C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) (22 page)

‘Another beer?’ asked Warnie.

‘Not for me thanks,’ said Jack, and then he turned his attention back to me. ‘My atheistic foundations were shaken to the core by a friend of mine—a fellow atheist, I should add—who remarked to me in passing how much good evidence there is for the historicity of the gospels.’

‘The point being?’

‘That if the gospels
really happened
—if they are not just some human invention, not the product of human imagination, but something real in our world—that tells us something about our world. Or, as my old atheist friend said, surprisingly it looks as if Frazer’s stuff about a “dying god” actually happened once. And if it actually happened it’s more than one small clue to your “crossword”—it’s the one vital clue.’

Lewis leaned back in the cane chair he was sitting in and smiled benignly at me as he lit his pipe.

I bit into the last of my sandwich. The mustard brought tears to my eyes and I reached for my pint as I swallowed hard.

‘It’s certainly true,’ Lewis continued, his head now surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke, ‘that from the dawn of history human beings have been trying to make sense of the world—asking questions about how it works and why. And the answers to the “how” questions have moved over the millennia from guesswork to science. That’s certainly progress. But the “why” questions are beyond the scope of science to tackle.’

Warnie returned with another pint. He resumed his seat, took a sip, wiped the foam off his moustache, then tilted his head back to enjoy the sun—studiously avoiding our debate.

‘If you asked me how a fountain pen works,’ Lewis resumed, ‘I could give you a scientific answer about nibs and ink reserves and the capillary action of liquids that propels the ink to the point of the nib and so on. But if instead of asking
how
you asked
why
—for example, if you asked why this man is writing with this pen on this piece of paper at this time—I would have to talk about intentions. Perhaps he’s sitting for an exam, or perhaps he’s writing to his fiancé—but the answer is about a mind and its intentions, not about matter and the mechanisms of matter. Do you see the point?’

‘I think I do,’ I said. Now this was, I can say looking back on it, a turning point in the whole debate for me. I could see the sense of what Jack was saying and I had to grant him a small victory, so I continued, ‘Science gives us useful and measured, tested information about the material world, but when science has answered every possible question about the material world there’s still an unexplained residue left over.’

‘Well put! And that “unexplained residue” beyond the reach of science is the most important thing of all. It’s what Plato called the “realm of ideas”, what Aristotle called the “metaphysical”. It’s what you might call the realm of pure intelligence—where all intention and purpose is formed. Plato was convinced that there is Mind independent of matter, and no philosopher and no scientist has ever demonstrated that he was wrong.’

‘So how does this tie in with your atheist friend’s casual remark that there’s historical evidence for the gospels? Even if there is, what difference does it make?’

‘If the gospels are history, then our world is more than the natural, material, physical stuff around us. If the gospels are history, then Mind and matter can mesh in ways that we could never have guessed. If the gospels are history, then our world has been invaded. We live on a visited planet: the metaphysical has invaded the physical. The Mind behind the universe has stepped into human history.’

Lewis paused to puff on his pipe, then resumed, ‘This visitation didn’t come in the form of one of those great interplanetary spaceships we read about in Mr Wells’s scientific romances. It came in the form of a baby, born to a specific young woman at a specific time in a specific place. That’s what Saint Luke demonstrates in his record, by nailing it to history: “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)” How remarkable: the Emperor’s accountants in Rome want a census so they can impose a taxation levy, and that is used to mark the moment in time when God steps into human history.’

Warnie had finished his pint and dropped off to sleep. A few moments later we heard a sound that might have been a pig drowning in glue. Warnie was snoring.

Jack smiled indulgently and continued making his point. ‘As well as the time being nailed down, so is the place. The town of Bethlehem is not some imaginary spot out of myth and legend; it’s not Camelot. It’s a dusty little town in Palestine. If you visited the place today you could walk down its streets. Real time, real place, really happened.’

‘And that’s the big clue to my crossword puzzle of life?’ I asked.

‘It certainly reveals the vital bit science can never discover—the intention, the purpose, behind this world and behind our lives.’

In the silence that followed we were startled to hear the sound of weeping. I looked up towards the window of the pub’s kitchen just behind us and saw Ruth Jarvis, the young woman who worked at the bank. She had her head on the shoulder of the publican’s wife and was sobbing her heart out.

I turned back towards Jack and saw that he too was looking at what was happening in the kitchen with close interest. I drained the last of my pint and remarked, ‘Emotional moments make me feel uncomfortable.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Jack rising from his chair, ‘I think we should investigate.’

Jack made his way into the pub and around towards the kitchen. I stayed on the back lawn, but I strolled slowly closer to the open kitchen window so that I could overhear what went on.

Ruth Jarvis was speaking softly to Annie Jones, and her words were broken up by repeated sobs so that at first I couldn’t hear her voice at all clearly. Then I heard a door open and Jack’s voice say, ‘I’m sorry. Is this a private conversation?’

‘Yes, Mr Lewis,’ replied Mrs Jones sternly. ‘And you really shouldn’t just walk into the kitchens.’

‘It’s all right, Annie,’ interrupted Ruth. ‘He knows. He was there when I told the police about . . . about . . . ’

‘Here, borrow my handkerchief,’ said Jack, his voice, usually booming and hearty, sounding soft and sympathetic.

‘Thank you, Mr Lewis,’ sobbed Ruth. ‘I’m afraid I’m not coping with this very well.’

‘I doubt that anyone would,’ said Jack. The sound carrying through the kitchen window suggested that he’d stepped closer. ‘Finding yourself pregnant and unmarried and the baby’s father suddenly dead is more than most people could bear.’

‘I’m going to put the kettle on,’ said Annie Jones. ‘I know it’s silly, but I always feel a good cup of tea will fix almost anything. Will you have a cup of tea with us, Mr Lewis?’

