C S Lewis and the Country House Murders (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 2) (12 page)

As we walked back to the village—and a long, winding walk it was, for my uncanny sense of misdirection had taken us further away from Plumwood—we discussed the mystery of the isolated cottage and its strange inhabitant.

‘Clearly he’s a foreigner,’ said Jack, ‘a native from some remote place judging by those strange tattoos on his face. However, I claim no expertise in such matters.’

Then we talked about what such an exotic character might be doing in an isolated cottage on our moors. Finding him in this very English rural landscape was as disconcerting as discovering an opium den in a Women’s Institute meeting hall. The man, colourful though he was, simply did not fit with the damp, dull English countryside.

We also talked about who else might have been in the cottage with him—for we had the impression there might have been someone else inside, someone who had cried out as we approached.

We concluded by tossing around theories and possibilities, with me suggesting that I raise the matter with the Dyer family at Plumwood Hall. Perhaps they knew of the cottage, or who owned it.

We parted at the gates to the Hall, Jack going on to the village, and supper and a comfortable bed at the pub, while I walked up the winding drive to the Hall. I had, I discovered, missed dinner, but Mrs Buckingham, who couldn’t stand to see anyone go hungry, served me some steak and kidney pie in the kitchen. She warmed the pie first in the oven, and chatted to me cheerfully as she waddled around, laying out the things she would need for breakfast next morning.

I responded to her cheerful chatter by telling her the story of our adventures on the moors. I left out our encounter with Douglas and the bookmaker’s tough as I wanted to give that episode a great deal more thought. But I talked about the rain storm, about getting lost and about the hidden cottage we came across with its strange inhabitant.

‘Oh, I know who that is, sir,’ said she. ‘He made my blood run cold when he come up to the Hall when he first arrived.’

‘Arrived from where?’

‘South America, sir. They told me he come from the Amazon jungle, sir. He was the one that brought the body of Lady Pamela’s brother back home. A surprisingly kind thing for him to do, I thought—him being a heathen and all.’

‘This is Edmund, I take it?’ She nodded. ‘I’ve only just recently been learning about him. I’ve been here for the better part of a year, and I’ve not heard him mentioned very often before.’

‘Well, it were made clear to us, sir, that Lady Pamela was so upset about her brother dying—so young, and in such a faraway place—that we were never to mention it. And, of course, the family do the same.’

At this point the steak and kidney pie was placed in front of me, and I set to work demolishing it with a knife and fork.

‘So this chap in the cottage,’ I mumbled through mouthfuls, ‘why is he still here in England? And why is he living in a cottage on the moors?’

‘Well, that cottage belongs to the Plumwood estate. Years ago Lord Bosham had a gamekeeper living there—when I first come to work at the Hall, as a mere slip of a lass that was.’

As I watched the almost circular figure of Mrs Buckingham bustling around the kitchen I found it impossible to imagine her as a ‘mere slip of a lass’. It was like trying to picture Mount Everest as a slight bulge in the front yard.

‘It stood empty for many years, then this heathen chappie turned up with the body of Master Edmund, and it seems he didn’t want to go straight back home. Well, I dare say England is much more comfortable than some jungle. Anyway, they let him have the old gamekeeper’s cottage.’

‘When was this?’

‘Two years ago it would have to be. Maybe a bit more than that. Anyway, this dark gentleman from the jungle come up to the house when he first arrived to stock up on things—cutlery and crockery and linen and the like. And some bits of furniture too. Well, the place had been empty a long time,’

‘Does he have a name, this Amazonian native?’

‘Lady Pamela called him Drax. It seems like these heathens only have one name. Just Drax and nothing more. Or so I were told.’

I asked Mrs Buckingham as many questions as I could think of, but it seemed she had told me all she knew. I thanked her for the supper and went up to bed in a very thoughtful frame of mind.

The next morning I was at my desk in the library when Keggs suddenly appeared, having apparently materialised in the silent and efficient way only butlers can, and presented me with an envelope.

