C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

‘Ravenswood!’ shouted the young man, spotting the manager. ‘You’re the one! Don’t turn around and go back into the strongroom. You’ll answer to me!’

With these words he bounded down the stairs, pushing Warnie and me roughly to one side. Franklin Grimm stepped forward to block the newcomer’s path. They were both beefy young men with the build of rugby backs.

‘Mr Proudfoot!’ said Grimm firmly. ‘You’re not allowed in the cellar.’

The two of them stood toe-to-toe for a moment, glaring at each other. ‘I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken to Ravenswood, so either stand aside or I’ll knock you aside,’ growled the visitor.

‘There’s no need for violence,’ said the manager. ‘I’ll speak to Mr Proudfoot alone. You take these other gentlemen back upstairs, Mr Grimm.’

The teller stepped out of the way of the angry young man and slowly, with backward glances over his shoulder, as if doubtful that he was doing the right thing, walked towards the foot of the stairs.

Angry young Mr Proudfoot advanced towards Ravenswood with both hands clenched into fists and his muscles tensed. The manager stood his ground.

‘I’m not going to hit you, Ravenswood,’ hissed Proudfoot through tightly clenched teeth. ‘I’d like to thrash you until you’re bleeding and broken, but . . . I’m not going to do that.’

He stopped speaking and breathed heavily, as if making a massive effort at self-control. He looked like a man who had a dozen angry bulldogs snarling inside his chest, and he was pulling hard on their leash to keep them under control. Those of us standing on the stairs were riveted by this drama and stood frozen where we were.

‘If I gave in to my emotions,’ Proudfoot continued, ‘if I did what I feel like doing to you, I’d end up in a police court on an assault charge. And I’m not going to give you that satisfaction.’

There was another long, tense silence, and then Proudfoot resumed, ‘You’re going to be the one who ends up in the police court, Ravenswood—not me.’

The bank manager swallowed hard and then said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You’re a cool customer, I’ll give you that,’ growled Proudfoot with barely controlled fury. ‘But you know you’re a worm, a snake, something less than a human being. You’re something disgusting that belongs in the gutter.’

As these words were spat out, Franklin Grimm started to move back down the stairs as if to intervene, but Jack laid a restraining hand on his arm and shook his head. I could see what Jack was thinking: namely that an intervention by a third party might only inflame an already volatile situation.

‘All the way here I’ve been thinking about how you’ve got away with it,’ Proudfoot said in a voice just above a whisper, ‘and I think there must be evidence . . . evidence that could be found . . . a trail of some sort . . . oh, yes Ravenswood . . . I’m not going to hit you . . . but I want you to know that I’m going to the police . . . and to your head office . . . and to my solicitor . . . and you will lose your job . . . your career . . . that’s why I’m not thrashing you now . . . because I want
you
behind bars . . . not me.’

This speech came out in machine gun bursts of words, with breathy, panting gaps in between. Proudfoot was clearly having great difficulty controlling his violent emotions.

‘Now look here, Proudfoot,’ Ravenswood said. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about—’

‘Shut up! I won’t listen to your lies! I’m not interested in what you say . . . so I suggest you say nothing.’

As he spoke these words Proudfoot raised his fists again, and Ravenswood responded by remaining silent while stepping back half a pace. A look of sheer terror flickered for the barest moment across the bank manager’s stony face.

‘Your world is about to come crashing down, Ravenswood,’ said Proudfoot. ‘The sky is about to fall on you. I just wanted the pleasure of coming here and looking you in the face while I told you that.’

With those words he turned and took a step towards the foot of the stairs. It looked as if he was about to leave. But then his self-control snapped.

He spun around; in two swift paces he rushed forward, seized Ravenswood by the shoulders and thrust him in through the open vault door. Then Proudfoot pushed the heavy door closed as easily as you or I would close the cover of a book. He quickly pushed the locking levers into place and spun the dials of the combination lock.

‘There,’ growled Proudfoot with satisfaction, ‘let him sit in there for a while and think about his future.’ Then he charged past us up the stairs, brushing us out of the way as he went.

