C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) (17 page)

Frank Jones was behind the bar and he heard our conversation as he pulled three pints of bitter.

‘If it’s Amelia Proudfoot you’re asking about,’ he said, handing us our beers, ‘you should ask Ettie, our parlour maid. She’s Amelia’s cousin. She might know something.’

When we asked where we might find Ettie, the publican told us to go into the front parlour and he’d send her in to us.

Five minutes later a plump fifteen-year-old came into the parlour looking terrified.

‘Mr Jones said you gentlemen wanted to talk to me,’ she said in a voice just above a whisper.

‘Just about your cousin, m’dear,’ said Warnie in his hearty manner, trying to put her at ease. ‘Amelia Proudfoot—she is your cousin, I take it?’

The girl nodded.

‘We were out at the Proudfoot farm this morning,’ Jack explained, ‘and found the place deserted. We wondered where she might have gone. Mr Ravenswood said he thought she might have gone back to her relatives somewhere up north.’

‘Oh no, sir,’ said Ettie. ‘She called in here this morning, first thing. She had her suitcase with her. Poor thing . . . it were clear she’d been crying. She wanted to borrow a few bob off me, but I didn’t have any money so I couldn’t help.’

‘That must have disappointed her,’ said Jack, with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Did she say what she wanted the money for?’

‘She said she wanted to get further away,’ replied Ettie in her quiet, nervous voice.

‘Further away than where? Where was she going to?’ Jack persisted.

‘She’s gone to the coast. She’s at Plumpton-on-Sea. That’s where she’s gone. She said if she had a few more bob she could get further away. But like I say, I couldn’t help. She took it bad, did poor Amelia. She said she had no choice then, and walked off to the railway station. If you want to talk to her, that’s where you’ll find her, sir—she’s in Plumpton-on-Sea.’

Jack looked more puzzled than ever as Ettie resumed her story. ‘Maybe she’ll have a bit of money after the sale of the farm goes through. Unless the mortgage swallows up the whole of the sale price, that is. But I assumed she just wanted to get away from her sad memories and anything that reminded her of Nicholas. Poor thing. When she left here she were as limp as a rag and looked fit to collapse.’

When Ettie left us, we drank our beer in silence for some minutes. Then Jack said, ‘We have to interview Amelia Proudfoot. Behaviour as odd as this must be connected to the two murders.’

‘Whose behaviour is odd?’ I asked. ‘The bank’s in foreclosing so quickly, or Amelia Proudfoot’s?’

‘It was Mrs Proudfoot I was thinking of,’ Jack said. ‘The day we spoke to her she was clearly hiding something. And then the moment the sale of the property is announced she leaves. Perhaps it’s not too much to say she flees. From the bank’s point of view surely she could have stayed at the farm until the sale went through.’

‘But—but—you can’t imagine she might be the murderer?’ spluttered Warnie. ‘We’ve both seen her. She’s just a slip of a thing.’

Jack shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Women have killed before—remember Constance Kent and the Road Hill House murder?’

‘Well, it’s possible, I suppose,’ Warnie mumbled. ‘It might explain why she’s fled from the district in such haste.’

‘That’s a thought,’ I added. ‘I wonder if Inspector Crispin knows she’s gone. Surely he ordered her to stay around the district, just as he did us. Should we tell him?’

‘No,’ said Jack, thoughtfully and carefully. ‘Let’s follow this up ourselves. If Amelia Proudfoot really is the killer, or knows the killer, then both murders would have been intensely personal. She’s no threat to the wider community. We need to get down to Plumpton-on-Sea and have a chat to her.’

‘But there’s a problem,’ I said. ‘According to Inspector Crispin we’re not to leave the district. So how can we get down to the coast to interview Amelia Proudfoot?’

‘I’m sure there’s a way,’ Jack said with his conspirator’s smile, ‘if we just apply our minds to it.’

‘Sneak off? That sort of thing?’ chuckled Warnie.

Jack nodded, but then said we could do nothing today because of the inquest into the death of Franklin Grimm, which we’d be expected to attend. But later—tonight perhaps—well, he said, let’s see what was possible.

