Omens of Death Read Free

the heads of carved animals, those being an integral part of the Pluke family history. There was such a trough outside Crickledale Town Hall.
    After all, in his private life he was Mr Montague Pluke, author of a pamphlet about ‘The Horse Troughs of Crickledale and District since the 16th Century — fully illustrated by the author’. There was a copy in the local library. As he had so often said, bearing in mind the work of Justus Pluke, his illustrious ancestor, ‘Horse troughs are in the blood of the Plukes.’ His lifetime dedication to horse troughs was a wonderful antidote to the demands of his job and he believed that these forgotten watering places, the filling stations of a bygone era, were a vital part of local history. He felt the townspeople should be made aware of the past glories which were literally upon their doorsteps and constantly failed to understand the lack of interest he sometimes encountered.
    For Montague Pluke, therefore, that morning walk, and all that occurred within its short duration, was as vital as the fresh air he breathed. A daily confirmation of his status in the community, it was also a means of starting the day in a happy and confident frame of mind, an opportunity to avoid any bad fortune that might be lurking and an opportunity to consolidate any manifestation of good luck that presented itself. It was, in addition, a splendid means of reinforcing his vital professional role in helping to keep the Queen’s Peace in Crickledale.
    There was some crime in Crickledale of course, but it was kept to a very modest level in comparison with other towns of comparable size. Besides, it wasn’t every town with a population of less than four thousand that had a detective inspector walking through its market place and along its main thoroughfares every morning. During his business-like walk, he always used the left of the street, the most fortuitous side, and one of his delights was to hear the bells of the parish church as he progressed. Their musical sound was a sure sign of impending good fortune for the coming day. Usually, they began to chime as he passed the chemist’s, a welcome sound because Whistling Jasper up his ladder was invariably cleaning the first-floor windows at that time. Once, when passing the time of day with that delightful Miss Berryford from the fruit shop, he’d actually walked under Jasper’s ladder, but no bad luck had befallen him. He ascribed that to the ringing of the church bells and the fact he had made the sign of the cross with his first and second fingers the moment he had realised his lapse.
    For the people of Crickledale, a peaceful, historic and pretty limestone-built market town on the edge of the North York Moors, Detective Inspector Montague Pluke was a regular and reassuring sight. His distinctive appearance formed a part of their daily routine as the town quickened with the beginning of each new day. Indeed, many residents reckoned they could set their clocks and watches by his progress through the streets. He would leave home at 8.30 a.m. prompt and arrive at his office at 8.50 a.m. precisely, passing the same shops, pubs, bus stops, pillar boxes and lamp posts at exactly the same time each morning. He always bade a respectful good-morning and raised his panama to those he encountered, irrespective of social status, and he would even pat their dogs or say hello to babies in prams.
    At the start of each working day in Crickledale, Mr Pluke’s distinctive panama hat, with its sky-blue band, could be seen weaving its way through the morning crowds, bobbing among the headscarves and bare heads like a cork on a rippling pond and frequently being lifted high by Mr Pluke’s right hand. The hat was perhaps very slightly too small for his head because it seemed to perch precariously on top, so that his hair stuck out at awkward angles, rather like the untidy thatch of a neglected cottage. Some purists considered his hair rather too long for a senior police