C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) (27 page)

‘Let me give you another verbatim quote,’ said Jack. ‘This one comes from Saint Peter, the fisherman who followed Jesus from the beginning and knew him well. He said, “Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God.” ’

Jack paused to let this sink in, then resumed, ‘This road we’re on leads back to Market Plumpton. We know where it goes. I venture to suggest that it’s the only road leading from where we are right now into the town we want to get to. There is such a thing as the right road to be on.’

‘And we’d better hurry along this one before the rain catches us,’ said Warnie.

As we stepped up our walking pace, Jack continued, ‘It was once said that all roads lead to Rome. But all roads don’t lead back to God. Every road back to God is blocked by human imperfections, by human failures and failings. The only way through, the only road that is open to us, is the way that Jesus cleared the blockages away from by dying. His death opened up that one way back to God. All the roads may lead up the mountainside, but only one of them gets to the top. Jesus is what he claimed to be: the only way back to God.’

The first few spots of rain began to fall, so we pulled on our coats and increased our pace still further.

‘So there you are, young Morris,’ Jack concluded. ‘I’ve talked for a long time, and I’m keen to hear what you have to say. To borrow an image from Jesus: would you prefer to follow the crowds heading down the broad road, or follow Jesus down the narrow way? Can you look at Jesus and reject him?’

The spots of rain were getting heavier, so I turned up the collar of my mac as I replied, ‘No, I can’t reject Jesus out of hand. I’ll have to think about it. You’ve given me much to mull over.’

‘Come along, you two,’ bellowed Warnie, ‘this is turning into a real downpour. We need to get a move on.’

We almost ran the last few yards until we reach the Market Plumpton town square and took shelter under a shop awning.

We had to wait for the rain to ease before we could make our way back to
The Boar’s Head
. For a while it teemed down by the bucket load, and water tumbled in streams over the edge of the shop awning protecting us. But after ten minutes the heavy rain stopped just as abruptly as it had started, so we left our shelter and headed for the pub.

Walking across the town square, Warnie pointed up at the sky and grunted with surprise: the clouds were starting to drift apart and gleams of golden sunlight were breaking through, lighting up the wet world around us and making it shine as if it had recently been spray painted with lacquer, perhaps by a careless painter with excess supplies left over from a recent job.

As we approached the pub we saw Inspector Crispin emerge from the front door and hurry up the street in the direction of the police station. He looked like a man on a mission, and he strode rapidly away before we could get near enough to ask him what could possibly be of such urgent concern.

We carefully wiped our muddy boots on the mud scraper outside the pub, then pushed open the front door and took off our coats.

Frank Jones was behind the bar so Warnie asked him, ‘What was our Scotland Yard friend after? Was he looking for us again?’

‘Not this time,’ replied the publican without looking up from his task of wiping glasses. ‘He was asking about Mr Ravenswood from the bank. Apparently that’s who he’s looking for. He wanted to know if he’d been in again.’

‘And had he?’ asked Jack. ‘Have you seen Ravenswood today?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ replied Jones. ‘The inspector only just missed him. Mr Ravenswood was in here asking about his wife again—had I seen her? That kind of thing.’

‘Was he as angry as the last time we saw him?’ I asked.

‘Not at all. Quite different this time. More worried than angry I’d say. And when I told him his wife wasn’t here and we hadn’t seen her, he asked for the address of Ruth Jarvis’s mother. Apparently he also wants to find Ruth. Perhaps they’re about to let him reopen the bank and he needs her back at work.’

‘And did you tell him the address of the girl’s mother?’ asked Jack, an anxious look clouding his face.

‘I didn’t, but my wife did.’

‘How did Ravenswood react?’

‘He rushed out. And two minutes later your police inspector friend arrived.’

Jack turned to Warnie and me and said in a quiet, intense voice, ‘That stupid girl. If she’s done what I think she’s done—’ He paused and then said, ‘No, that’s not fair. She’s not stupid; she was just trying to help a friend. But they’re both in deadly danger. Come along, you two: we have to get there as quickly as we can. Morris, you know the way—you take the lead.’

