C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

‘Hang on,’ I protested. ‘I’m not drawing some strange or eccentric conclusion. The moral I see in that story is the moral most people see. In fact, it’s the whole point of the story.’

‘Well, in that case,’ Jack insisted, ‘the story doesn’t support the moral.’

I was now completely confused so I said nothing, and Jack continued, ‘There’s one person in your story who
does
see the whole picture—who understands all the parts and how they fit together and what they mean.’

This baffled me. ‘Who?’ I asked genuinely puzzled by his remark.

‘The storyteller,’ said Jack with a hearty laugh.

He let this sink in and then continued, ‘The only reason the story has any meaning or any point at all is that it’s told by a storyteller who
knows
the object is an elephant—to an audience that knows the object is an elephant. Clearly the storyteller is not blind and can see that it’s an elephant being groped by the four sightless men. The storyteller is clearly familiar with elephants and knows the animal for what it is. If there had been no sighted storyteller at the encounter, there would be no story.’

We all had to duck as we passed under a low-hanging tree branch, then Jack went on, ‘If you told that story to blind men who knew nothing of elephants, the story would mean nothing. It only has meaning because a sighted storyteller who is familiar with what elephants really are is telling us the story and drawing the moral. Without the storyteller who sees the bigger picture, the story is meaningless. And the same is true of life. In the story the four blind men are meant to represent each of us—individuals groping towards the truth. And perhaps that’s not a bad picture of how each of us copes on our journey through life. But in that case, who does the storyteller represent? Who is it who sees the bigger picture and understands what the bigger picture means?’

He stopped while we pushed through some bushes that almost overgrew the narrow towpath, and then he resumed, ‘Even the most intelligent and well-informed men I know have limitations. In fact, being human involves having limitations. So what we all need is the equivalent of the “sighted storyteller” to give us the big picture and make sense of it all, to tell us the meaning and the purpose. We all have some of the clues—for instance, our in-built moral sense, our sense of right and wrong, is a clue to the meaning of the universe.’

‘But you say we need help to see the bigger picture?’

‘The real arrogance is in those human beings who insist they know enough, who refuse to be told, who refuse to submit to the direction of a greater intelligence than theirs.’

We rounded a bend at this point and the town came into view. ‘Nearly there,’ said Warnie.

Jack stopped for a moment and turned around to face me. ‘Imagine your blind men examining an unfamiliar building. They each feel different parts of it and disagree about how those parts fit together, what they mean and what they’re for. Then the architect of the building arrives. He tells them about the design—what it looks like, its purpose and what its function is. It would be stubbornly arrogant of those blind men to refuse to listen, wouldn’t it?’

Well, yes, of course it would, but I wasn’t going to admit that out loud—so Jack continued.

‘The testable claim of Christianity is that God is the architect in my little fable, and the “sighted storyteller” in yours. We all fight against that—I know I did. But eventually I gave in and admitted that God was God and that I wasn’t. God closed in on me. I suddenly felt as if I was Hamlet and had made the startling discovery that I was in a play by someone called Shakespeare, and that the Author wanted to meet me.’

By now we had reached the River Plum and were mounting the footpath to the main bridge across the river. Jack walked silently for some minutes and then said, ‘It was really quite an uncomfortable encounter when I realised I had to face God.’ Then after another pause he added, ‘But, of course, reality is often uncomfortable.’

From the bridge we walked up the high street, then turned into the narrow streets in the older part of town that led to the pub. We arrived at
The Boar’s Head
in time for lunch.

‘Welcome back from your morning walk, gentlemen,’ said Frank Jones with his professional publican’s heartiness. ‘Interesting morning?’

‘You could say that,’ Warnie chuckled. ‘But I’d call it a famishing morning. Lunch about?’

‘It’s a nice day, gentlemen,’ said the publican, ‘so why don’t you take a seat at a table out in the beer garden and I’ll bring it out to you?’

Five minutes later he arrived with a plate loaded with slices of cold roast beef, bread, pickles and a nice piece of cheddar. He also brought us three pints of bitter. For some minutes we were too busy concentrating on our welcome meal to talk much.