We went out to the beer garden—the lawn behind the pub—and took our places at a table in the sunshine where we could watch the River Plum sparkle and gurgle just a few yards away. It looked like a ribbon of rippling silk—like a dressmaker’s finishing touch at the foot of a gown.

Mrs Jones brought us out a tray of bread and cheese with a jar of pickles and we ate a leisurely lunch. The bread was still warm from the bakers, and exactly the way I like it—soft and fresh on the inside, crusty and golden on the outside.

Jack, who always ate faster than Warnie and I, gulped down a cheese and pickle sandwich and disappeared into the pub. He returned a moment later carrying a local railway timetable.

Spreading this out on the table, he said, ‘There’s a milk train that leaves Market Plumpton just before midnight tonight. One of us might be on it while the other two stay here in plain sight of Constable Dixon or whoever’s keeping watch on us.’

‘Is he?’ asked Warnie. ‘Keeping watch, that is? I didn’t see him in the street. Do you think the police might have put a plain clothes spy in the pub to watch us?’

‘I don’t think we’re quite that important,’ said Jack. ‘I suspect our friendly publican has taken over as the eyes and ears of the police for the moment. Perhaps a police officer will take over from him after dark. But my point stands. As long as two of us remain here—as long as there is no mass exodus—I’m sure one of us could slip away quietly late tonight and be on that milk train when it leaves.’

‘Where does it go?’ I asked.

‘The village of Plumpton is the first stop,’ replied Jack, consulting the timetable, ‘then Plumpton-on-Sea, then it goes on to Tadminister.’

‘Which of us should go?’ I asked.

‘Well, as the youngest of us, Tom,’ replied Jack with a broad grin, ‘I thought this is something that calls for your youthful energy and spirit of adventure. Besides which, both Warnie and I need a good night’s sleep.’

The last thing I felt like volunteering for was a late night trip on a slow train, but I could hardly say no. Instead I asked, ‘What’s the plan then?’

‘There’ll be a back door to this pub. We need to find it without appearing to be too inquisitive. Then tonight we all retire to our rooms. When it’s late enough for the pub to have closed and Frank Jones and his wife to have retired for the night, you slip out quietly—Warnie and I will keep watch. Keep to the shadows and the back streets and make your way to the railway station. Make sure there are no policemen on the platform watching for absconding suspects, board the train and get off at Plumpton-on-Sea. You’ll be there very early, probably well before sunrise, so you’ll need to find a comfortable spot to spend an hour of two, and then begin your investigation.’

‘Yes, that’s the tricky bit. What am I supposed to do?’

‘Go to the boarding houses, guesthouses and pubs—ask for Amelia Proudfoot. In case she’s not using that name, describe her to them. Ask if anyone matching her description has arrived in the last day or so. I’ll tell you what you need to ask her when you find her.’

I nodded glumly. It sounded like an uncomfortable night ahead with very little sleep for Tom Morris. As a result I ate the rest of my meal in silence while Warnie told a story about what had happened in the officers’ mess the week before last.

Just as we were finishing the last of the bread and cheese, the large, plump shadow of Constable Dixon once again floated between us and the sunlight, looming over us like a threatening zeppelin—a zeppelin with a large moustache and an officious attitude—telling us that the inquest was about to start and Inspector Crispin had sent him to ‘ensure our attendance at same’.

The inquest into the death of Franklin Grimm was held in the church hall, which stood behind the old stone church through which we had earlier escaped the watchful eye of Constable Dixon. Seated at the front of the hall, behind a table, was an officious-looking little man sorting out his papers as we entered. He had a face as wizened as a prune and a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez clipped to his nose. We took our seats on the hard wooden chairs among (or so it seemed) most of the town’s population.

‘Who’s that chap?’ I asked Dixon as we squeezed into some of the few remaining chairs.

‘That’s Mr Brewer,’ the policeman explained. ‘Mr Harvey Brewer. He’s a local solicitor and he usually acts as district coroner at these hearings.’

