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your officers find something of interest, report to me as soon as practicable.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Detective Sergeant Tabler.
    *
    As Pluke and Wain drew to a halt in the muddy yard of Hollins Farm, Pluke spotted the massive horse trough which appeared to be built into the base of the heather-clad hillside towering behind the buildings. The trough was full of fresh water and the inlet was flowing generously, the trough spilling its overflow into a drain beneath.
    ‘Look at that, Wayne!’ he enthused. ‘What a monster… a true giant among troughs!’ 
    As they parked the car, Pluke rushed out with his coat flaps open and his hat on the back of his head, having had it knocked there during his exit from the vehicle. He stood beside the trough, looking up the hillside where another trough had been placed… it was also large in comparison with most and it was also brimming with water which overflowed into a drain. And there was another above that… a triple-decker!
    Then they heard a voice behind them.
    ‘Now then, gentlemen, what can I do for you? Interested in our water system, are you?’ The new arrival peered quizzically at Pluke’s overcoat, hat and bow tie.
    ‘I am indeed,’ stated Pluke with some conviction. ‘Might I ask if that upper trough services the one beneath, and if that in turn services this lower one?’
    ‘Aye, they do. We get a lot of folks coming to inspect our water supply, university types usually. They reckon it’s quite unusual. Now, the spring which serves ‘em all also supplies the house, it gives us all the water we need, for baths, kitchen, washing clothes, the lot. Supplies the humans and all the animals and poultry. It always has done, down the years. What’s left over from the house comes into yon top trough up on the bank side, and it overflows into t’next one which overflows to fill this ‘un in the yard and they reckon the overflow from this, near where your foot is, runs underground to service the farm in the dale below us… and the spring which supplies ‘em all never dries up. Never. That’s what baffles folks. Nobody can fathom where all that water comes from. There must be some sort of reservoir underground, a mighty big ‘un if you ask me.’
    ‘This is limestone country, underground caverns are quite likely, but this trough is fantastic – it reminds me of the Five Rise Lock at Bingley,’ enthused Pluke, and within seconds he had produced a small camera from the pocket of his baggy overcoat. He began to take photographs of the series of troughs, and then, as Wayne watched helplessly, he pulled a notebook from his pocket and made a note of the location and description of these magnificent working examples of horse trough history.
    ‘Sir.’ Wayne Wain was anxious to proceed with the matter in hand. ‘With all due respect, we are not here to examine horse troughs. Mr Preston, this gentleman is Detective Inspector Pluke from Crickledale and I am his deputy, Detective Sergeant Wain.’
    ‘Oh, police business, is it? You don’t look like policemen to me, leastways your mate doesn’t. What am I supposed to have done? Not filled in my stock register or summat? Or been parking my tractor on double yellow lines somewhere?’ and he grinned wickedly.
    ‘Are you Brian Preston?’ asked Wayne Wain.
    ‘Aye, that’s me.’ He was a sturdy weathered fifty-year-old with a brown flat cap, grey flannel shirt with long sleeves, black boots and corduroy trousers held up with red and white braces. ‘So what’s up? What brings the plain-clothes constabulary to see me?’
    ‘We’ve come from your neighbour, Eric Burholme.’ Pluke spoke slowly. ‘The body of a woman has been found in his quarry – she was discovered earlier today. We have reason to believe her death is suspicious. We are making routine house-to-house enquiries, and also visiting all Mr Burholme’s customers.’
    ‘You mean that quarry where I store my bales?’
    ‘That’s the one,’ Wayne Wain