C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) (25 page)

Just then we heard the sound of raised voices in the front bar and went to investigate. We found an angry, red-faced Edmund Ravenswood leaning over the bar and shouting at our publican, Frank Jones.

‘Is she here, Jones?’ he demanded. ‘Just tell me that. Is she here?’

As he spoke Ravenswood reached out to grab Jones by the shirt collar. The publican stepped back from the grasping hand and bumped heavily against the dark, wooden panelling behind the bar.

‘Now just calm down, Mr Ravenswood. There’s no call for you to be upset with me.’

‘Just answer my question, damn you! Is she here?’

As Jack and I walked into the bar from the snug, Warnie strolled across to the angry bank manager, still clutching several darts, and in his briskest military manner said, ‘I take it your wife has left you again, Mr Ravenswood?’

The bank manager spun around on his heels and spluttered, ‘What? Well—what has that got to do with you?’

This did not disconcert Warnie, who responded, ‘It’s a free country, you know. If she’s over twenty-one she can do what she likes.’

‘Oh no she can’t,’ growled Ravenswood. ‘Not this time she can’t. This time she’s made herself into a thief. This time she’s stolen my wallet.’

Jack actually laughed at this revelation. ‘Well, if she has cash, Ravenswood, I think you’ll find she’s gone—and this time she’ll be out of your reach.’

‘She’s probably gone back to Mrs What’s-her-name’s boarding house,’ said Warnie, who by now was looming over the fuming bank manager.

‘She’s not there,’ Ravenswood snarled as he lowered his eyes and managed, for a moment at least, to look a little embarrassed. ‘I’ve already looked there.’

‘Well, she’s not here, sir,’ said Frank Jones from behind the bar. ‘We only have three guests staying here at the moment—these three gentlemen here.’

Ravenswood looked around, hesitated, then strode angrily out into the night.

‘Unpleasant gentleman,’ said Warnie mildly. ‘I’ll have another brandy and soda, please. Anything for you two?’

Jack and I declined a drink. Warnie told the locals in the bar to carry on the darts game without him and walked with us back into the snug.

Seated around the fire I turned to Jack and said, ‘Well, what do you make of that?’

‘Events seem to be coming to a climax,’ said Jack. ‘I think perhaps tomorrow morning I should have a talk to our friend Inspector Crispin.’

The next morning Jack didn’t have to go looking for Inspector Crispin; he came to us. He arrived just as we three were getting stuck into a hearty breakfast, with the bacon and eggs sitting on slabs of hot buttered toast as thick as doorsteps.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Crispin. ‘I’ve come to tell you that you’re free to leave. We’ll detain you in Market Plumpton no longer. Of course, when this matter finally comes to trial, we’ll be in touch with you again—I believe we have the contact details for each of you. And you may be called to give evidence at the trial, either by the prosecution or the defence. But that, of course, is still some way off.’

‘So you’ve solved the baffling mystery of the body in the basement?’ Warnie said, chuckling with surprise. ‘Jolly good for you. I must admit I didn’t think you boys from Scotland Yard were up to it. It just shows that the detective novels don’t always get it right. So you’ve solved it, eh? How about that.’ Warnie raised his eyebrows and returned to giving his breakfast the serious attention it deserved.

‘Are you free to tell us the name of the culprit, inspector?’ Jack asked.

‘There’s no harm in telling you, sir, that we’ve issued an arrest warrant for Mrs Edith Ravenswood. She being the one who benefits from the death of Franklin Grimm as his next of kin.’

‘But she’s missing,’ I said. ‘At least I take it from what Mr Ravenswood said last night that she’s missing.’

‘Flight is itself often an admission of guilt, sir.’

‘Mrs Ravenswood . . . who would have thought?’ I gulped, half choking on a mouthful of bacon. ‘But I don’t understand. She’s the last person I would have suspected.’

‘It’s always the least likely person who turns out to be guilty,’ mumbled Warnie. ‘Happens all the time in those Agatha Christie books.’ Then he paused, a puzzled expression passing over his face, and asked, ‘But how on earth did she commit the murder? I mean, how did she get into the basement unseen to do the killing—and then get out again, still unseen?’

