Superstitious Death (18 page)

‘No, to a convent…’

Wayne wondered if horse troughs were the reason for such a visit to a convent, and decided he must immediately acquaint Pluke with the result of his enquiries. ‘Sir, I must tell you this. I had a very successful visit to Quenby and established that our victim was seen – positively seen – on Saturday morning at Harman’s Farm! That’s our first sighting on the Saturday, sir, and I have two witnesses. It means she must have been there overnight on Friday, and even staying there on Saturday.’

‘That is excellent news, Wayne, brilliant news in fact…’

‘And I discovered Burholme had a penchant for good-looking blondes, sir, although he appears not to have been a womaniser. He had women working for him, sir, according to my witness, when his wife was incapacitated. Domestics, sir, doing the cooking, washing and cleaning while he cared for his wife. I bet they had to be first class, he seems to have been a purist, never liking to leave things lying about,’ and he told Pluke of Burholme’s clearing of the table at the agricultural show.

‘Excellent news, Wayne, absolutely wonderful! Mrs Pluke told me a similar tale about him clearing up after a near-miss with a motor car. Now, I need to know where the late Mrs Burholme is buried, and I would also like to know whether any of our emergency services were called to Harman’s Farm on Saturday. Can you do those tasks for me, before I convene the detectives’ conference?’

‘Well, yes, sir. But what happened in Newcastle? Did you find a rare horse trough? You seem buoyed up, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘I completely forgot to examine the grounds of that convent for horse troughs, Wayne, but I have learned that our deceased is not a Swedish girl who came here by ferry. Her name is Miriam Ripley and she is a nun from a hilltop convent near Newcastle. Her religious name is Sister Bega. We shall soon have a positive identification – and, Wayne, we have established a very positive link between her, the convent, Harman’s Farm and our man Burholme.’

‘That’s great, sir! But a nun? She wasn’t dressed like one, although I suppose that explains the virginity. But why on earth would a nun visit an agricultural machinery hire business?’

‘That is the question we have yet to resolve, Wayne. Now, if you could see to those two small enquiries, I shall prepare for my conference of detectives, and for the subsequent news conference.’

‘Very good, sir. By the way, how did you get to Newcastle?’

‘I was driven, Wayne, in an official car, by Detective Constable Helston. Now there’s an intelligent young woman, Wayne. As I said earlier, I must consider her as a potential member of my team…’

‘Really, sir? Does that mean I have competition as your deputy? I think I’d better get those enquiries sorted, then.’ 

‘I think you had, Wayne,’ smiled Pluke.

Seated before his desk in the full realisation that he had not attended the closing conference following yesterday’s enquiries, Pluke was pleased to see that Detective Inspector Horsley had provided him with a brief summary of the outcome of Tuesday’s investigations. The main result was that enquiries from the Swedish ferry lines sailing in and out of Newcastle had produced a blank.

In the light of the identification of the nun, of course, that was to be expected – certainly, six girls broadly matching Bega’s appearance had arrived from Sweden but all could be accounted for; the enquiry had thus produced a nil return. Now, of course, Pluke welcomed that!

Another result concerned the wheelbarrow recovered from Burholme’s garden shed – fibres had been found on the rim of the barrow. These had been compared with fibres taken from the victim’s blouse and jeans, and a match had been made. Furthermore, particles of soil in the tread of the wheel of the wheelbarrow proved it had recently been pushed over soil which surrounded the grave – samples taken at the time of the discovery of the body proved that. So Pluke knew the barrow had been used to convey the body – but who had used it? No discernible fingerprints had been found on the rubber handles or any other part of the barrow; certainly, there were none which might be compared with those of Eric Burholme.

All undertakers, grave-diggers and graveyard attendants within a five-mile radius of Crickledale had been interviewed but none could help. None had lost any of their grave-digging tools and none of the stone masons visited reported the loss of any of their tools. All could be eliminated from the enquiry.