Urged on by the concern and urgency in Jack’s voice, I grabbed my mac from the hook by the door where I’d left it and hurried out into the street. Jack and Warnie were close behind me as I half walked, half ran towards the river.

I heard Warnie ask, ‘You said they’re both in danger. Who’s the “both”? Who’s the other person beside Ruth Jarvis?’

Breathlessly Jack replied, ‘Young Morris was right when he thought there was someone else staying in the house with Ruth Jarvis—someone other than her old mother, that is. The person who listened to his conversation from behind a half-closed door was Edith Ravenswood.’

‘So that’s where she’s been hiding out all this time?’ I puffed over my shoulder. ‘And why would either of them—or both of them—be in danger?’

‘Less talk and more action, Morris. We need to get there quickly,’ said Jack.

Soon we were on the towpath and trotting rapidly in the direction of the white-washed thatched cottage that sat right on the water’s edge.

We arrived out of breath and I knocked at the front door. It seemed an eternity before the door was opened and an old lady with a face as crumpled as a crab apple was standing there looking up at me.

‘Mrs Jarvis?’ I puffed, still trying to catch my breath.

She nodded.

‘Is Ruth here?’ I asked. Jack stepped onto the doormat beside me and added, ‘Ruth and her friend?’

‘No, they’re not here, dearie. When the rain stopped, the two of them went out for a walk together. Well, they’ve been stuck indoors for such a long time they needed a breath of fresh air I expect.’

‘Which way?’ Jack asked.

She nodded with her head as she said, ‘That way. Down the towpath.’

We didn’t stand on ceremony but hurried off in the direction she’d indicated.

‘I just hope we’re not too late,’ grunted Jack.

We ran in silence for the next few minutes following the narrow towpath, with the rushing water of the rain-filled Plum River on one side and dripping wet bushes on the other. I had no idea what danger Jack was dreading, but I’d known him long enough to trust his judgement.

After a few breathless minutes we rounded a bend and saw in the distance, two hundred yards ahead of us, a strange spectacle. Edmund Ravenswood was standing on the towpath barring Ruth Jarvis’s way. They seemed to be arguing—at least Ravenswood was waving his arms around angrily. Ruth Jarvis was standing her ground and refusing whatever he was demanding.

Then Ravenswood snapped. He grabbed Ruth Jarvis by the throat and started to choke her. Her knees crumpled under the pressure of his strong hands around her neck.

‘Hey! Hey!’ I yelled. ‘Stop! Stop, I say!’ Ravenswood appeared not to hear me. I broke into a sprint and ran towards him as fast as I could. As I took off, another figure appeared out of the bushes beside the towpath. It was Edith Ravenswood. She grabbed her husband’s arm and tried to pull him away from the girl he was strangling. He turned and struck her a powerful blow across the side of the head. She fell to the path, apparently unconscious.

Ruth Jarvis had sagged into a collapsed heap when Ravenswood had released his grip on her. I was now close enough to make myself heard.

‘Stand back!’ I yelled angrily. ‘Get away from those women!’

Ravenswood looked up, surprised to discover he was no longer alone. But he didn’t turn and flee. Instead, his face flushed with blood, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a revolver—and pointed it at me.

I threw on the brakes and stopped suddenly in my tracks. But by now I was only a few yards from him, and Jack and Warnie had caught up with me.

‘Don’t be stupid, Ravenswood,’ I said, gasping for breath. ‘There are three of us to one of you.’

‘But I’m the one with the gun,’ he growled.

‘I recognise the weapon,’ said Warnie quietly over my shoulder in a breathless wheeze. ‘Military issue Webley. Must be a souvenir from the war. They do a lot of damage those things. Be careful, young fellow.’

He added those last words because I had started to inch forward towards Ravenswood.

‘That’s close enough,’ snapped Ravenswood, raising the revolver to point at my head.

‘It’s a Mark IV,’ gasped Warnie in a hushed voice, ‘a .38 calibre. I wouldn’t take him on if I were you, old chap.’