‘I’m sure that in due course she’ll explain that to us when she’s interviewed under caution,’ replied the policeman.

By now Jack had finished his breakfast and he rose from his seat. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘could you and I have a chat in private please?’

Crispin seemed surprised by this unexpected request, but he replied, amiably enough, ‘Certainly, sir, if you wish.’

Jack led him outside to the lawn behind the pub running down to the river. There I could see them through the window, pacing back and forth in the golden morning sunshine. As they walked Jack was speaking, gesturing emphatically with his hands. The inspector was listening politely but seemed to be unpersuaded by whatever it was Jack was saying. Jack would make a point emphatically and Crispin would shake his head slowly. Then Jack left him and dashed back inside.

Coming back to the breakfast table he said, ‘Warnie, old chap, do you still have that whatsit that we found in the rubbish bin at the bank last night?’

‘The old screwdriver? Safely stowed in my pocket, old chap.’

‘May I have it please? I want to show it to the inspector.’

‘Certainly,’ mumbled Warnie, withdrawing the oily rag from some recess deep within his coat. Jack grabbed it and rushed back outside to continue his conference with the Scotland Yard man.

I resumed my spot at the window, watching the silent pantomime, trying to work out what was going on. First Jack handed over the grimy package to Crispin, then he began making those methodical gestures I’ve seen him make in a lecture hall at Oxford often enough—the gestures that marked out the stages of a tight, logical argument. Crispin continued to look sceptical.

But after a while there seemed to be a change in the tone of the conversation. Crispin began asking questions, pointing first in one direction and then in the opposite one. Whatever Jack’s answers were they must have been satisfactory because before too long the inspector was nodding his head, and the two of them looked more like conspirators than debaters.

The conference drew to a close. Inspector Crispin left through the front door of the pub, and Jack returned to our breakfast table to pour himself another cup of tea and spread another slice of toast with marmalade.

‘Well?’ I said. ‘Are you going to tell us what all that was about?’

‘I’ve managed to get our good friend Crispin thinking down fresh channels,’ Jack replied with a sly grin.

‘Got him using his little grey cells,’ Warnie chuckled, ‘as Mrs Christie’s little French detective calls them.’

‘Belgian,’ I said pedantically.

‘Who? What?’ asked Warnie through a mouthful of toast.

‘Hercule Poirot is Belgian, not French,’ I explained.

Warnie blinked at me and then said, ‘Ah yes, of course. You’re quite right, old chap. Foolish of me.’

Jack swallowed the last of his toast and gulped down the last of his tea. As he rose from the table he said, ‘There’s something else I’ve just remembered that I need to explain to the inspector. I’m off to the police station.’

Jack took three steps towards the door with Warnie saying to his retreating figure, ‘Are we still free to leave, then?’

‘I’m afraid not, old chap,’ said Jack turning around. ‘And Morris—I have a job for you.’

I nodded, raised my eyebrows and waited for him to explain.

‘I want you to find Ruth Jarvis. You’ll remember we were told she’s staying with her mother. Find the address. Our publican’s wife, Annie Jones, should be able to tell you since she and Ruth are cousins.’

‘And when I have the address?’

‘I want you to pay a call on Ruth Jarvis. See what you can find out about the mortgage taken out by Nicholas Proudfoot. She might have keys and be able to let you into the bank to look at the books. She might even remember something. But ask her—see what you can find out.’

With that he turned on his heels and disappeared rapidly.

I found Annie Jones tidying up behind the bar. In reply to my question she explained that Ruth’s mother lived in a cottage on the riverbank, and gave me directions to find it.

I went back to the snug to find that Warnie had spread out
The Times
over the breakfast crumbs and was engrossed in its pages.

‘I’m off to carry out Jack’s assignment,’ I said. ‘You coming with me?’

Warnie emerged from his reading to a sufficient level of consciousness to decline the invitation. In fact, he said, he might take his newspaper out into the sunshine for a leisurely read. He toddled off to do this while I headed out of the pub in the direction of the river.