The remains of all the camp fires in the quarry had been sifted by the Scenes of Crime officers and analysed in the hope they would reveal traces of some of the victim’s belongings, such as a burnt haversack, anorak, sleeping bag, map, spare clothing, or comb. A burnt passport could no longer be considered because the girl had not travelled from overseas. So far as other evidence was concerned, none of her belongings had turned up anywhere else and neither had the spade which was reported missing from Burholme’s garden shed. The search for those items would be continued today with Task Force officers checking every inch of the hedgerows and fields in both directions from Harman’s Farm entrance.

Continuing checks on the owners of crossbows had not revealed any in the Crickledale district and the local sports shops claimed that no one in recent years had ordered replacement bolts or spare parts from them. Pluke therefore felt that a locally owned crossbow could be eliminated as the cause of Bega’s death, and the pathologist had already ruled out a humane killer.

Michael Wardle, the man who had found Bega’s body, had been interviewed following a long wait at his house by detectives. He had not been avoiding them, his absence being due to nothing more than a visit to his married sister who lived in Redcar. He had been quizzed in depth about his background and particularly about his movements on Friday, but there was nothing which could link him to the body, other than his misfortune in discovering it. The detectives who interviewed him thanked him for his patience, saying that his ordeal was an unfortunate part of every murder investigation. He said he hoped he found no more human bodies during his excursions. If he did, he would think carefully before reporting it. Perhaps an anonymous telephone call via the 999 system?

Among the other enquiries which had been completed, a study of the types of motor vehicle seen at night on the Barughdale to Crickledale road revealed nothing of consequence. Checks had been made between midnight and six the following morning. One vehicle, a Volkswagen car, had been logged by police night patrols on Friday/Saturday at 3 a.m. Saturday – its owner had been traced and eliminated. It was a vet returning from treating a sick cow. Similarly, Saturday/Sunday night’s check revealed a few more vehicles – five in total, and all moving around 1 a.m. and 2 a.m. – but all could be eliminated. Each belonged to a young man seeking solitude with a girlfriend aboard.

Photographs of the pink-framed mirror had been displayed around shops and hairdressers in the town in the hope someone might remember selling such an item, but none did. It was a cheap mirror, they felt, more like a tourist’s souvenir or child’s plaything than a mirror bought by a discerning young woman. In fact, Pluke now knew it belonged to the victim.

It was while Pluke was studying all these notes that Wayne Wain entered his office having completed his brief enquiries by telephone.

‘First,’ he said, ‘the emergency services. I’ve checked them all, sir. None of the local hospitals or the ambulance service received a call to a casualty at Harman’s Farm or the quarry on Saturday evening or night, or in the early hours of Sunday. Or at all, in fact. I asked for those times in particular, but they checked on a wider scale. I’ve done a telephone call of doctors’ receptionists too, sir. There are only two surgeries, but I got the same answer. No call out.’

‘If the girl did have an accident, then, it seems she was dead when she was found, would you think, Wayne? Beyond human help, in other words.’

‘That’s feasible, sir, yes. Now, the burial of his wife. I rang the vicar, sir; the Crickledale parish does include Barughdale and here’s an odd thing. She died in hospital, sir, Crickledale General to be precise, from a heart attack. She’d been ill a long time and died the day after being admitted. There is no suggestion of foul play, sir, none at all. Anyway, she was buried at Harman’s Farm, sir, in a private plot.’

‘That’s it… I remember the fuss now! And where is this plot, do we know?’

‘The vicar did not know, sir, because he took no part in the burial service. Apparently, Burholme is not a Christian, sir. Years ago, he got planning permission to bury his wife among some trees on the edge of the moor, on his own land. He will be buried there too, when the time comes.’

‘So who actually carried out the burial, do we know that, Wayne?’

‘Yes, sir, Crumble and Smirch the Crickledale Undertakers, Embalmers, Funeral Carriage Masters and Ornamental Stone Masons. I had words with Mr Smirch, sir, he remembers the funeral. There were no mourners, he told me, other than Eric Burholme. The body was lowered into the grave, in a cardboard coffin, and Burholme read some words over the body as it was committed to the ground. Mr Smirch couldn’t understand what he was saying, sir, he thought it might be Latin.’