Then Warnie leaned back in his chair, took a sip from his pint, wiped the foam from his moustache and said, ‘Odd thing. One of the detective novels I brought with me—been reading it at night in bed—is called
It Walks by Night
by a chappie named John Dickson Carr. Reminds me a bit of our mystery—our “body in the basement of the bank”, as those detective writer chappies would call it.’

He took another sip of his beer and continued, ‘Anyway, in this book a chap is beheaded, in a closed room, when he’s on his own, with the doors under observation and the window forty feet off the ground. Jolly puzzling. Just like our bank chappie. And there’s this suspected villain who claims he has the powers of a werewolf. Rather like the ghost in our bank cellar, I thought.’

‘And so,’ said Jack with a grin, ‘how did it all work out at the end of the book? Supernatural powers? Or deadly human ingenuity?’

‘Well, I haven’t actually got to the end yet,’ Warnie mumbled into his beer. ‘Let you know when I do.’

Just then Constable Dixon advanced across the lawn towards us.

‘You look much better than the last time we saw you,’ I said. ‘Much less like a drowned fish and much more like a policeman.’

‘Well, I did have to change into a fresh uniform, sir,’ he muttered, then he drew himself to his full height and said, ‘I have been sent to fetch you. Inspector Crispin from Scotland Yard is waiting for you at the bank.’

On the front door of the bank the now slightly tattered cardboard notice was flapping in the wind, still making its announcement to the citizens of Market Plumpton: ‘Closed until further notice.’ Dixon had a key. He let us in and relatched the door behind us.

When we went from the entrance lobby into the bank office, we discovered a group already gathered and apparently waiting for us.

Inspector Crispin came forward, saying, ‘Thank you for coming. Now everyone is here and we can begin.’

I looked around and saw Sergeant Merrivale looming quietly in the background and Constable Dixon guarding the front door. Seated at one of the desks, looking red-eyed and miserable, was Ruth Jarvis, the bank’s clerical officer we’d met the day before. Standing side by side were the manager, Edmund Ravenswood, and an unfamiliar woman. As Inspector Crispin went around making the introductions, we discovered that she was Edith Ravenswood, the manager’s wife. She was also the sister of the dead man, Franklin Grimm.

‘In a moment,’ said Crispin, ‘I’ll try, with your help, to reconstruct a timetable of the events of yesterday. But before I do, we should consider the possibility that Franklin Grimm committed suicide. The absence of any sort of weapon would then be the puzzle we’d need to solve. So, psychologically, is it possible that Franklin Grimm killed himself?’

Put bluntly like this, the idea provoked a sob of anguish and another wave of silent tears from Ruth Jarvis.

‘Mr Ravenswood, let’s begin with you,’ Crispin continued. ‘Did you see any signs of depression or anxiety or stress in Mr Grimm at all?’

‘No, you’re way off beam there, inspector,’ growled Ravenswood firmly. ‘He was a cocky young chap, was Grimm. Full of himself and his own importance and his plans for making money. I never saw him in a dark mood, not once. Never a moment of self-doubt. If anything, far too full of himself.’

‘Sounds as though you didn’t like him very much,’ the Scotland Yard inspector responded.

‘He did his job, that’s all I care about. Given my preference I might have hired a quieter chap. But Edith wanted me to give him a job, so I did—as a favour to her. And, as I say, he was efficient enough.’

‘Yes, he was your brother, wasn’t he, Mrs Ravenswood?’

Edith Ravenswood was dry eyed, but she was pale and clearly shaken by what had happened. In response to the inspector’s question, she only nodded.

‘Younger than you, or older?’

‘Three years younger.’

‘Why did you ask your husband to give him a job here in the bank?’

‘He was too good for farm work,’ she said quietly. ‘Too clever. Too ambitious. And he always did well at school. I was sure he’d suit the bank, and it would get him into a professional job.’

‘Was he happy here?’ I was surprised by Inspector Crispin’s question—it was one that would never have occurred to me.

