Superstitious Death (19 page)

‘Bega died out of doors in that storm and, upon his return, he found her lying dead on his premises. So what could he do? If she was dead, there was no point calling the emergency services… and what story had she told him? Who did he think she was? Why had she come to find him? We don’t know – but we do know he buried her. Or to be honest,
I
know he buried her.’

‘Sir,’ called a voice from the floor. ‘This is all speculation on your part, is it not?’

‘Not speculation, Detective Sergeant Harlow. Reasoned deduction based on the available evidence.’ 

‘But if she was his natural daughter, why not deal with her death in a more rational manner? I mean, sir, for God’s sake, why bury her secretly in a bloody quarry, as if she was a dead cat or something?’

‘His wife is buried in a wood behind the farm, quite legitimately,’ said Pluke. ‘He is not a Christian, he follows nature. Once a thing is dead, it has no further use, there is no need for emotion…’

‘I can’t believe he would do that with the body of the woman he thought was his daughter, whatever his beliefs! If this girl died in some freak agricultural accident, the authorities should have been informed and there should have been an investigation followed by an inquest. That’s the way things are done. He would surely know all about the formalities, being in the business of hiring agricultural machines. Then the burial could have been formalised, even if it was intended to be a pagan burial in a wood behind the house. Unless he is mad, of course.’

‘That is what a reasonable person would do,’ smiled Pluke. ‘But he did none of those things. There has to be a reason for his odd behaviour.’

‘Perhaps he never admitted being her father, sir?’ suggested Harlow. ‘I think he couldn’t face up to it, so he concealed things by faking her murder, to take the pressure off him. He engineered things so that someone else would find her and have to bury her properly and he could disassociate himself from her. In other words, he wanted nothing to do with her, just as he has neglected her throughout her life.’

‘It’s an interesting notion,’ said Pluke. ‘I want to hear his story – and I want to hear him tell me what killed her before I reveal my ideas to you – but if it was an accident, then there is no murder and we are left with a minor offence of failing to register a death and perhaps a breach of the coroner’s rules.’

‘No undetected murder to darken our statistics, sir?’

‘Absolutely,’ smiled Pluke. ‘Now, any questions?’

Surprisingly, there were none and so he dismissed the teams. Horsley said he had identified several actions, chiefly rechecking previously made statements from witnesses in the light of Pluke’s theories. One team would collect Sister Agnes and take her to the mortuary, another would visit the undertaker for a statement about the pagan burial of Burholme’s wife, and yet another would be despatched to Harrogate to check Burholme’s story about attending the showground for a demonstration. But the only person who could fully provide Pluke with the information he desired was Eric Burholme himself, a man who liked to cover his tracks… Now it was time to interview him.

Chapter Sixteen

‘I shall be pleased if you will drive me to the farm, Wayne, and I think you had better accompany me during the interview,’ and so the detective sergeant drove Detective Inspector Pluke to Harman’s Farm.

It was eleven o’clock when they arrived, a fine day with a thin covering of cloud and the faintest hint of a westerly breeze. Sitting in the passenger seat, Pluke was dressed in his familiar old coat, panama and spats. As they drove along the road towards the farm, he said, ‘He will be expecting us, Wayne, to discuss his wheelbarrow. Either he’ll acquaint us immediately with his role in this affair, or we will have to present him with the facts, one by one, and gently ease the story from him. If the fellow has buried a woman who claimed to be his daughter, for whatever reason, there is bound to be a little emotion within him, in spite of his mysterious past. I shall be interested to learn whether he will reveal a little of that past to us, Wayne.’

‘He’s a cold fish, sir, he’s not shown much love for that young woman.’

‘You’re suggesting he has not shown the kind of compassion a man would show his daughter, whatever the circumstances of her birth?’

‘Well, for one thing, he never went to visit her, and yet he paid for her upkeep all those years…’ 

‘He did not actually pay for her upkeep, Wayne. He made a contribution to the convent, or rather, his business made a contribution to the convent.’

‘Well, in my view it amounts to the same thing, sir, he’s been supporting that girl all these years with never a visit or a show of parental love.’

‘There might be a very good reason for that, Wayne.’

‘Well, if there is, I can’t see it.’

‘Then suppose she is not his daughter, Wayne? Burholme has said he has no children, he quoted an old war injury.’

Wayne paused, then asked, ‘So if she is not his daughter, then who is she? What is her connection with him? And why would she come to see him?’

‘They’re exactly the sort of things we must establish, Wayne.’

‘If she’s not a relation, he wouldn’t have made all those contributions, would he? It must have cost him a fortune, over the years.’

‘He might have paid for the same reason he buried the girl in his quarry, Wayne, to maintain some deep secret. To prevent his past being exposed.’

‘You seriously think that, don’t you, sir? Are you suggesting blackmail?’