‘Swedish, I would guess, Wayne. Now, was anything buried with the corpse? Did you think to ask that?’

‘Swedish, sir? But there was nothing, sir, except her wedding ring, although the lady’s hair was braided, sir, so Mr Smirch said.’

‘That’s an old Swedish custom for married women, Wayne. There is a lot of Swedish influence on that farm. Well, thank you for that. Now, is there anything else before I call the teams together for the conference?’

‘There is a note asking you to ring Detective Superintendent Hart, sir. Control passed it to me just now. He rang last night, apparently, when you were out.’

‘Then I shall do so immediately. Sit down, Wayne, you need to be fully informed of events, and Mr Hart might have some news for us.’

Pluke rang his boss’s number at Headquarters and when a deep voice said, ‘Hart, Headquarters,’ Pluke responded with ‘Pluke, Crickledale, sir.’

‘Ah, Pluke. Good of you to ring back. How’s it going?’

Montague updated his boss on the more important aspects of the enquiry, particularly the identification of the girl, albeit yet to be confirmed by an inspection of the body by one of the nuns, and Hart expressed his pleasure.

‘Now, Pluke, as I said, I have been doing a little digging into the background of your Eric Burholme. I have not bottomed this enquiry, though, not by a long way, because your man is the subject of some highly secret files which are not kept at our Headquarters and not even in Scotland Yard. They’re held by the Security Services and not even I have been allowed access to them. But one thing is certain – his former name is Erik Bjurholm, he is Swedish, he is eighty as he states. He came to this country, as an alien, in 1947 and later applied for naturalisation. He Anglicised his name at that stage. He was not married, by the way, and lived where he is now, at Harman’s Farm; he worked as a conventional farmer with grain and livestock, but later developed his machinery business. His application for naturalisation was approved and later he married an Englishwoman called Elsie Butcher. He has no criminal record and to all accounts is a citizen of exemplary conduct.’

‘But I must not accuse him of murder?’

‘If your enquiries suggest he is guilty, contact me in confidence, Pluke. But the mystery remains… I cannot delve any further without someone in high places getting worried about my motives. Sorry and all that. But don’t rock the boat, Pluke. Softly, softly is the word on this one.’

‘And if I prove he did not commit murder?’

‘Then no more need be said, need it?’

And Hart replaced the phone.

Pluke did likewise, sighed and said to Wain, ‘Right, Wayne. Get the teams assembled for our conference, and afterwards I shall embark upon my interrogation of Eric Burholme.’

Chapter Fifteen

While the detectives were assembling in the Plukedom for their Wednesday morning conference, Pluke asked Horsley to contact the convent in Northumberland and Meredith, the pathologist, to arrange for a nun, Sister Agnes preferably, to come to Crickledale to make the formal identification of the dead girl. A police vehicle would convey her to the mortuary if necessary; the sooner she arrived the better, Pluke exhorted Horsley. Pluke also briefed Inspector Russell, the press officer, about the theme of this morning’s news conference – once more it would concentrate upon trying to secure sightings of the victim in and around Crickledale, although the name, occupation and home address of the dead girl could not yet be released because she had not been formally identified. There should also be a renewed appeal to trace the missing spade and personal belongings of the dead girl.

As Pluke waited for the signal that everyone was ready, he hurried outside, found a pair of fresh four-leaved clovers and returned to his office to replace the one on his desk which was wilting. He slipped the other into the buttonhole of his jacket, a sure method of ensuring good fortune during the coming day.

Then Wayne Wain tapped on his door and came in.

‘Everyone’s here, sir,’ he announced.

Pluke felt rather as an actor must feel before going on stage to produce a stunning performance because this conference was going to be rather different from normal. Instead of giving them their tasks for the day, he was going to present his arguments and ask his officers to challenge his theories by producing conflicting evidence; he needed this kind of reaction before interviewing Eric Burholme because he wanted all the counterarguments tested.