‘Happy enough,’ Edith Ravenswood replied cautiously. ‘He would have left sooner or later. Very ambitious, as I said.’

‘So what about the possibility of his taking his own life?’

‘Never.’ She was very certain about that. ‘Franklin was full of . . . hope. Yes, hope and confidence about his future. It would have been completely out of character for Franklin to commit suicide.’

‘Miss Jarvis, I understand Mr Grimm was your friend as well as your colleague here at the bank, is that correct?’ The inspector’s question seemed to catch Ruth Jarvis by surprise.

‘Well . . . we went out together.’

‘Nothing more than that? I’m told that over the past few months you and Mr Grimm were almost constant companions.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘So how serious was this relationship? Had he proposed to you?’

‘No,’ she replied quickly. ‘Franklin wasn’t interested in marriage. Not just yet, anyway.’

‘And you were?’

There was a long silence. The clock on the bank wall ticked loudly and every eye was fixed on Ruth Jarvis. Finally she nodded, then buried her head in her hands.

Inspector Crispin pulled up a chair, sat down beside her and said, in a quiet, comforting voice, ‘Come along, Miss Jarvis. Whatever the truth is will come out sooner or later. You might as well tell me now.’

When she didn’t respond immediately, he added softly, ‘And it might help us to catch Mr Grimm’s killer.’

There was another even longer silence, then finally she said, in a voice so small it was almost a whisper, ‘I’m going to have his baby.’ With these words she broke down again and shook with silent sobs, her face in her hands.

‘Mrs Ravenswood,’ said Crispin, ‘would you be so kind as to fetch a glass of water for Miss Jarvis please?’

‘She needs something stronger than that,’ snorted Edmund Ravenswood. ‘This young woman needs a brandy.’

‘Water will do for the moment,’ the policeman insisted. ‘Mrs Ravenswood?’

The manager’s wife bustled away and returned a few moments later with a glass of water that she handed to Ruth Jarvis, who accepted it with trembling fingers. She sipped the water and started to settle down and pull herself together.

‘Feeling a little better?’ asked Crispin gently.

Ruth Jarvis nodded.

‘Did Mr Grimm know you’re pregnant?’

Again she nodded.

‘Did he suggest—or did you suggest for that matter—that he should marry you?’

Slowly and haltingly she explained that when he said nothing about marriage, after learning of the pregnancy, she raised the topic. But he was firmly against it. He hinted that she should get rid of the baby while it was still early in the pregnancy. When she insisted that she could never do that—she would have the child—he said he would ‘do the right thing’.

‘And what did he mean by that?’ Crispin asked.

‘He talked about money,’ sniffed Ruth, dabbing her eyes with a soaking wet handkerchief. ‘He said he’d pay for the baby’s support.’

‘A very difficult time for you,’ Crispin said sympathetically. ‘Now, let me bring you back to the question I need answered: could Franklin Grimm have committed suicide.’

‘Never,’ replied Ruth firmly. ‘He kept telling me that he had big plans, and he wouldn’t be staying in Market Plumpton for the rest of his life.’

‘Did he tell you what those plans were?’

‘No.’

‘Or hint?’

‘No.’

Inspector Crispin stood up and paced thoughtfully around the office. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘if the consensus is that suicide is so very unlikely—and Mr Grimm certainly never left a suicide note—we must consider murder.’ He turned to face us and said, ‘Gentlemen, what time did you arrive at the bank yesterday morning?’

‘Shortly after ten o’clock,’ said Jack. ‘Perhaps a quarter past—no later.’

‘And what happened then—exactly?’

‘Exactly? Well, Morris and my brother stood in the customer area while I approached the teller’s cage and asked the teller—’

‘Mr Grimm?’

‘As you say, Mr Grimm—asked him to make a cash withdrawal from my savings account passbook. He asked for identification. Having none, I suggested the manager, Mr Ravenswood here, might be able to identify me. Miss Jarvis told us that Mr Ravenswood was in the basement, and Mr Grimm opened the flap in the counter and invited me to follow him.’