C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) (26 page)

‘So he made demands on Nicholas Proudfoot?’

‘Yes. I remember the day Nick and Amelia came in. They were in Mr Ravenswood’s office for such a long time. In the end there were raised voices and a lot of shouting. When they came out, Amelia was in tears and Nick was looking like thunder.’

‘So why wasn’t the mortgage called in immediately after that meeting?’

‘I think Nick must have found another source of income.’ Ruth was looking into the distance, as if seeing those past events again.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, a few days after that awful row, Mr Ravenswood drove out to the farm and spoke to them again. A little while later I noticed in the book that payments were being entered against their mortgage.’

Again Ruth was staring dreamily. Then I realised that she was looking at something over my shoulder. I turned around and the door of the parlour, which had been open a few inches, closed silently as I watched. Someone had been at the door, listening to our conversation. But who? Ruth Jarvis’s elderly mother? Perhaps—some old women are inveterate gossips. And if not her, then who?

I tried to muster my thoughts and bring them back to the issue of the Proudfoot mortgage that Jack wanted me to investigate.

‘So if the payments were being made,’ I said, trying to focus, ‘why was Nicholas Proudfoot so angry on that morning when Jack and Warnie and I were in the bank?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ruth, shaking her head and looking genuinely puzzled. ‘Perhaps Nick felt that the bank was bleeding him dry—taking every last penny. I really don’t know. But I’ve never seen him look that furious, not even on the day he had that awful meeting with Mr Ravenswood.’

‘Yes, he certainly looked volcanic when we saw him,’ I agreed.

I took Ruth over the same ground several times but she was able to add nothing to it. And she kept looking nervously over my shoulder, as if she expected someone to appear in the doorway to the front parlour—someone she’d prefer me not to see.

When she showed me out into the narrow hallway and led me to the front door, I had that uncanny feeling of eyes staring at the back of my neck. I quickly turned around, quickly enough to see a door swinging closed, but not quickly enough to see whoever was behind it.

Well, I thought as I walked back down the towpath, I have some information for Jack—and another little mystery to share with him.

As I may have mentioned before, I have the ability to report conversations verbatim, and this is what I did when I returned to the pub. Jack was already there, having completed his second consultation with Inspector Crispin, and he drank in every word I said eagerly.

We were sitting in the front parlour of
The Boar’s Head
. Warnie was smoking a cigarette, Jack was puffing on his pipe and all three of us had a pint of bitter in front of us.

‘So how close are you to solving the whole thing?’ I asked. ‘The puzzle of how Franklin Grimm was killed when he was in the basement alone, and by whom, and why?’

‘I have almost all the pieces in my hand,’ said Jack. ‘The one missing piece I can guess at—and Inspector Crispin is currently searching for that piece to turn the guess into reality.’

‘There you are!’ chortled Warnie. ‘I knew you’d solve the mystery before the lads from Scotland Yard.’

‘Let’s not be too hasty, old chap,’ Jack said with a hearty laugh. ‘I’m sure I have all the pieces; what I have to do now is put them together so they make a complete picture.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Warnie, looking a little deflated as he wiped froth off his moustache. ‘Rather like a jigsaw puzzle then?’

‘Something like that,’ Jack agreed.

‘And what about us being allowed to leave and get on with our holiday?’ I asked.

‘Very soon,’ said Jack, relighting his pipe, which had gone out. ‘In fact, I propose that we take a walk in the countryside now.’

‘Anywhere in particular?’ Warnie asked.

‘Nowhere special,’ said Jack. ‘I just need fresh air and open countryside to clear out my head and help me see the picture of the crime come together and make a complete pattern.’

‘I agree,’ I said, rising from my seat. ‘We’ve been sitting around for too long. ‘I’ll go up to my room and collect my mac and we can get out in the fresh air among the trees and the meadows.’

As I headed for the stairs I was instructed to collect various other items while I was up there. I returned shortly loaded down with coats for Jack and Warnie, along with Jack’s hat and walking stick as well as my mac.

Ten minutes later we were heading north out of Market Plumpton, looking for a walking path our friendly publican, Frank Jones, had told us about that would take us to a lookout point above the town. ‘You can see the whole district from up there,’ he had said. ‘It’s a real panorama, as pretty as a picture.’

The breeze was gentle and the sun warm, so we carried our coats over our arms. For some considerable distance we walked in silence, both Warnie and I reluctant to interrupt Jack’s thinking processes.

At last, I thought, this is what we are supposed to be doing on this holiday—walking through the countryside. In fact, the scenery and the weather were so idyllic that I expected a pneumatic drill to start hammering loudly nearby at any moment. This did not feel like a holiday that had ever been destined to go well.

We left the road and headed across a farmer’s field to where a well-worn walking track bordering a dry stone wall led up a gentle slope.

We stopped while Jack turned his back to the breeze to relight his pipe, then said, ‘Now we really must reach some sort of conclusion in this debate of ours, young Morris.’

Warnie instantly lost interest and walked on ahead of us. ‘We began,’ I said, ‘with me accusing you of being narrow-minded in claiming not only that Christianity is reasonable, but more than that—that it’s the only view of the world that conveys the truth and reality of the cosmos.’

We stopped talking while we clambered over a stile, and then I resumed, ‘Well, I still think that. My mind has not been changed by this whole debate. Even if you are right that there is a Mind behind the universe—that is to say, that God exists—how on earth can you claim that Jesus is the only way to know God?’

‘Oh, I don’t,’ said Jack. ‘Not for a minute.’

‘But . . . ’

‘I don’t make that claim—Jesus does.’

‘It doesn’t matter who makes the claim,’ I protested, ‘it’s still outrageous.’