‘Be sure to tape record this conference, Wayne,’ he instructed his sergeant. ‘I may need to remind myself of portions at a later date.’

‘No problem, sir.’

‘Thanks. Now, let’s get it over, Wayne.’ Pluke spoke softly as he touched the four-leaved clover. His confidence thus reinforced, he led the way from his office.

‘Good morning, all.’ He mounted the small dais someone had thoughtfully positioned on the floor so that he stood head and shoulders above his audience, a distinctive figure in his old yellowish-brown jacket, blue dicky bow, spats and half-mast drainpipe narrow trousers.

‘Good morning, sir,’ was the chorus of response.

‘This morning,’ he began, ‘I am going to acquaint you with my suspicions and beliefs about this very odd case. I want you to consider them carefully and if you have any evidence or theories which would counter my suppositions, then you must tell me now. Each of you will be aware that one suspect, Eric Burholme, has not yet been interviewed – I have had my reasons for that, and I can now say it is my intention to interview him once I have assembled and analysed every piece of available evidence. And that moment, I think, has almost arrived.’

He paused for them to absorb his words, then continued with a resume of the case, highlighting the manner in which the body had been discovered, the place where it had been found, its condition when examined by both the police and the pathologist, the mirror in the shallow grave which had been created so close to a public footpath, and the curious head injury and other wounds sustained by the dead girl. He reminded them of the positive sightings of the victim in Crickledale, along the road to Harman’s Farm and at Harman’s Farm itself, and of the fact that, at no stage, had the victim been seen in the company of anyone else, male or female.

He followed with an account of his visit to the convent, and told them that they had a provisional identification for the victim, and that she was a nun. He stressed that this information was currently highly confidential and was on no account to be released to the public or to the media. That would be done when the identification had been formalised by Sister Agnes. Pluke then turned to Horsley.

‘Mr Horsley, as I proceed, there will be scope for new actions, chiefly aimed at confirming what will emerge during these discussions. Perhaps you could make a note of them and allocate them when I have completed my synopsis?’

‘Sure, Montague,’ nodded Horsley.

‘Right,’ said Pluke. ‘These are my primary thoughts. It has been my belief throughout this enquiry, a belief which has been strengthened as time progressed, that the girl died as the result of a tragic and highly unusual accident and that she was unlawfully buried. I do not think she was murdered. Those core beliefs have coloured my approach to this investigation although I have maintained an open mind. So why do I subscribe to the accident theory? The answer lies in the grave. The dead girl was not hastily buried in a makeshift grave, which is what most murderers would have done. She was buried with considerable care. She might even have been buried with love but I would prefer the word
care
. The grave, which was carefully and cleanly dug with a spade, was orientated east to west, an indication of care, attention and a desire to do things correctly. She was lying with her head to the west, a further indication of care and attention. That is not the sort of care or attention one would expect from a murderer. If the person who dug the grave did make a mistake, it was the fact that the ground immediately below the grave was solid rock – it meant he could only bury the girl in a very shallow grave. While that might have been an error, on the other hand it might not. Placing the grave there might have been a very deliberate act. As the grave was close to a public footpath which is popular with ramblers and hikers, it is not surprising that a rambler’s dog unearthed the body. In view of the care taken to bury the body, for however temporary a period, I think the person who carried out the burial
wanted
the body to be found, and found very quickly. That, in itself, is puzzling. Why bury a body in the hope it will be quickly discovered? Thus, in my opinion, the shallowness of the grave, and its proximity to a footpath, might have been very deliberate indeed. The ground in that quarry was obviously shallow with a rock base because it housed heavy machinery – quarries are like that, ladies and gentlemen, even disused ones. Many have very solid floors. A quarry user would know that.’

‘But a shallow burial, sir, unauthorised like this in a deserted place, of a victim with a head wound caused by a weapon that has been hidden – surely that suggests murder…’ The speaker was Detective Sergeant Warriner. ‘Everything points to murder.’

