C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) (15 page)

Warnie chuckled then went to fetch three pints of bitter from the bar.

Flummoxed and frustrated by all this talk of impossible murder, I decided to seize upon Warnie’s absence to throw the switch back to philosophy.

‘What you were saying earlier, Jack, about having an encounter with God . . . ’

‘Yes?’

‘You see, that’s the sort of claim I have great difficulty with. Imagine for a moment—and I don’t admit this—but imagine that God exists, that there’s a Mind behind the universe, a Big Brain that began it. Imagining that is true, why would such a Being be interested in us?’

Warnie returned and placed the three pints on the table between us. Then he sank back into an armchair and pulled a book out of his coat pocket. It was, I saw, the detective novel he’d mentioned to us:
It Walks by Night
. He was soon engrossed in his mystery.

‘The boot,’ said Jack, ‘is on the other foot. Why wouldn’t the Supreme Being be interested in us? What makes you think he wouldn’t be?’

I shook my head. ‘Come on, Jack—face reality. We live on one tiny planet in a vast universe which contains countless millions of stars and no one knows how many planets. And on this one small, obscure, remote planet we are just one species out of thousands. Surely it’s egomania of the worst sort to claim that any Supreme Being could possibly have any interest in us.’

‘Let me answer you with a little story, or fable, or parable.’ Jack stopped to light his pipe and then resumed, ‘You regaled me with the four blind men and the elephant story earlier, so let me try this one on you.’

He puffed in silence for a moment and then said, ‘The scene is a scientific research laboratory. Swimming around in fluid in some laboratory glassware are a number of bacteria. These bacteria have the power of thought and speech—well, I did warn you this is a fable—and they have a debate among themselves. These are microscopic bacteria and they are debating whether or not the vast creatures in white coats that loom over them have any interest in them. The negative case is that those creatures in white coats are so unbelievably huge (to tiny bacteria) and clearly so clever and so busy and so important that they could never be interested in anything so small, so tiny, so insignificant as a few bacteria swimming around in nutrient fluid.’

He puffed in silence for a moment, Warnie grunted and turned over a page of his book, and then Jack resumed, ‘The truth is that those bacteria are in a medical research laboratory looking for a cure to a serious disease. And the total attention of that whole laboratory is focused on those few bacteria. All the experimentation and activity, all the thought, all the planning—everything centres on those bacteria. It is all about them.’

‘The point being?’ I asked, wiping beer foam from my upper lip.

‘That size is no indicator of significance. A mountain is not more important than a baby just because the mountain is bigger than the baby. What’s important is important, regardless of how remote it is or how small it is.’

I thought about this for a moment and then said, ‘Well, I still can’t see why God would be interested in us. I still can’t understand why the Supreme Being of the entire universe should care about us insignificant little creatures.’

‘In saying that you are telling me something about Tom Morris, but nothing at all about God,’ Jack said with a cheerful grin. ‘You’re telling me that if you were that big, that powerful, that important you would take no interest in the small, the remote or the (seemingly) insignificant. But what on earth makes you imagine that God’s mind works like Tom Morris’s mind? If God is far above and beyond us, then his interests and concerns are far above and beyond what we can imagine.’

Jack finished the last of his beer and added, ‘It’s certainly staggering and beyond our grasp that God should care for us. But the intricate, interlocking design of the world, perfectly fitted to be inhabited by thinking, upright bipeds—by us—tells us that he does. Even more, the coming of Jesus tells us that he does. It’s certainly uncomfortable to feel that we’re under some sort of divine microscope, but I’m not interested in what’s comfortable—only what’s true.’

At that moment Annie Jones walked in wearing an apron and wiping her hands on a tea towel to announce that dinner was served. Five minutes later we were digging into a delicious steak and kidney pie.

‘Let’s hope this rain clears up,’ said Warnie as he swallowed a mouthful of pastry. ‘We need a fine day for our investigation. What’s on the agenda for tomorrow, Jack?’

