C S Lewis and the Country House Murders (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 2) by Kel Richards

might have been, judging from the ground beneath our feet and the faint breeze we could now feel, the top of a ridge.
    ‘Down there,’ said Jack, once we had caught our breath. ‘Below us and a little to our left, behind those trees—is that a light from a window?’
    ‘I believe you’re right, Jack. Come on, let’s head straight towards it.’
    So we did. Keeping that dim light from a curtained window in view meant climbing over another low stone wall, clambering down a steep grassy slope and pushing through occasional bushes and brambles, but we kept on track.
    As we drew closer, the clouds parted a little and at least half of the moon appeared. The dim light was enough for our dark-adapted eyes to make out the shape of a small cottage looming ahead of us in the darkness. We hurried in that direction.
    ‘That’s too small to be a farmhouse,’ I puffed. ‘I had no idea there was an isolated cottage out here on the moors.’
    ‘Since we have no idea where “here” is, your ignorance of its existence is hardly surprising,’ suggested my companion. ‘Besides which we seem to be at the bottom of a deep, narrow fold in the hills—this place is probably invisible from anywhere up on the moorlands, even in broad daylight.’
    A low picket fence surrounded the cottage. We found the gate and swung it open. As we did so, sounds could be heard from inside. There were low voices and the sound of people moving. Then came an anguished cry followed by a heavy crash and a thump. Jack ran ahead of me up the path and knocked vigorously on the cottage door.
    The sounds within ceased. Jack knocked again, but silence was the only response. As he knocked a third time, I began to grope my way around the rough stone walls of the cottage. I got to the curtained window we had seen from the ridge top, but the curtains were drawn to the very edges of the sash. There was no gap giving me a glimpse of the room within, only the dim glow seeping through the curtain fabric. I continued my circumnavigation but found no other sign of light, and no other entry point.
    I rejoined Jack at the front door as he knocked yet again. The silence inside the cottage was now total.
    ‘Hello,’ Jack called. ‘Is there anyone in there? We’re lost on the moors—we want some directions.’
    Faintly the silence was broken by shuffling sounds from inside the small cottage.
    ‘I think someone’s coming to the door,’ I whispered, although why I whispered I don’t know—we were not trying to hide our presence. Perhaps it was the heavy air of mystery that hung over the dark cottage that made me lower my voice.
    Then came the sound of not one but several bolts being slid back, and the door creaked open a few inches. The face that confronted us was startling: it was a heavy, masculine face, as brown as walnut, with deep-set eyes and strange tattoos on the forehead and both cheeks. It was surrounded by long black hair hanging almost to the shoulders.
    ‘Sorry to bother you, old chap,’ said Jack in his hearty, confident way, ‘but we’ve managed to get ourselves thoroughly lost. We’re looking for the road that will take us back to Plumwood village. You can’t help at all, I suppose?’
    A suspicious look passed over that exotic face, then the man swung the door open a few more inches and leaned out. He pointed with a gnarled and knuckly brown hand in the direction of one corner of the cottage.
    ‘That way,’ he almost grunted. ‘Straight. You go straight.’
    ‘Is it far to the road?’ I asked.
    ‘Ten minutes,’ said the stranger, ‘no more. You go straight.’
    ‘If you don’t mind my mentioning it,’ said Jack, ‘we did hear a cry and a fall as we approached your cottage. Is your friend inside all right?’
    ‘No one here,’ said the man, with a note of alarm in his voice. He stepped back and began to ease the door closed. ‘No one here.’
    ‘Are you quite sure . . .’ Jack began.
    The stranger thumped himself on the chest and