The River Plum wound around half the town. Not far from the railway bridge that connected Market Plumpton with the wider world, I found the towpath and followed it in the direction indicated by Annie Jones’s instructions. For the first part of my walk I had the river on my left and the high brick walls of the backs of houses on my right. Steadily the ground on my right, sloping down to the river, got steeper, and instead of houses I was soon brushing past willows and heavy undergrowth. Then I rounded a bend and saw the cottage, sitting almost on its own peninsular with the river waters swirling around.

‘That must be very damp,’ I thought to myself. ‘Can’t be at all healthy.’

I knocked on the front door and it was opened by Ruth Jarvis herself.

‘Good morning, Ruth,’ I said. ‘You remember me? Tom Morris.’

She nodded.

‘May I come in?’

She was clearly surprised by my visit, but she stood to one side and ushered me into the small, low-beamed thatched cottage. The front door opened into a narrow whitewashed hallway. Ruth led me down this and showed me into a small parlour. It had the air of being a rarely used ‘best room’—not used by family but reserved for visitors.

She waved me into an overstuffed armchair and sat down facing me.

‘I can’t imagine what you want to talk to me about, Mr Morris,’ she said.

‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard or not,’ I began, ‘but we three Oxford gentlemen have been making some inquiries of our own into the mysterious and tragic death that we were witnesses to.’

‘I’ve heard,’ she said. ‘So has everyone in town. You can’t keep secrets in Market Plumpton.’

‘Well, my friend Mr Lewis is, at this very moment, conferring with Inspector Crispin from Scotland Yard. From that I take it that our private inquiries have become a bit more official. At any rate, Jack—Mr Lewis—has sent me here to ask you some questions.’

‘What about?’

‘The mortgage held by the bank over Nicholas Proudfoot’s farm.’

‘I’m not sure I can talk about that, Mr Morris,’ said Ruth, looking nervous and chewing her bottom lip. ‘After all, it’s bank business, and bank business is terribly confidential.’

‘But in this case, Ruth,’ I persevered, ‘there’s been a murder. A particularly horrible murder of someone who was dear to you. Surely in this instance . . . ’

She still looked doubtful, so I continued, ‘And at any rate, the mortgage is now over—Nicholas Proudfoot is also dead and the property has been resumed by the bank. Surely that means that the file is now closed and you’re free to talk about it.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she said slowly. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Well, Jack wanted to know if you have a key to the bank—if you can let me in to have a look at the books. I assume he wants to know the pattern of payments.’

‘We don’t need to go to the bank for that, Mr Morris,’ she replied. ‘It was so unusual I remember quite well.’

I sat back in the big old armchair and rested my head on the antimacassar while Ruth told her story.

‘Nicholas was about my age—we were in school together—so even though the bank’s accounts are confidential, and I would never have told anyone, I couldn’t help noticing when the mortgage was taken out, and when the payments were made.’

‘And was there a pattern to those payments?’ I asked.

‘At first Nicholas came in once a month, regular as clockwork, and made his payments. He’d spent the money he raised with the mortgage to improve the property—buy new farm machinery and fix the fences. He was pleased as Punch. He seemed to think he’d made a really good investment and the mortgage would be paid off in no time.’

‘But this changed?’

‘There was a long dry spell, and a very cold winter, so the crops were poor. Everyone in the district was saying that. Then stock prices fell and the farmers were getting less at the farm gate. For those who had no debt it didn’t matter much—they just tightened their belts and waited for it to pass. But it was cruel for those who had payments to make.’

‘Like Nicholas Proudfoot?’

‘Poor Nick. Every time he came into the bank he looked more worried. Then he missed a payment. Then made a late payment. Then missed another one. So Mr Ravenswood summoned him in to call him to account. Everyone in town will tell you how strict Mr Ravenswood is over bank business. He never gives an inch of slack. Not that I can blame him for that. I suppose he has no choice really—he has to answer to the bank’s head office.’