Even though this was the greatest thing that had happened in Crickledale since the vicar ran off with both the choir mistress and the contents of the parish safe forty-six years ago, the editors in distant towns felt disinclined to commit their staff to the story. It meant a long drive into the remoteness of the moors for something which, on the strength of the advance information, might be little more than the outcome of a domestic tiff or some ribald horseplay. But those who did arrive found themselves rewarded with a good story and an intriguing detective inspector whose photograph would soon grace their pages. Montague, having had his photograph taken complete with panama, spats and ancient, curiously shaped, buttoned-up overcoat, told the press corps about the discovery of the naked body of a beautiful blonde woman in the burial chamber of the Druids’ Circle and added that identification of the deceased was his priority. The press loved him; they wanted lots of pictures of him at the Druids’ Circle complete with magnifying glass in a sort of Sherlock Holmes scenario, but he resisted, saying this was a serious matter and it was a description of the girl they should be publishing.