‘Not necessarily. But, on the surface, his behaviour over the years does not make complete sense. It doesn’t make sense to secretly bury an accident victim on your own land, does it? That is really asking for trouble, Wayne. The body is bound to be discovered and identified sooner or later with the resultant investigation. Yet he must have had what he thought was a good reason for doing so. It suggests he is under extreme pressure of some kind and I hope he will enlighten us.’

‘He seems unusually tidy, sir, obsessive almost.’

‘It seems he has a compulsion, an instinctive reaction, to cover his tracks, to remove evidence, especially if he thinks he is at risk in some way. That could be a relic of his wartime experiences,’ mused Pluke.

‘Even to the extent of creating a mystery by needlessly hiding this body, sir?’ 

‘Yes, Wayne, precisely that. I think that is exactly what he would do.’

‘You’re way ahead of me with that kind of thinking, sir!’

And Pluke produced one of his enigmatic smiles.

When they arrived at the farm gate it was closed and Pluke saw that it bore a large blue sign with yellow lettering saying ‘Harman’s Farm’ above smaller wording which read ‘Harman’s Agricultural’. When Wayne halted the car, Pluke climbed out, opened the gate and held it wide as Wayne drove through. Then Pluke closed it but, before returning to the waiting car, he climbed on to the lower bars and peered over the gate, looking up and down the road beyond as he thought Sister Bega might have done.

‘A long straight road, Wayne,’ he said. ‘When she stood on the rails of this gate on Saturday morning, I think she was waving goodbye to him. Such an action would surely suggest friendship, would it not? Not blackmail?’

As they drove into the extensive yard which occupied the space between the front of the farmhouse and its range of outbuildings, Pluke observed the continuing cleanliness and tidiness of the premises. As they cruised slowly across the yard towards the front door, the wheels of the car crunching the gravel, he noticed that the morning sun was glinting from the weather-vane, the golden head of the cockerel reflecting its rays as the dull black vane moved easily in the gentle breeze.

‘This farm is beautifully maintained,’ Pluke said to Wayne Wain. ‘I think she fell on this gravel which is spread before the house. And see, not a thing out of place and everything fully operational. Even the tiniest of breezes is making that weathercock move… the bearings must be very well greased.’

‘From my experience, weather-vanes usually squeak, sir, when they turn in the wind. They get on your nerves at times.’

‘And some have been neglected to the extent that it takes a gale force wind to turn them, Wayne; in fact, some don’t turn at all, so blocked up with dirt are they. The bearings get clogged with debris, you know. Like everything else that is exposed to the weather, vanes need to be regularly maintained and their bearings greased. And I would think that one, with its golden head, will need regular coats of new paint. As you will see, Wayne, that vane is in unusually good condition, and it is of a rather unusual design too.’

‘Yes, sir, you mentioned that earlier. About the cock being an emblem of war and that the Norsemen believed the end of the world would be heralded by a cock with a golden head.’

‘My interest is in the arrow, Wayne. Some vanes comprise merely a well-fletched arrow with a barbed tip which turns above the compass points, and others will have just the cockerel or other emblem which turns above the compass points. But this vane has two wind-operated devices, Wayne, the cock and the long, slender pointed arrow which lacks the barb. It is fletched in metal for this purpose, and I think perhaps the cock was added later, by Mr Burholme.’

By this time, Wayne was drawing the car to a halt outside the front door, but on this occasion, Burholme did not emerge to greet them.

‘You seem to be paying a lot of attention to the weather-vane, sir. I thought horse troughs were your speciality.’

‘I believe there is a weather-vane in Northamptonshire which sports a horse trough as its emblem, Wayne, and another in Durham with a horse drinking from a trough, although I must admit I have never seen them. But, yes, this vane does interest me. I would say it has been removed recently and that it has been serviced.’

‘I cannot see why we should be interested in that, sir, at this rather delicate moment during our enquiry.’

‘Suppose it had fallen down, Wayne… suppose, for example, it had been struck by lightning and sent hurtling to the ground, and suppose, just suppose, by a terrible misfortune that it struck someone walking beneath…’

‘Oh, God, sir, yes! I see what you’re getting at. A thing like that falling from the roof would kill anyone, especially if a chunk of masonry was attached…’

‘Particularly if the arrow became embedded in the victim’s head. Now, if that did happen, then the compass points, because they protrude on long stems, would cause other wounds to the body…’

‘I see what you mean, sir! She did have other minor wounds – so you think they will correspond with the weather-vane? And that arrow, sir, is a length of pointed steel with arrow fletches at one end…’

‘And it is painted, Wayne. Freshly painted in this case, I would say. Come, let us find Mr Burholme.’

Parking the car, they knocked on the door but there was no response and so they entered the buildings and explored each of the huge hangar-like barns, eventually hearing the sound of tools being used upon metal. Guided by this, they found their way to a small workshop situated at the end of one bam. Pluke shouted in advance and Burholme heard their approach, halting his work.