Before his brother could reply, a large figure in a blue uniform loomed in the doorway.

‘I must say that steak and kidney pie looks delicious,’ said Constable Dixon.

‘Are you here to investigate the food?’ I asked.

‘Ah, no, sir. At least, not until I’m off duty. Inspector Crispin sent me to tell you that the inquest into the death of Franklin Grimm will be held tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock in the church hall—and to request you gentlemen to be in attendance as your testimony will almost certainly be required.’

Having delivered his message, and spent some more time admiring Annie Jones’s cooking, the constable left.

‘Well, that’s tomorrow afternoon taken care of,’ said Jack, pushing away his empty plate. ‘So I suggest we spend tomorrow morning tracking down Ted Proudfoot, the angry chap Amelia Proudfoot told us about—and then have another chat with Amelia herself. She might be more forthcoming on a second visit.’

The morning dawned bright and sunny with no sign of rain. After a breakfast of bacon and eggs and thick slices of hot buttered toast and marmalade, I was dispatched to purchase a map. I located what I wanted—a road map of the district—in a small shop on the high street that sold stationery amongst a wide and eclectic range of items.

The elderly proprietor found what I was looking for on a high shelf between a container of tooth powder and a jar of gentlemen’s relish. I took the map back to
The Boar’s Head
and, to avoid a repeat of the navigating fiasco of the day before, had our publican, Frank Jones, mark in pen on the map the route to the farm that Mrs Proudfoot had called ‘the Farnon place’.

After a second cup of tea, and a careful reconnoitre of the map by Warnie, the three of us set off. We were travelling in the opposite direction to the day before and soon found ourselves walking down a narrow lane with high hedges on both sides.

There was almost no traffic on this small back road. The road itself meandered back and forth, as if following a track first made by a wandering cow that had either a hangover or serious concussion.

We were passed by a horse-drawn wagon, rattling with empty milk cans on the back, and later by a farm worker on foot. He tugged his cap politely in our direction as he gave us a sullen scowl.

We reached our destination after some three-quarters of an hour of brisk walking. Entering through the farm gate we walked up the muddy driveway to the farmhouse that stood on a small rise. Flanking the house on one side was a machinery shed and on the other a row of stables.

We stopped a boy carrying a bucket towards the stables. Like many small boys who live on farms, he looked as if, after carefully washing and dressing in the morning, he had then rolled in mud and leaped into a hay bale. We asked this walking collection of soil samples if Mr Ted Proudfoot was about. He said nothing, but pointed towards the machinery shed, then resumed his errand.

We stood in the wide open doorway to the shed and looked around. It had only one occupant: a tall thin man with his back towards us.

‘Mr Ted Proudfoot?’ Jack said.

Without turning around the man growled in an unpleasant voice that seemed to be missing a tonsil, ‘Who wants to know?’

Jack didn’t reply, but waited in silence until curiosity got the better of the farm worker. When he finally turned around to squint at us, I saw that his dark face had the surly, sullen expression of a dyspeptic bulldog on a bad day—a bulldog that had just received bad news. And his voice suggested a bulldog that had tried to swallow a bone that had got stuck halfway down.

He put down the tools in his hands, straightened up from the unidentifiable piece of farm machinery he’d been tinkering with and walked towards us, wiping his hands on a piece of oily rag.

‘Well? Who are you three then?’ he growled. He looked no more likable up close than he had when observed across the distance of the shed.

‘My name is Lewis,’ Jack replied. ‘This is my brother, and our friend Mr Morris. Are you Mr Ted Proudfoot?’

‘What of it?’ He made it sound as if we were accusing him of being an anarchist bomb thrower, and he was going to wear the accusation as a proud badge.

‘We were in the bank this week when Mr Franklin Grimm died.’

‘Yeah, I heard about that.’ Then a slow smile spread across his face that somehow contrived to make him look even more sinister. ‘And some people say there’s no justice in the world.’