At that moment Ruth Jarvis started to stir and Ravenswood lowered his gun to point it at her. At the same moment he cocked the hammer of the revolver. I seized the chance and lunged forward. Just as quickly Ravenswood raised the gun and fired off a shot that whistled past me. But I had lowered my shoulder into a rugby tackle, and I struck him hard a fraction of a second later.

Then we were on the ground struggling. The revolver had fallen from his fingers and he was scrabbling to reach it while I was trying to pin him down. In a moment I had Warnie on one side and Jack on the other. Jack clamped a firm boot on Ravenswood’s shoulder while Warnie stooped and picked up the gun. He carefully released the cocked hammer and put the weapon in his pocket.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ came a shouted voice from somewhere just ahead of us. ‘We can take it from here.’

I looked up to see Inspector Crispin and Sergeant Merrivale approaching at a run. Soon the burly Merrivale had pulled Ravenswood to his feet and clapped handcuffs on him.

This done, Inspector Crispin, who was still catching his breath, said, ‘Edmund Ravenswood, I arrest you for the murders of Franklin Grimm and Nicholas Proudfoot, and for the attempted murders of Tom Morris . . . and Ruth Jarvis . . . and probably everyone else here at the moment too.’

Then Crispin turned to Warnie and said, ‘And I think I’d better take charge of that gun, sir.’

‘Huh? Oh, yes, of course. Much better in your hands,’ mumbled Warnie, handing over the weapon.

‘How are the two women?’ asked Jack. But as he spoke he was finding the answer to his own question. He was down on one knee looking at the red marks on the throat of the dazed Ruth Jarvis, then turning to look at Edith Ravenswood beside him, who was groaning and slowly returning to consciousness.

‘Why don’t we take these two women back to the cottage,’ Jack said to Crispin, ‘and call for Dr Haydock to take a look at them?’

‘That would be for the best, Mr Lewis,’ the Scotland Yard man replied. ‘If you don’t mind looking after that while we take this specimen back to a cell at the police station. Oh, and I’d ask Dr Haydock to take a look at your young friend too.’

Puzzled by this remark, I looked down to the place where the inspector was pointing and saw there was blood on my sleeve, just below the shoulder.

‘I don’t feel anything,’ I said. ‘It can’t be serious.’

‘But you must have it looked at, old chap,’ said Warnie as he and I helped Mrs Ravenswood to her feet. She was very unsteady, so we walked on either side of her while Jack helped the badly shaken Ruth Jarvis.

We were a slow procession and it took us a while to get back to their cottage. Once there, old Mrs Jarvis fussed over the two girls while Jack used the telephone and asked the exchange to connect him with Dr Haydock.

Fifteen minutes later the young women were both much recovered and were sipping the hot tea that Ruth’s mother insisted we all needed. And she was quite right. I have never felt the benefit of a cup of hot, sweet tea as much as I felt the benefit of that cup at that moment.

I had taken off my coat and Warnie had expertly tied a clean handkerchief around my wound. After Dr Haydock had taken care of the two girls, he examined it, pronounced it superficial, cleaned it with antiseptic and bandaged it properly.

‘How are the two young women?’ Jack asked.

‘Suffering from shock more than anything else,’ said the doctor. ‘Ruth’s throat will be sore for a day or two, but there seems to be no serious damage. Edith will have a massive bruise for a while, but nothing’s been broken. What I prescribe for both of them is bed rest, and time for their shattered nerves to recover. I’ll leave a sleeping draft with Mrs Jarvis to ensure both girls get a good night’s sleep.’

We left the doctor and the old lady fussing over the young women and made our way slowly back to
The Boar’s Head
.

‘Well,’ said Warnie over and over again, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Well, well, who would have thought? The local bank manager, a homicidal maniac.’

‘There was no mania in what he did, old chap,’ said Jack. ‘It was all very calculated and coldly planned. As his plans came unstuck, he obviously lost his grip and began to panic. But from the beginning it was very cold blooded.’