C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) by Kel Richards

In fact, her reluctance seemed to suggest that she feels she has something to hide—either concerning herself or her husband—that she doesn’t want the wider world to know.’
    ‘Ah, yes,’ Dixon nodded sagely, ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir. If you don’t mind my mentioning this to the officers from Scotland Yard?’
    ‘Tell them whatever you wish, constable,’ Jack replied. ‘We just want this matter dealt with as swiftly as possible so we can be on our way. When are the experts from the Yard due to arrive?’
    ‘They should be in Market Plumpton by now, sir. They were due on the morning train.’
    Then he asked us why we had taken such a long road out to the Proudfoot farm. Warnie explained that we were following a sketch map provided by the publican, Frank Jones, adding, ‘And we . . . humph . . . found the map a little . . . a little . . . ’
    ‘A little vague and imprecise,’ I said. ‘In short, we may have got just a little bit lost for a moment there.’ As I spoke I dug into my coat pocket and pulled out Frank Jones’s map. When I handed this over to Dixon, he found himself wrestling with its meaning as much as we had done. He turned it upside down and sideways.
    ‘It’s just a lot of squiggles,’ said the constable, nodding as if now understanding something that had baffled him. ‘I’m not surprised you had difficulty finding the right road.’
    The stream curved around a bend ahead of us, and as we rounded the curve we saw a bridge crossing the water—an old stone bridge. Drawing closer we saw that it connected two other cart tracks on either side of the stream, and standing on one side of the bridge was a pony trap. The pony in the harness was calming chewing on the thick grass on the river bank, but of the owner or driver of the cart there was no sign.
    ‘I recognise that,’ said Constable Dixon. ‘That’s Nick Proudfoot’s pony trap. Now why would he leave it standing here and walk off? And where’s he gone to?’
    We all four walked out to the centre of the old stone bridge, with the policeman swivelling his head in all directions looking for the missing man.
    ‘He can’t be far away,’ said the constable. ‘He hasn’t tied up the horse or anything. The pony might just wander off, taking the cart with him once he’s finished his feed. Why would anyone do that?’
    We followed the policeman’s example, turning around and scouring the landscape with our eyes. For several minutes the only sound was the roaring rush of the fast-flowing stream beneath the bridge. This was yet another puzzle to add to the growing list of puzzles that Market Plumpton was presenting us with.
    ‘I wonder if that’s your answer,’ said Jack at last, pointing to a dark shape in the water at the next bend in the stream. It was being bounced by the strong currents but appeared to be caught in a tangle of tree roots.
    Warnie was the first to move. He crossed the bridge and pushed through the thick undergrowth on the opposite bank towards the dark shape in the water. The rest of us followed as quickly as we could.
    ‘It’s a body,’ Warnie called out from ahead of us. He clambered down the bank, balanced precariously on two large, round stones and grabbed hold of the figure’s arms. Then he backed up the bank, pulling the body with him as he came. He dropped it in the long grass and turned it over. We hurried to his side.
    The face had been battered and bruised against the stones on the bed of the stream, so the man’s identity was not immediately obvious to us. But it was to Constable Dixon. ‘It’s Nick Proudfoot,’ he gasped.
    As soon as he said the name I recognised the man who had burst into the bank the day before. The face looked quite different—behind the scratches and bruises it had the calm of death—but it was the same face.
    ‘Well . . . well . . . ’ puffed the policeman, looking around anxiously as he tried to work out what to do next. ‘Well . . . this is a turn up for the