‘I gather you were not a friend of Mr Grimm?’ Jack asked.

‘Grimm had no friends—only enemies.’

When he stopped on this word, Jack prompted him, ‘Enemies? What sort of enemies?’

‘Two sorts: women he exploited and men he belittled. Other people were only there to serve the nasty, selfish ends of Frank Grimm.’ This explanation was followed by a chain of so many expletives that even I, who had just spent three years among the colourfully spoken undergraduates of Oxford University, did not recognise all of them. If a new edition of the English Dialect Dictionary was being planned, I would advise the editors to consult Mr Ted Proudfoot.

‘Anyone who hated him enough to kill him?’ Jack persisted.

‘Hundreds of them,’ replied Ted Proudfoot with a humourless laugh. ‘But why are you three asking? You’re not from the police, are you?’

‘Certainly not!’ said Warnie indignantly. ‘Rather the other way round, old chap. Because we were there at the time, the police rather suspect us of having something to do with it. Ridiculous I know, but there you are.’

The young farm worker took some time to process this information. His eyes glazed over and it was almost possible to hear the gearwheels turning inside his head. The effort of his cogitation suggested that some of those gearwheels were rusted and broken from lack of use. But they did eventually produce a result.

‘So you think you can get yourselves out from under by pointing the finger at someone else, is that it?’

‘Well, I suppose if you put it like that . . . ’ Warnie began, looking down at his boots and shuffling his feet.

‘We’re just trying to “assist the police in their inquiries”, I think is the expression,’ said Jack soothingly, ‘so that they’ll release us to be on our way.’

‘I’m not gonna help you,’ said Proudfoot with finality. ‘I hope whoever killed Grimm gets away with it forever. I hope he gets a medal. I hope the killer lives a long happy life. If you find out who it is, let me know and I’ll send him a pound note as a token my gratitude.’

‘But we’d all like to see justice done—’ I began. I got no further because at this point Ted Proudfoot stuck two greasy fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. He followed the whistle with a shout of ‘Lightning! Come here, boy!’

In response a large dog came bounding across the farm yard—an enormous black dog that ran to Proudfoot’s side and looked up at him as if waiting for the command to kill something. Its lip curled up exposing its razor sharp canines, and it began to salivate at the exciting prospect of having live prey to pursue.

Proudfoot stroked the dog’s head as he said to us, ‘You three’ll be leaving now.’ It was clearly not intended as a polite request. ‘And be sure to close the gate as you go,’ he added.

We went.

Standing in the lane in front of the farm gate Warnie grunted, ‘Didn’t accomplish much there, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘We saw the man. We formed some estimate of his character. And I for one believe him quite capable of murder.’

‘Suppose so,’ Warnie muttered. ‘Well, where to now?’

‘We pay a second visit to young Mrs Amelia Proudfoot, widow of the second murder victim,’ Jack said.

‘Are you so certain that Nicholas Proudfoot was murdered then?’ I asked.

‘Do you really have any doubts?’ Jack asked.

We walked back to the nearest crossroads and stopped while Warnie examined the map and then pointed us down a leafy laneway. The day was rapidly heating up. It looked like turning into one of those steamy days when butterflies look for a shady leaf to land on and let their wings droop. Out in the fields even the most energetic rabbit would lie down in the long grass, rest its chin on its front paws and decide to take it easy for the rest of the day.

But in the shade, out of the direct sunlight, it was a pleasant day for walking.

‘It’s supposed to be a walking holiday,’ I said cheerfully, ‘and at least we’re walking today.’

‘Only around in circles,’ Warnie grumbled. ‘Why are we going to see young Mrs Proudfoot again?’

Jack said that it was obvious that the day before she was not telling us everything she could. Perhaps today she would be calmer—more giving, more informative. She might, Jack suggested, have had time to think things through and have decided to tell us what she knew.