C S Lewis and the Country House Murders (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 2) (7 page)

Teddy looked startled, as if the idea that anyone might connect him with the murder of Connie had not occurred to him before. Then his look slowly turned to one of alarm.

‘No, no, no, no . . . not at all. Nothing dangerous here at all. Wherever that dreadful stuff came from, it wasn’t from here.’

Leaving Uncle Teddy’s laboratory, and Plumwood Hall, behind us, Jack and I set out to walk back to the village. As we walked I turned to talk to Jack but thought better of it. He had stuck his pipe in his mouth and was fiddling with his matches. In his eye was a faraway gleam as if studying a distant horizon. I knew that look of old; it meant that his mind was at work. So I kept my peace and left him to his thinking.

In the village we made our way back to
The Cricketers’ Arms
. In the saloon bar we each ordered a pint of bitter, still occupied with our own thoughts. Or, at least, Jack’s brain still seemed to be steaming ahead at full speed and I remained disinclined to interrupt its progress.

Sitting in a nook at the far end of the room I saw Sir William’s son Douglas and his girlfriend Stiffy. As I watched, the young man rose and walked to the bar to order fresh drinks.

‘Same again, Mr Rose,’ he said to the publican, ‘two G and Ts.’

Then he glanced sideways at me and said, ‘How does it feel to be a convict-in-waiting, Tom?’

‘Well, since I’m innocent . . .’ I began.

‘Good luck in persuading the police of that,’ sneered Douglas. ‘They’ve got you bang to rights, old son. If I were you, I wouldn’t start making any long-term plans for the future.’

‘Morris!’ exploded Jack, emerging from his reverie. ‘Introduce me to your friend.’

‘Jack, this is Douglas—Sir William’s older son. Douglas, this is my old Oxford tutor, C. S. Lewis.’

‘Actually, I recognise you, sir,’ Douglas responded, sneer disappearing under a layer of obsequiousness for the moment. ‘You were pointed out to me in Oxford. Everyone knows you. My tutor wants me to attend your lectures on medieval and renaissance literature.’

‘And which college are you at, young Douglas?’ asked Jack genially.

Instantly the superior tone and expression returned as he replied, ‘Balliol.’

‘Good tutors at Balliol. What are you reading?’

‘History.’

‘Not English? Then why were my lectures recommended?’

‘I was told they would be good for my understanding of the period.’

‘And so they would be,’ Jack responded warmly. ‘Do you a power of good. My lectures should be made compulsory for every student in every course.’ Jack grinned broadly at the joke he’d made at his own expense. Douglas just looked confused. He clearly didn’t know what to make of this larger-than-life Oxford don whose wit included self-mockery.

At this point Alfred Rose delivered two gin and tonics. As Douglas picked these up and started to walk away, he glanced over his shoulder and said to me, ‘If I were you, Tom, I’d visit my tailor to be measured for a pair of handcuffs.’

Then he hurried off to the corner booth where Stiffy was waiting. In a moment they had their heads together, giggling—no doubt at Douglas’s retelling of his joke at my expense.

I turned to Jack and said quietly, ‘Not an entirely likeable young man.’

‘How is he doing in his studies?’ asked Jack. ‘Do you know?’

I thought for a moment, and then replied, ‘From something Sir William let slip a few months ago, I gather he’s loafing somewhat. It seems that he’d be happy with a poor second. All he wants to do is to graduate and take his place as a senior executive with Dyer’s Digestive Biscuits. And take the handsome salary that would, undoubtedly, come with it.’

Jack’s voice dropped to what he fondly imagined was a confidential whisper as he asked, ‘And would he have a motive to murder Connie Worth?’

‘Well, he and his girlfriend were in the habit of referring to her as “the Black Widow”—although why, I’m not sure.’

‘We understand the “widow” part now,’ Jack said, ‘after what Lady Dyer told us. Whether the adjective was intended simply to mock her cold lack of emotion or had a somewhat more sinister import we shall have to see as our investigations continue.’

We finished our pints, then Jack said, ‘Come along, let’s stretch our legs, young Morris—you know that my brain works best when my feet are in action.’

For the next ten minutes we paced the length of the village street and back. Again Jack was quiet and thoughtful, but at least twice he mumbled that the police—or Inspector Hyde, at least—must have evidence of my guilt that he so far hadn’t revealed.

‘Even Hyde,’ muttered Jack, ‘with the IQ of an elm tree, wouldn’t be so narrowly focussed on you unless he had something more than the opportunity you had to administer the poison from sitting next to Connie Worth. There must be something more.’

We were still discussing what that might be when we drew level once more with
The Cricketers’ Arms
. As we did so, two figures disappeared around the side of the pub into the shadows.

‘Furtive activity,’ said Jack. ‘Worth investigating?’

I nodded.

We walked to the pub wall and then edged down it in single file, with me in the lead. At the end of the wall I cautiously peered around the corner into the pub’s backyard. This was bathed in dark shadows, and that crepuscular dimness was empty except for two figures—a young man and a young woman—entwined in each other’s arms in passionate embrace. The young woman was Stephanie Basset, known as Stiffy—and, interestingly, the other party was most certainly
not
Douglas Dyer, the young man she was, either officially or unofficially, engaged to.

I edged back from the corner and gestured to Jack to take my place. He did so. When he returned to my side he whispered, ‘I recognise the young man. He’s a barman in Oxford at the Bird and Baby—the
Eagle and Child
.’

‘Our pub!’

‘As you say, our pub.’

Now voices could be heard coming from the backyard. Jack and I ceased our whispered colloquy and listened.