The four of us stood in the cellar in stunned silence. We had witnessed a scene of high drama, but it was not at all clear what it was about.

When Franklin Grimm showed no signs of moving, Warnie muttered gently, ‘You’d better let your boss out of the vault, young man.’

The teller blinked as if waking from a deep sleep and muttered in a stunned and hushed voice, ‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t?’ asked Warnie.

‘I don’t have the combination.’

‘Then who does?’ I asked, with my usual flair for asking the obvious.

‘The only person in this branch who knows the combination is Mr Ravenswood, and he’s . . . ’ He gestured helplessly at the locked steel door. ‘It’s bank policy. Only the manager knows the combination of the vault.’

‘Not a very sensible system,’ said Jack. ‘Surely there’s someone else—’

‘Not in this branch,’ Grimm interrupted irritably. ‘Bank policy, I tell you. I’ll have to telephone to our regional office in Tadminster.’

‘And they’ll tell you the combination over the phone?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Grimm, shaking his head. ‘Against bank policy. They’ll have to send someone on the first train—one of the district managers who knows the combination for this branch.’

‘But, my dear chap,’ protested Warnie, ‘your manager is—’

‘I know! I know!’ snapped Grimm. ‘But the strongroom is large and there’s plenty of air. And there’s an electric light in there. Mr Ravenswood won’t be happy, but he should be all right and perfectly safe until someone arrives to let him out.’

Then he waved us towards the stairs and bustled into activity. ‘Come on, come on. We all need to get back upstairs. I need to make that phone call.’

‘And we all know why,’ muttered Warnie, almost under his breath, as we trooped back upstairs.

‘Why?’ I asked in a half-whispered question.

‘Bank policy,’ enunciated Warnie slowly, turning around to grin at me.

Back in the office Franklin Grimm grabbed the nearest telephone and dialled a number. When it was answered he asked for a Mr Johnson and rapidly explained the situation.

Putting down the phone and turning to us, he said, ‘He’ll catch the first train. Or at least one of the managers will. Should be here by the middle of the afternoon.’

We were all standing around the inner office, being watched with wide-eyed astonishment by the girl at the typewriter, who had heard Grimm’s telephoned explanation of what had just happened.

‘Ruth,’ he said, ‘you should never have let Proudfoot into the cellar.’

‘I didn’t,’ the girl protested, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Honestly, I didn’t. He asked where Mr Ravenswood was, and I said downstairs, and he just pushed past me. I couldn’t stop him.’ She almost wailed these last words—like a cat whose tail had formed a sudden and unnervingly intimate relationship with a hobnailed boot.

‘No, no, I’m sure you couldn’t really have stopped him,’ said Grimm after a long pause, patting the girl on the shoulder. ‘No one will say it was your fault.’

The teller seemed to be, for the moment, unaware of the fact that Jack, Warnie and I were on the wrong side of the counter, lounging on bank desks immediately beside him, taking in all this human drama.

‘Will Mr Ravenswood be all right?’ asked the young woman in a tremulous voice.

‘He’ll be fine, Ruth,’ said Grimm. ‘It’s a large strongroom. He won’t run out of air. He’s just . . . locked in, that’s all.’

‘While we’re waiting,’ said Jack in as jolly a tone as he could manage under the circumstances, ‘would it be possible for me to make that withdrawal?’

Grimm looked blankly at Jack, who continued, ‘Ravenswood did identify me, and he approved the withdrawal.’

‘Ah, yes,’ the teller admitted in a vague voice, rather like a man wandering out of a dense fog who is surprised to discover he is no longer alone. ‘In fact, you gentlemen should leave the office. Just go through the flap to the customers’ side of the counter please, and then I’ll deal with your matter, Mr Lewis.’

We did as he asked. Grimm was still in something of a daze as he returned to his teller’s cage, accepted Jack’s passbook, made a withdrawal entry after first having discussed the required amount, and stamped the page. Then he counted out the notes and handed them over to Jack, who folded them into his pocket.

These routine actions seemed to help Franklin Grimm settle down and focus more clearly on the situation.