‘This came in the morning post, sir,’ he said. Then he turned and floated away in the same frictionless way in which he arrived. The letter was postmarked London. It was from the auction house I had approached for expert advice. They had authenticated the Shakespeare quarto from the photographs I had sent, and submitted a tentative appraisal.

I hurried up to Sir William’s office on the first floor and broke the good news of the prize find that had turned up in a dusty corner of his library. He was delighted and shook my hand as if I were some long lost uncle from whom he expected to inherit a small fortune. And, in effect, he just had—given the value of the quarto. However, he made it clear that he had no intention of putting the rare book on the market, but instead he wanted me to find a way to display it in the library.

Sir William insisted we have a brandy to celebrate. Although the sun was not yet over the yardarm, I accepted the offer, knowing how good Sir William’s cellar was. He rang for Keggs and in due course two brandies in snifters were delivered. So there we were: drinking French brandy, in a very English oak-panelled study, with South American memorabilia on the walls. In the past I had taken those items of decoration to be merely an assortment of eccentric collectables chosen by Sir William, but I now realised that the arrows, blowpipes, spears and the rest must have some connection with the late Edmund.

I asked Sir William if the collection on his walls came from his late brother-in-law and he coughed and spluttered into his brandy.

‘Oh, so you’ve heard about Edmund, have you?’ he said when he’d recovered. ‘We do try not to mention him for poor Pamela’s sake. She misses him dreadfully, the poor dear.’

He took another sip to show the Napoleon the respect it deserved.

‘Look here,’ he said, with an anxious expression on his face, ‘I don’t know who mentioned Edmund to you, but it shouldn’t have happened. And now that you’ve heard I trust that you’ll be sensitive and not mention it in Pamela’s hearing. Not ever.’

After assuring him I would be vigilant in the matter, I finished my brandy and left, not for the library but for the village—having put in a few moments of effort in my salaried position I wanted to return to my main employment for the moment: keeping Tom Morris out of the hands of the law on a charge of murder.

I found Jack at
The Cricketers’ Arms
in Plumwood, sitting in the parlour doodling in a notebook. Although when I glanced over his shoulder I saw it wasn’t doodling: in his small, neat scrawl he had compiled an account of everything we knew about the case so far.

Pulling up a chair I told Jack what I had discovered from the cook the night before.

‘So it seems we were mistaken,’ I concluded. ‘There is no one else living in the cottage, only Drax, the South American who came from—according to Mrs Buckingham—the Amazon jungle. Whatever sounds we heard last night must just have been Drax bumping around in the cottage.’

Jack looked thoughtful for a moment, then took his fountain pen back out of his pocket and scribbled a few more lines at the end of his notes. When he had finished I asked, ‘And what has all this note-taking and analysis told you?’

‘That we need to get to know the victim,’ Jack replied firmly. ‘I have no doubt that understanding the victim, who she was, what she was and how she related to those around her, is the key to this puzzle.’

In pursuit of more information about the late Connie Worth, we made our way back to Plumwood Hall, or what is known in the higher sort of literature as ‘the scene of the crime’.

As we walked up the drive we noticed Sir William Dyer in consultation with his head gardener near the rose beds. Seeing us approaching he hurried across.

‘Mr Lewis,’ Sir William said, ‘I’m glad I’ve run into you again. That invitation I mentioned—how would tonight be? Are you free to come to dinner at the Hall this evening?’

Jack said he was, and Sir William said good, that’s settled, and went back to his conference with Franklin over curbing the appetite of the more enthusiastic aphids or whatever the problem was. Jack and I proceeded into the house to find whichever family members might be about and might be amenable to talking about the murder victim.

In the morning room we found Douglas and Stiffy sitting in sulky silence, as if they had just argued with each other and had agreed to disagree as long as they could ignore each other while doing so. Stiffy was turning over the pages of a book but appeared not to be focussed on the print, while Douglas was staring out of the window at the rolling lawns of Plumwood Hall, with no clear intention except, perhaps, to watch the grass grow.