‘But it does matter,’ Jack replied, grinning broadly. ‘It makes all the difference in the world. If I’m making that claim then it’s my credibility you have to weigh up. But if it’s Jesus himself who makes that claim then it’s his credibility that’s at issue. And that’s what the whole question is about: the credibility of Jesus.’

‘Does he really make that claim?’

‘There is no getting around the fact that Jesus repeatedly, and often, claimed to be the one and only unique way back to God. In various ways, and in different words, Jesus in effect said, “If you know me, you know God.” So the question is not what he said but whether you believe what he said. So—do you hold Jesus in that sort of regard? Do you take what he said seriously?’

‘Of course,’ I said hastily. ‘I would never deny that Jesus is one of the great teachers of humanity. He is one of those figures that dominate the landscape of civilisation—along with Socrates, Aristotle, Confucius, Buddha, Shakespeare, Milton, Sir Isaac Newton . . . and countless other important names that don’t leap immediately into my head.’

‘Ah ha,’ said Jack, almost rubbing his hands together with glee—well he would have, had his hands not been wrapped around his walking stick. The path we were on was becoming steeper, and we had to watch where we put our feet. ‘So, young Morris, you hold Jesus in that sort of high regard, do you?’

‘Most certainly. It’s not possible to look at the history of civilisation and not regard Jesus in that way. As you pointed out earlier, and I now agree, it was followers of Jesus who founded hospitals, universities and charities. When they did so they were being faithful to the profoundly civilising influence of his teaching. His great teaching story about the Good Samaritan alone has had an immeasurable influence for good. And, on the other hand, when other people have fought wars in his name, I think it’s possible to show that they were departing from his teachings. So I have no hesitation in putting Jesus in that exalted category.’

‘Which means you take what he said and what he taught with absolute seriousness?’

‘To be consistent, I must,’ I admitted.

‘Including,’ said Jack, grinning at me around the stem of his pipe, ‘what he taught about himself?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, let me give some words verbatim as spoken by Jesus about himself: “I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.” And he said: “He that hath seen me hath seen the Father.” What do you make of those claims, young Morris?’

I wanted a chance to think about my response, so I shouted out ahead, ‘Hey, Warnie—slow down a bit, old chap. Wait for us. Come on, Jack, we should make up a bit of ground.’

With me leading the way we scrambled up a steep incline to find ourselves on the summit of a high, flat-topped hill. All three of us turned around slowly, catching our breath and taking in the magnificent scene. We had a 360-degree view of rolling farm lands, patches of woodland, winding roads, a meandering river glittering in the sun, the arrow-straight iron of the railway tracks, and, in the distance, a glimpse of the sea.

‘That must be Plumpton-on-Sea,’ I said, ‘where I was yesterday.’

‘Well,’ puffed Warnie, ‘Frank Jones promised us what he called a “panorama” and this place certainly delivers.’

‘We should have brought a packet of sandwiches and a flask of tea,’ I said, ‘and we could have sat here and enjoyed the view for hours.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Jack. ‘Look to the north. Those clouds are purple thunderheads, and unless I’m much mistaken the mist below them indicates that they’re already breaking into rain.’

‘Hmm . . . think you’re right, old chap,’ grunted Warnie.

‘I would guess the rain will be here in perhaps half an hour, so we should start making our way back.’

We all saw the good sense of this remark and set off at once to retrace our steps. This time I was leading the way, followed by Jack with Warnie bringing up the rear.

‘Well, come along, Morris,’ said Jack good naturedly over my shoulder, ‘stop dodging the question and tell what you think about what Jesus—this great moral teacher, as you call him—says about himself.’

‘Perhaps he said that sort of thing,’ I said hesitantly, ‘to impress his first followers. They were primitive people; perhaps he had to say that to hold their attention and get them to remember all he was teaching.’

‘In other words, you’re calling him a liar. More than that, a deliberate and manipulative liar.’

‘Well . . . ’

‘You see, you can’t have it both ways. Jesus can’t be both a great moral teacher
and
a deceptive and manipulative liar.’

‘Well then,’ I mumbled, groping for some other explanation, ‘perhaps he was confused about himself. Perhaps, coming from that primitive society, he somehow saw himself as God . . . ’

‘At any time in history any person who has claimed to be God has been either an arrogant egomaniac—in the vein of the Roman emperors—or a lunatic, someone completely out of touch with reality.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I admitted reluctantly.

‘And the one thing that is clear in reading the contemporary accounts of Jesus is that he was the sanest man who ever lived. No other historical figure was as clear-headed as Jesus.’

‘And yet he made the claim?’

‘And yet, as you say, he made the claim to be God come among us to restore our broken relationship.’

‘Which broken relationship? With who?’ I asked, and then quickly corrected myself, ‘With whom?’

‘Principally with himself—and flowing from that, ultimately, with his creation around us and with each other. Jesus himself summed it up by saying that he “came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many”. That’s the claim Jesus made, and he made it repeatedly.’

‘So why did he make it then?’

‘Consider this possibility, Morris: he said it because it is true. Everything about his life, his behaviour and his teaching supports his extraordinary claim to be the Mind behind the universe come to this world as a human being. That would put him in a class of his own, quite unlike Socrates, Aristotle, Confucius, Buddha, Shakespeare and all the rest.’

I said nothing in response. My mind was busy chewing over this very different way of looking at Jesus.

Jack continued, ‘And he gave a reason for this. He said that he was the only way back to God because he was the only one who would die for us. That, of course, is perfectly true in the sense that Buddha didn’t die for you, nor did Confucius, nor did Mohammad, nor did Brahma, nor did anyone—other than Jesus. It was Jesus who died your death, and suffered your punishment and purchased your forgiveness and conquered death on your behalf. That’s what Jesus did.’

The conversation stopped while we scrambled over a stile and onto the road leading back into town.