‘That’s very kind of you. I’d be delighted. Now, Ruth. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? About this awful business?’

‘If I can help. But I don’t think I can . . . ’

‘Well, let’s see, shall we? So, what kind of a man was Franklin Grimm? The Scotland Yard man, Inspector Crispin, says we’re most likely to catch his killer by understanding the victim, so what was he like?’

There was a loud sniff and then Ruth began to speak, slowly and haltingly. ‘He was funny. That was the first thing I noticed about him. He made me laugh. And he was a dreamer; he had great plans for getting to London and making his fortune. But if I was honest I’d have to say he couldn’t always be trusted. He let people down.’

‘In what ways?’ Jack asked.

‘Often in little, unimportant ways. He’d tell me he’d meet me somewhere and then either arrive an hour late or not turn up at all. The next time I saw him he’d be full of apologies, and very persuasive reasons why this time, just this once, he wasn’t able to keep his word. And I wanted to believe him, and so I did. But looking back now I see that it kept on happening, again and again. I must have been a fool.’

‘Did he make enemies in the town?’

‘The other young men couldn’t stand him,’ Ruth replied with a touch of anger in her voice. ‘They were so dull and slow. It’s like they’re carved out of a lump of wood. But Franklin was alive, always moving, always dreaming, always catching another gleam of light . . . like a . . . like a blob of mercury sliding across a table. Never still, always changing shape.’

‘Did anyone feel strongly enough to kill him?’ Jack probed gently.

‘I don’t really know, Mr Lewis,’ said Ruth with sound of real puzzlement and uncertainty in her voice. ‘He made some of them jealous, and made some of them feel second-rate. But people don’t commit murder for those reasons.’

I heard the sound of a tray being placed on a bench. ‘Here’s the tea,’ said the publican’s wife. ‘But if you’re looking at the young men of this town to find your murderer, Mr Lewis, you’re looking in entirely the wrong direction.’

‘Where should I be looking?’

There was a pause before she replied, ‘If I tell you, you’ll only laugh at me.’

As cups and saucers clinked Jack replied, ‘I promise to take whatever you tell me entirely seriously.’

Annie Jones seemed to think about this, and then she said, ‘Some of us know of the dangers that lurk in the darkness. Some of us have second sight.’

Ruth Jarvis interrupted to say, ‘Annie’s wonderful, Mr Lewis. The things she sees, the things she can tell us from the cards. I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but she’s done the cards for me, and what she told me was so right it sent a shiver down my spine.’

‘Carry on, Mrs Jones,’ Jack encouraged.

‘Well—I’ll tell you then. Some eighty years ago there was a murder in that building, the one the bank’s in now. A horrible murder it was, more like butchery than plain killing. Then the victim was buried in a shallow grave in the cellar of the house. That sort of violence and horror creates psychic shock waves that imprint themselves on their surroundings. That’s why houses, and other places, are haunted. The murdered man was a footman named Boris.’

She paused for dramatic effect then went on, ‘He’s been seen in that cellar repeatedly these eighty or more years. Now that he’s finally killed a man, his own spirit may be freed from the place where he was doomed. Violence begets violence, Mr Lewis.’

‘I’m sure it often does. But why do you evoke the spirit of this distant murder in this case?’

‘Because it explains everything. Oh, I know the details of what happened that day. Everyone in town does. In a town as small as this, a police constable tells a friend and before you can say Jack Robinson everyone knows. Franklin Grimm was alone in that cellar. You and your friends and Ruth were in the bank, watching the cellar door—and no one went in or out. Mr Ravenswood was locked in the vault behind six inches of steel. He was trapped. And there’s no other way in or out—’

‘And Franklin wouldn’t take his own life, Mr Lewis, truly he wouldn’t,’ Ruth Jarvis interrupted.

‘Ruth’s quite right,’ agreed Annie Jones. ‘Franklin was the last sort of young man to take his own life. Trust me, Mr Lewis, it was a phantom hand and a spectral blade that took his life that day.’

At that moment the loud clump of size twelve boots on the pub floor announced the arrival of Constable Dixon. His face looked more than ever like a lump of puffy dough waiting to go into the oven. The addition of his moustache made him look like a lump of dough with a black caterpillar crawling across it. He informed us that our presence was required at a coronial inquest due to begin in ten minutes.

Then, with a loud wheeze that sounded like air slowly escaping from a deflating balloon, he complained, ‘You gentlemen knew the time of the inquest—you could have gone on your own, you know. Instead I’ve had two different inspectors barking at me to run and fetch you.’

‘Just relax, old chap,’ chuckled Warnie, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘We’re obeying orders and quite prepared to be marched under your eagle eye to the scene of the inquest.’

Five minutes later we were back in the church hall for the second inquest in Market Plumpton in two days. The excitement was almost too much for the inhabitants of the town, who once again packed the hall. And once again Harvey Brewer was sitting at a table at the front, shuffling papers, making notes and looking important.

All the seats in the hall were taken and we had to stand halfway down on one side. We chose a spot near an open window because the combination of the warm weather and the sardine-squeeze of human bodies made the atmosphere in the hall stifling. And with all those neighbours loudly gossiping and speculating to each other, the noise was deafening. Until, that is, Mr Harvey Brewer, annoyed that his polite pen tapping for attention was going unheard, rose to his feet and called for silence.

A slightly embarrassed hush settled over the crowd as the coroner resumed his seat.

‘This is a coronial inquiry,’ he announced after a suitable delay to re-establish his dignity and his command of the situation, ‘into the death of Mr Nicholas Proudfoot of this parish.’

Then he went through the process of empanelling a coronial jury, but this time the process was swift, and the assembled jury was almost identical to the one of the day before.