‘What young Nicholas Proudfoot did probably amounts to assault,’ he said, more as a question than a statement, and it was a question directed at us as the eyewitnesses.

‘Oh yes, I should say so,’ muttered Warnie.

Grimm turned around and told Ruth to call the police, inform them of what had happened and ask them to send an officer.

‘And I must ask you three gentlemen to wait until the police arrive,’ said Grimm. ‘They may want to take statements from you.’

We agreed, and seated ourselves on the uncomfortable straight-backed chairs in the customers’ waiting area.

A young man wearing a police uniform and hiding much of his face behind a moustache the size of an overgrown hedgerow arrived a few minutes later. Grimm quickly briefed him.

The policeman then introduced himself to us as Constable Dixon and pulled a small notebook out of his top pocket to take our statements. As he did so, Grimm said, ‘I think I should get back down to the cellar, just in case there’s anything I can do. Most probably there’s not, but I should check.’

He disappeared through the doorway at the back of the office and hurried down the stairs into the dimly lit cellar, while we dealt with the dimly lit policeman who, slowly and patiently, took down our account of the events.

‘What was that?’ asked Jack in the middle of this note-taking.

‘What was what, sir?’ asked the constable. ‘I heard nothing.’

‘I heard a cry or a shout.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’

‘Jack has very acute hearing,’ said Warnie.

‘It seemed to come from the cellar,’ said Jack. ‘I think we should investigate.’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing, sir,’ said Constable Dixon ponderously, ‘but just to set your mind at rest, I’ll take a look.’

We, of course, followed him through the door and down the stairs into the cellar. At first we could see nothing in that dim, yellow light. Then the constable saw the sprawled figure lying in the shadows. As he hurried across and knelt down beside the body, we followed and gathered around him.

It was clear what we were looking at: the size of the neck wound and the amount of blood made it obvious. It was the teller, Franklin Grimm, and he was dead.

‘Is he . . . ?’ asked the policeman.

Jack, who was kneeling closest, replied, ‘I saw enough dead men in the trenches during the war. He’s most certainly dead.’

Constable Dixon rose slowly to his feet and put his notebook back in his top pocket. ‘I shall have to report this to my superiors,’ he said in his slow, ponderous way.

‘I should think that would be wise, old chap,’ agreed Warnie.

‘What happened down here?’ I asked.

‘Our friendly teller has been stabbed in the neck,’ said Jack. ‘And remembering the bit of first aid I picked up in the army, I should say the blow struck his carotid artery and he died instantly.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ muttered Warnie quietly. ‘I’ve seen shrapnel take chaps like that.’

‘But who stabbed him?’ I persisted. ‘There’s no one here. That’s to say, there was no one in this cellar except Franklin Grimm. He was alone. So who stabbed him?’

‘In such cases, sir,’ said Constable Dixon politely, as if speaking to the slow child at the back of the classroom, ‘we police officers usually find it’s a matter of suicide. Very sad, of course, but then these things do happen.’

‘Then where’s the weapon?’ Jack asked.

‘We will find it in due course, sir,’ replied Dixon.

‘I doubt it,’ Jack insisted. ‘If Mr Grimm stabbed himself in the neck, and died almost instantly, the knife he used should be here—beside the body. But it’s not. In fact, look around you. It’s nowhere in sight.’

Constable Dixon scratched at his luxurious moustache, blinked rapidly and looked around. He started to say something and then stopped. Overcome by uncertainty, his mouth opened and closed several times but no sound came out of it.

Standing there in that dimly lit cellar, with a dead body at our feet and deep, gloomy shadows stretching away into blackness, the terrors of childhood seemed to come back with a rush. The darkness gathered itself into the monstrous shapes of nightmares and advanced towards us menacingly.

In broad sunlight the tale of murder and butchery this cellar had witnessed was a harmless folktale. But now, in the darkness, in the presence of death, the imagination played tricks, and shadows seemed to hide the pulsating menace of ghostly revenge. Quite suddenly Boris had ceased to be a funny name in an old tale, and had become, in my imagination, powerful phantom hands reaching out of the grave.