At that moment Mr Brewer called us all to order by tapping the table impatiently with the blunt end of his fountain pen. It was only a quiet sound, not the banging of a gavel, but it appeared that this was what everyone was waiting for, and silence fell almost immediately.

‘This is a coronial inquiry,’ he announced in a thin, fluting, self-important voice, ‘into the death of Mr Franklin Grimm of the town of Market Plumpton.’

He proceeded to empanel a jury of twelve local citizens and instruct them in their duties. Then he called the police surgeon to give evidence as to the cause of death.

Dr Haydock explained to the court what we already knew: that the deceased had died as a result of a single knife blow to the throat. ‘This blow,’ he added, ‘severed the carotid artery and punctured the larynx.’

‘Would death have been rapid?’ asked Mr Brewer.

‘Almost instantaneous,’ Dr Haydock replied.

‘Were there any defensive wounds or signs of a struggle?’

‘None.’

‘Would the blow have required considerable force?’

‘That would depend on the sharpness of the blade—which the police have, thus far, not recovered. A very sharp blade would not have required very much strength to inflict the fatal injury.’

‘Could the injury have been self-inflicted?’

‘It would be difficult to strike such a blow against oneself—difficult but not entirely impossible for a determined person. However, in the absence of a weapon at the scene—’

The coroner cut off Dr Haydock’s speculations at this point and excused him from giving further evidence. Then Inspector Hyde was called to give an account of the finding of the body.

This was all so familiar to us that I found my attention wandering. I leaned back and looked up at the hammer-beam ceiling of the church hall and found myself speculating about the building’s history. Perhaps, I thought, this might once have been a medieval banqueting hall attached to a great house. And perhaps the little Norman church beside it had been the chapel for the noble family that owned the house. I could picture the sort of people Chaucer described living in such a setting. Then in my imagination I could hear Lewis proclaiming once again, in his impeccable Middle English: ‘Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote . . . ’

I was woken from my Chaucerian daydream by the sound of my old tutor’s name being called. He went to the witness stand and was sworn in.

‘Your name is Clive Staples Lewis?’ asked the coroner.

Jack admitted to these, his birth names, although he detested them, and went on, in response to questions, to tell the whole story of that morning when we wanted nothing more than to withdraw cash from the bank and became embroiled in a series of dramatic and tragic events.

‘At any time during these events,’ asked the coroner, ‘did you see a knife or weapon of any sort in the hands of the deceased?’

‘Never,’ said Jack, and Ruth Jarvis, who was seated only a few rows in front of me, began to sob.

‘Or, in fact, did you see such a weapon anywhere in the bank at all at this time?’

‘No, there was no sign of whatever weapon was used. Or, indeed, of any weapon at all.’

‘Not so much as a letter opener?’

‘As you say—not so much as a letter opener.’

A sceptical cloud passed over the coroner’s face, as if he found it impossible to believe that a bank office would not have at least one letter opener somewhere. He paused to scribble down a note, then resumed his questioning.

‘What frame of mind would you describe the deceased as being in, the last time you saw him?’

‘He was focused entirely on the problem of getting Mr Ravenswood, the bank manager, out of the strongroom in which he had been locked.’

‘Did he appear alarmed or distressed at all?’

‘Those are not the words I would use. He was busy. Active. Seeking a remedy for the situation. He was not focused upon himself at all.’

Jack was excused. Next the coroner briefly questioned Warnie and me along similar lines but we had nothing substantial to add to Jack’s answers.

Inspector Hyde was then recalled to give an account of the search for the murder weapon. This was more interesting so I paid close attention, but it was entirely unenlightening. Hyde’s statement was as slow and meticulous as the search had evidently been—and with the same results.

‘You recovered no weapon at all? You saw no evidence of the hiding or destruction of a weapon?’

‘None at all.’

The destruction of a weapon? That was a thought that had not occurred to me. Might Grimm have been killed with some sort of weapon that could be destroyed or made unrecognisable in some way? But in what way? I was still completely baffled.