‘I’m making a flower container,’ he explained. ‘From iron bars. It’ll be like a cradle and when it’s bolted to an outside wall, I will fill the base with moss and then plant flowers in it. Like a hanging basket idea.’ He smiled and said, ‘But you have not come to admire my metal-work, Mr Pluke. You have come about the wheelbarrow perhaps? I cannot say your visit is unexpected. You and I need to talk. You’d better come over to the house, both of you. I’ll put the kettle on,’ and Burholme led the way to the kitchen.

Pluke, on yet another occasion in his long career, did not refuse the proffered coffee, this man not being considered by him to be a murder suspect. They sat at the kitchen table with the Aga fussing away behind them, and Burholme produced three coffees, indicating that they should help themselves to milk and sugar from the containers he provided.

Then he settled down opposite Pluke, smiled ruefully and said, ‘Well, Mr Pluke? My wheelbarrow. Did it tell you anything?’

‘It confirmed what I believed, Mr Burholme,’ said Pluke.

‘Go on, inspector.’ It was not so much a challenge, more an acute interest to find out just how much this funny little detective had discovered.

‘Where shall I begin, Mr Burholme? Perhaps I should begin with Erik Bjurholm, a Swedish national who came to this country after World War II, and who was naturalised. A man whose country was neutral during the war, but in spite of that, a man who fought –’

‘You know that?’

‘You told me you had no children because of a war injury, Mr Burholme – something which has a bearing, I believe, on the woman found in your quarry.’

‘I did not kill her, Mr Pluke. Earlier, you spoke of murder – well, it was not me.’

‘I know you did not kill her, Mr Burholme. But you did bury her and I think you hoped that if the body was found, it would look like murder, murder committed by someone else. You had no wish to throw the blame on to any particular person – this was not an attempt to frame anyone – but you created a “murder” by person or persons unknown simply to divert attention from yourself.’

‘Her death was an accident, Mr Pluke… a terrible freak of an accident…’

‘The weather-vane?’ asked Pluke. ‘Knocked from your roof by a lightning strike, falling so that the metal arrow embedded itself in her head…’

‘Yes, I found her like that, Mr Pluke, late on Saturday night, when I got home from Harrogate. She was dead, she had been dead a while, there was nothing I could do, nothing would have helped her. She was beyond the help of a doctor or ambulance so I did not call anyone. I don’t know what caused the weather-vane to fall from the roof, but the stone base had been dislodged and the entire thing had come down. It is very heavy, Mr Pluke, and yes, you’re right, the arrow had entered her head… poor woman. She didn’t deserve that.’

Burholme spoke with a cool rationality with no sign of outward emotion.

‘I am sorry…’ Pluke paused a moment, then said, ‘So this girl, young woman – whose name is Miriam Ripley, otherwise known as Sister Bega of the Convent of Our Lady of the Hill – arrived here on Friday, unannounced and unexpected?’

‘Yes. I had never seen her before, I had never met her.’ 

‘But she thought she was your daughter?’

‘She told me she was, but she is not, Mr Fluke. I am unable to father children, as I told you previously. That was a slip on my part… I am getting careless…’

‘Did you enlighten her?’

‘No. At the time, I wanted to find out more about her, who she was, why she had suddenly turned up. Due to my past, I was highly suspicious of her and her motives. I wanted to be completely sure who I was talking to. For the time being, therefore, and so that I could assess the truthfulness of her reason for calling on me, I was content to let her continue with the idea she was mine… I might have told her the truth, had she lived… I had to be very careful… but she died before I could make my decision. She never knew I was not her father. She died thinking she had found her natural father… and that made her very happy.’

‘Tell me about her arrival, Mr Burholme, on Friday.’

Burholme, wrapping his hands around his mug of coffee, told Pluke how, at tea-time on Friday, the girl had arrived at his farm. He admitted her and gave her a meal, during which she said her mother had died and she’d found a scrap of paper bearing Burholme’s name and address, with other notes suggesting he was her father. She’d brought those papers with her and said she knew about his donations to the convent; to her mind, the evidence suggested he was her natural father. As it was late by the time they had finished talking – he had told Miriam that her mother had worked on the farm – Burholme offered her a room for the night, a father offering succour to his daughter. She accepted. As he had an important business engagement in Harrogate on the Saturday, he invited her to remain over the weekend and even into the following week when they could become better acquainted; he had hoped to use that time to know her better. In fact, she was accommodated in the same room her mother had used, the one all his domestic staff had been given. His absence meant she would be alone on the complex for most of Saturday. She did not mind, she was so happy to be there, especially as he’d promised to devote the following days entirely to her. 

‘Before we proceed…’ Pluke halted the man in his storytelling. ‘If she was not your daughter, why did you support her school and the convent as you did?’