‘Precisely, Detective Sergeant Warriner. That is exactly what was intended but I think the care shown in the burial rules out murder. Nonetheless, I believe that the person who buried her wanted it to look like a case of murder. I know that sounds a most unlikely theory but it will be explained as I proceed.’

‘It’s usually the other way round, sir! Most murderers try to make their crimes look like accidents!’

‘They do indeed but not this man. That is why this is such an interesting case. Bear that in mind, all of you, as you continue your enquiries.’

‘But why would anyone want to make an accident look like murder? That’s crazy, sir…’

‘Not entirely.’ Pluke remained calm. ‘We are dealing with a very clever and skilled deceiver, a practised operator, I believe. Now, to continue. As you all know, a small but inexpensive hand mirror was buried with the body. I believe that was no accident. For one thing, I now know the mirror did belong to the dead woman and, even though her other belongings have not been traced, this particular item was buried with her. That is very significant. It used to be the custom in Sweden to bury a mirror with a maiden; married women were buried with their hair braided. At first, because of that, I thought the victim was Swedish – her appearance added to that supposition – and I also thought that the person who buried her knew of her nationality. I was wrong, she is English – the person who buried her was Swedish. Eric Burholme, the owner of Harman’s Farm and of the quarry, is a naturalised Swede, ladies and gentlemen. He is also old enough to have remembered superstitions and customs still in use in the early years of this century. I mention that because I believe he buried the girl – but I do not believe he killed her. Oddly, he does deny knowing her. Allow me to continue.’

He paused again for them to absorb his unusual theories.

‘Think about that mirror.’ He spoke softly now, knowing that by lowering his voice, they would strive to listen more carefully. ‘A mirror was customarily buried with maidens in Sweden – and that tells me that the person who buried the girl
knew
she was a maiden, even if she was a good-looking woman of thirty. And if he knew she was a maiden, an old word for a virgin, then he knew who she was; she might have been merely unmarried, but I think he knew she was a nun. And, of course, the fact that he knew about that old superstition suggests that the person who buried her is a person of considerable age. I doubt if the modern generation of Swedes follow those practices. And Burholme is eighty, remember, he has been away from Sweden since the end of the Second World War. Burholme has constantly denied knowing her – the mirror in the grave suggests otherwise. That means Burholme is lying, but if the girl died in an accident, why would he lie like this? And why go to such extremes to deal with her body when a call to the emergency services would have sufficed? That is my next question.’

Pausing again he took a deep breath and said, ‘Now, a little more about the grave. Its location. As you know, it was in a quarry, the only access
by
road
being through the Harman’s Farm gate and across Burholme’s land. Access by foot from the Crickledale to Barughdale road is possible via public footpaths and a stile, then over a field for a distance of about a third of a mile or thereabouts. Our own investigation showed no motor vehicle had entered the quarry – tracks would have been easily identified in the ground which had been softened by Saturday’s rain. Checks on the fence between the quarry and the road revealed no fibres from the clothing of the deceased. In other words, she was not brought to the quarry by any of those routes when she was dead. It would be impossible for one person to manhandle and carry a dead body all that way, over fences and a stile, through a field and along a public footpath… And we are positive she did not die in the quarry. So how did the body get there? Where did it come from? Where did she die?’

As they pondered the significance of those words, Pluke said, ‘I think she died out of doors at Harman’s Farm, during the thunderstorm and rain on Saturday evening. It would explain the dampness of her clothing. And I think Burholme came home from his meeting, found her dead and conveyed her body to the quarry in his wheelbarrow – forensic evidence now supports that theory. Here he made a mistake – being a meticulously tidy person, he replaced the barrow in precisely the same place as he took it from. Had it been placed anywhere else, or left in the quarry, we might have been tempted to believe someone else had borrowed it.’

