

*

The following morning, Wednesday, after checking with Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield in the control room, opening his post and providing Mrs Plumpton with sufficient work to keep her busy, Pluke went into the incident room. Already, his detectives were gathering but it was Wayne Wain who first hailed him.

‘Sir,’ he said as he followed Pluke into his office, ‘I came here last night and waited and waited and waited…’

‘I had to travel to Newcastle, Wayne, on a matter of great importance.’

‘Yes, sir, Mr Horsley told me. I tried to contact you by radio but you were out of range. I had some important information for you, vital in fact, and apart from that, you promised to explain things to me, your beliefs, your suspicions.’

‘There is no time now, Wayne. I shall present my views to the conference and you can listen in. Now, I had a very fruitful visit to Newcastle yesterday evening.’

‘To the ferry company, you mean?’