C S Lewis and the Country House Murders (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 2) Read Free

biscuits. Biscuit obsession seems to run in the family. Part of the stable block has been converted for his use. He calls it his “laboratory” and spends his days there conducting experiments he imagines will become new products for the giant biscuit factory Sir William manages. None of his experiments, it seems, ever produces anything practical. And Sir William is careful to keep him well away from the factory, and from having anything to do with real biscuit making.
    ‘You would have to agree, Jack, it’s a pretty dud cast of suspects. Which is why Inspector Hyde has fastened upon me as the most likely of the lot. I expect him to produce the handcuffs and lead me away in irons any day now.’

THREE

    Jack’s telegram was a delightful surprise: ‘Arriving two o’clock train. Meet me at station.’ So as the slow local train wheezed and clanked its way into the Plumwood railway station, I was standing on the small platform. A bundle of afternoon newspapers was thrown onto the platform from the guard’s van at the rear, and a door opened on the passenger carriage.
    Only one passenger alighted—a man dressed like a moderately successful farmer: old grey Harris Tweed jacket, with leather patches in the elbows; trousers of thickish grey flannel, uncreased and very out at the knees; stout brown walking boots; and an old grey felt hat. Underneath the hat was a round, ruddy, cheerful face. It was my old Oxford tutor, C. S. Lewis, known to all his friends as ‘Jack’. He was carrying a single, battered suitcase.
    He grinned broadly as he shook my hand. ‘Morris, you old chump, what mess have you managed to get yourself into this time?’ Then he laughed heartily and added, ‘Nothing that can’t be sorted out in short order, I warrant.’
    We fell into step side by side as we walked out of the station and down the main street of the small village. ‘Thanks for coming, Jack,’ I said.
    ‘Had no choice,’ he boomed, in his robust voice. ‘How would it look for me if one of my former pupils became a convict in irons?’
    I laughed at his pretence of having come entirely out of self-interest, but added, ‘This is a case of murder, Jack. It’s not the prison cell and the leg irons that loom but the hangman’s noose.’
    ‘Don’t be so gloomy, Morris. The hempen rope and the sudden drop are not in your future, I assure you.’
    ‘It’s Inspector Hyde you need to assure, not me. He’s the one who’s refusing to look at any aspect of the case except the Tom Morris angle.’
    ‘I do recall Hyde as a man inclined to adopt the narrow view.’
    By now we were standing in front of
The Cricketers’ Arms
, the only pub in Plumwood.
    ‘I told Alfred Rose you were coming, so he’ll have a room ready.’
    No sooner had I said these words than the publican appeared at the front door—like the cuckoo popping out of the little door in the cuckoo clock at precisely the right time.
    ‘Mr Lewis,’ he beamed, ‘welcome back. Nice to see you again, sir. And how is your brother?’
    Rose had a remarkable memory for customers, even those he had not seen for the better part of a year.
    ‘Warnie is doing very nicely,’ said Jack, handing his suitcase over to the publican. ‘And he sends his regards to you, Morris. He instructed me to get you swiftly and smartly untangled from whatever web you’ve fallen into.’
    Warnie was Jack’s brother, Major Warren Lewis, now retired from the British Army and living with Jack at their cottage,
The Kilns
, in Oxford.
    ‘Dreadful business, this murder up at the hall, Mr Lewis,’ said the publican. Then as we all stepped into the public bar he bellowed, ‘Ronnie—come and take this gentleman’s suitcase up to his room.’ Ronnie Fish, barman and general dogsbody, emerged from the cellar, blinking in the daylight like a startled mouse, and took charge of Jack’s suitcase.
    As he disappeared up the stairs with this modest item of luggage, Alfred Rose said, ‘Now, gentlemen—some