‘So, sir…’ A detective raised his hand. ‘If Burholme claims his spade has been stolen – clearly because he has got rid of it – why did he not do the same with the barrow?’

‘He used them both, I am sure, but I planted in his head the idea of his spade being used by a murderer, Detective Constable Crowther. I suggested to him that someone might have used his tools or one of his spades to dig the grave… his buildings are never locked and so access was quite feasible. But I did not refer to the barrow. So he went along with that and sought to strengthen my belief by disposing of the spade. And I did tell him that I suspected murder – which is what he wanted me to believe – murder not by him, but by some other person. He has not framed anyone – he has just made the girl appear to be a murder victim. Furthermore, he is of the age where the miracles of modern forensic science are unknown to him. I do not think for a moment that he realised we could link the body so positively to his wheelbarrow – he doesn’t know that we have done so, of course, not yet. But even so, he could claim another person had used it to convey the body – except that it was replaced so precisely, as I have already mentioned. So the evidence is beginning to point to Eric Burholme…’

‘You crafty old devil – sir!’ smiled one of the senior sergeants.

‘Perhaps I have been dangling poor Mr Burholme at the end of a long fishing line,’ smiled Pluke. ‘I have been letting him think we suspected death by agricultural machine, for example…’

‘You’ve ruled that out, have you, Montague?’ asked Horsley. ‘I thought we might spend days looking for a damaged machine or a component part with blood on it.’

‘Yes, I know what caused her death, and how it came to cause her death; it is there for all to see, quite boldly displayed – but I will come to that in due course. Now to the deceased herself. I shall not trouble you with a repeat of her physical description but we do know this – Miriam Ripley, whose father has never been named, was brought up in a convent having been born illegitimately to a woman called Josephine Ripley. She used to work as a domestic for Burholme. That was thirty years ago – the deceased is thirty years old or thereabouts. Burholme, through his agricultural business, has been supporting that same convent for the past thirty years, paying substantial amounts but never once entering the place. He maintained a discreet distance between himself and the convent which was in fact the girl’s home – it is where she was brought up, where she was schooled and where she subsequently entered as a nun. It is a relaxed regime by some standards, the sisters being allowed to wear long hair and modem clothing. Miriam – by this stage known as Sister Bega – was happy in the convent, we are told. Then a couple of months ago, her mother died. She was buried in Newcastle. Burholme did not attend the funeral, but we believe Josephine left some personal papers in a suitcase which came into Miriam’s possession. As a consequence, it appears Miriam asked to leave the convent for a short holiday, to undertake what she called a journey of exploration. I think she had recently discovered her mother had worked for Harman’s Agricultural, that the owner of the business was Eric Burholme and that the business in question was a long-standing and generous benefactor to the convent in which she had spent her entire life. In the belief that this man was her natural father, Sister Bega – Miriam – made her journey of exploration to Harman’s Farm. Naively, she hitch-hiked from Newcastle last Friday with her sparse belongings, including a pink-framed mirror, and found her way to Crickledale. Unfamiliar with the area, she asked directions for the road to Barrowdale, which is pronounced Barfdale but spelt Barughdale, and then found herself at Harman’s Farm. That is precisely where she was heading. I think she carried the personal papers inherited from her mother, and I think she was anxious to meet the man she believed was her natural father. I’m sure she met Burholme at the farm. Although she arrived unannounced on Friday evening, I think Burholme admitted her to his home where she stayed overnight although I am sure he would have had doubts about her motives and indeed her genuine identity. But he had an important appointment the following day in Harrogate. He left home around ten thirty on Saturday morning. A customer who’d been to his farm earlier that morning did not see the girl – quite understandable. Mr Horsley, I don’t think we have confirmed that visit to Harrogate? A good action for someone while I am interviewing Mr Burholme? Like any daughter would do, when Burholme left the house Bega went with him to the gate, opened it and waved him off. Two witnesses saw her there. She would have awaited his return and might even have prepared a meal for him – just as her mother had done. But he did not return until Saturday night – meanwhile, there had been a thunderstorm…