Jack roared ‘Good morning’ at his full lecture hall volume. Stiffy dropped her book and Douglas flinched as if he had been hit in the small of the back while bending over to smell the roses.

‘Don’t do that,’ he complained as he turned around.

‘Sorry to disturb your quiet and peaceful contemplation,’ said Jack, ‘but we need your assistance.’

‘What for?’ asked Stiffy suspiciously.

‘To catch a murderer,’ said Jack.

‘If it’s the murderer of the Black Widow you want,’ said Stiffy coldly, ‘he’s standing beside you.’

Jack clapped me on the shoulder. ‘There you are, Morris—even before you’ve been charged the jury has found you guilty. But why?’ he asked abruptly, leaning forward and staring at Stiffy. ‘Why do you believe him to be the guilty party?’

‘He was next to Connie when she died. He had the best opportunity to poison her slice of cake. In fact, he was the only one with the opportunity.’

‘And opportunity,’ responded Jack, ‘is all that is needed? He had the opportunity therefore he committed the murder
quod erat demonstrandum
?’

‘Exactly,’ she said with a sniff.

‘And you saw this happen?’

‘Not personally.’

‘Can you tell me why this rather dull scholar would abruptly become a homicidal maniac? Perhaps Genghis Khan would do that sort of thing just to keep his hand in, but why would Tom Morris?’

I was about to object to the word ‘dull’ but decided I should hold my counsel for the time being.

‘Why doesn’t matter,’ said Douglas, walking across from the window. ‘I agree with Stiffy. Sorry, Tom old chap, but I can’t see who else could have done it.’

‘Now look what you’ve done to poor Morris here,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘He now displays an expression of glum depression that would attract comment in a Siberian salt mine. For myself, I am much more interested in motive: leaving aside the possibility of homicidal mania—the only motive that fits Morris—what reason might anyone have had for killing Connie Worth?’

A sudden and uncomfortable silence descended on the room, as if Jack has broached the forbidden topic.

‘Is there nothing,’ prompted Jack, ‘about Mrs Worth that would have caused her to be chosen by the Homicide Victim of the Month Club?’

‘
I
can tell you something about Aunt Connie,’ said a voice from the doorway. I turned around. It was young Will, apparently having grown tired of his outdoor sporting activities, or perhaps having run out of moving targets. His arrival was not greeted with universal enthusiasm.

‘Ah look, the pest is here,’ groaned Douglas.

‘Why aren’t you outside somewhere,’ sneered Stiffy, ‘pulling wings off flies or torturing small, helpless animals?’

‘I still think it was jolly odd,’ persisted Will, who had clearly heard taunts along these lines often before and had long since learned to ignore them. ‘Odd that she had plenty of the folding stuff when she should have been flat, stony broke.’

Jack asked why she should have been so totally impoverished.

‘Because it was Uncle Charles who had all the money in that family. And when he disappeared so abruptly a couple of summers ago, Aunt Connie didn’t have a bean. That was why she went and sponged off poor Aunt Judith.’

‘Listen, Will,’ growled Douglas threateningly. ‘You should be like the hangman who’s run out of customers—you should keep your trap shut.’

‘I don’t see why. It’s not like it’s some sort of secret or something.’

‘Tell me,’ said Jack in a polite but firm voice, ‘about your Uncle Charles, Aunt Connie and Aunt Judith.’

Douglas threw his hands in the air in a gesture of resignation as he grumbled, ‘You might as well keep going now, you young jackass.’

The story that young Will told—haltingly, because he was now aware of letting family skeletons out of cupboards—was a strange one. It seemed that Charles Worth had gone for a walk across the moors one summer’s afternoon.

‘He left through those French windows over there,’ said Will, pointing at the far wall, ‘his dog trotting by his side. I watched him cross the lawns and disappear among the trees. No one’s seen him since.’