Stiffy was promising herself, in the most passionate language, to the young barman—‘even,’ she said, ‘when I’m married to Douglas. That won’t stop us seeing each other and doing whatever we like with each other.’ These last words were accompanied by a salacious giggle. ‘I’ll have Douglas for the money,’ she continued, ‘and you for the fun. And don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll get your share of whatever part of the Dyer millions I can get my hands on.’

As Jack and I made our way, with quiet footsteps, to the front of the pub, Jack was shaking his head. ‘It’s sad, Morris, the damage that people inflict on themselves, on each other and on their relationships when they choose to plunge into immorality.’

‘You think she’s heading for unhappiness then?’

‘I think they all are. It will all end in tears.’

‘Do you know much about the barman?’ I asked.

‘Very little,’ said Jack, still shaking his head sadly at human folly. ‘His name is Evans, I believe. My impression is that he’s a bit of a local Lothario in Oxford. I doubt that he is any more faithful to her than she is to Douglas. Young people do seem to be able to get their lives into a tangled, unhappy mess.’

‘Could this be connected to the murder?’

‘Ah, that’s the question, young Morris. Once people have secrets they may well have a motive for murder. We must press on and find out more.’

The publican, Alfred Rose, emerged from the doorway of the pub, wiping his hands on his large white apron.

On his face was a contented smile, like a bookmaker just after a race in which the favourite has run last. He said, ‘To tell you the truth, Mr Lewis, this murder is good for business.’

Jack asked him in what way, and Rose replied, ‘Well, first I got your custom out of it, and now I get a telegram telling me to get rooms ready for two Scotland Yard men who are coming on the late afternoon train.’

And that late afternoon train, it appeared, was due to arrive in around ten minutes.

‘We shall meet it then!’ cried Jack heartily. ‘Let the experts from Scotland Yard meet their chief suspect the moment they step off the train.’

With that he set off with long strides in the direction of the Plumwood railway station. A few minutes later we were waiting on the platform, peering down the track in the direction of Market Plumpton, looking for the first puff of smoke that would herald the arrival of the late train.

As we waited we talked about the people in the case: Sir William and Lady Pamela Dyer, Douglas and Stiffy, Uncle Teddy, young Will Dyer, Keggs the butler, Mrs Buckingham the cook, the maids Jane and Lizzie, and even Franklin the gardener. Which of these people, if any of them, could have had a motive to murder Connie Worth? She was not a likeable person, a cold fish of a personality (the ‘Ice Queen’ according to Will, the ‘Black Widow’ according to Douglas and Stiffy)—but people are not murdered just because of their lack of table manners.

Our discussion of possible motives, methods and opportunities was ended by the sound of a distant train whistle wailing like the sad hoot of an aged owl whose children have all turned out to be disappointments in life. Some minutes later the small locomotive, with its few carriages, steamed, chugged, wheezed and clanked to a halt at the platform.

Only two passengers alighted—and to our surprise they turned out to be familiar faces: Inspector Gideon Crispin and Sergeant Henry Merrivale of Scotland Yard.

Crispin, who still looked like a well-tailored city banker, recognised us almost as quickly as we recognised him. He strode up the platform and offered his hand in greeting.

‘A pleasure to see you again, I’m sure, gentlemen—although we could, perhaps, wish for pleasanter circumstances.’

The silent Sergeant Merrivale nodded in recognition. He could not offer to shake hands as he was carrying all the bags.

‘You don’t seem surprised to see us, inspector,’ said Jack.

‘I read the case notes on the train journey, so Mr Morris’s role in this affair I was familiar with. And it did occur to me, Mr Lewis, that you might have come to Mr Morris’s aid, given that the local police have cast him under some shadow of suspicion.’

We fell into step beside the two detectives and walked with them down the village street in the direction of the pub.

‘And do you share Inspector Hyde’s suspicion that Morris here is some sort of homicidal maniac?’ asked Jack.

‘Early days, Mr Lewis, early days,’ replied Crispin. ‘I find it pays not to leap to conclusions too quickly.’

At
The Cricketers’ Arms
Alfred Rose warmly welcomed his latest pair of murder tourists, and bellowed for Ronnie Fish to carry their bags up to their rooms.

Then he said, ‘As it happens, gentlemen, you already have a visitor. Someone is waiting for you in the snug.’

With an air of gleeful mystery the publican led the way to the small private back bar, and there we found, waiting for the Scotland Yard officers, Dr Henderson.

Mine host made the introductions and then left. The small, bustling local GP rose to his feet to shake everyone’s hand. He pulled a sheaf of papers out of his medical bag. Then he hesitated.

‘The final toxicology report,’ he began, and then paused, looking at Jack and me. ‘But I’m not sure if . . .’

‘Undoubtedly,’ said Inspector Crispin calmly as he pulled up a chair, ‘the contents of that report will be around the village by tomorrow morning, so there’s no harm in these gentlemen hearing them now.’

‘If you say so,’ muttered the doctor doubtfully.

‘I do say so,’ said the Scotland Yard man. ‘I know these small villages. And I know their gossip networks tend to be as quick and efficient as anything invented by Mr Marconi. So, go ahead, doctor.’

Henderson cleared his throat and, still looking at us doubtfully, resumed. ‘To be on the safe side I sent the stomach contents to the home office pathologist in London. Case of murder, you know. Don’t see many of those myself. Best to be scientifically precise.’

‘And what did the home office pathologist say?’ prompted Inspector Crispin when Dr Henderson came to a halt, perhaps overawed by his own efficiency in the face of murder.

‘Say? Oh, yes. Well, he confirmed my finding of death by cyanide. But that was never really in doubt. The interesting thing was his finding that the cyanide had been ingested in a solid lump by the deceased. The full technical account you’ll find here in his report.’