C S Lewis and the Country House Murders (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 2) by Kel Richards Page A
Authors: Kel Richards
Tags: Fiction
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grunted loudly, ‘Just me. Just me.’
Then the door closed swiftly and firmly in our face, and we heard all those bolts being slid back into place.
SEVENTEEN
Getting back to Plumwood turned out to be tiresome but fairly straightforward after that. Unseen in the background, Fate was quietly ticking off all the unpleasant surprises as having been delivered on cue and was now leaving us to our own devices. The clouds broke up a little further, scattering moonlight and starlight on the landscape, and we were able to make a straight track across the fields in the direction the stranger had indicated.
Sure enough, he had put us on the right path, and we soon came to the hedge that bordered the road. We searched until we found a small gap in this and pushed our way through onto a familiar narrow country road.
As we walked back to the village—and a long, winding walk it was, for my uncanny sense of misdirection had taken us further away from Plumwood—we discussed the mystery of the isolated cottage and its strange inhabitant.
‘Clearly he’s a foreigner,’ said Jack, ‘a native from some remote place judging by those strange tattoos on his face. However, I claim no expertise in such matters.’
Then we talked about what such an exotic character might be doing in an isolated cottage on our moors. Finding him in this very English rural landscape was as disconcerting as discovering an opium den in a Women’s Institute meeting hall. The man, colourful though he was, simply did not fit with the damp, dull English countryside.
We also talked about who else might have been in the cottage with him—for we had the impression there might have been someone else inside, someone who had cried out as we approached.
We concluded by tossing around theories and possibilities, with me suggesting that I raise the matter with the Dyer family at Plumwood Hall. Perhaps they knew of the cottage, or who owned it.
We parted at the gates to the Hall, Jack going on to the village, and supper and a comfortable bed at the pub, while I walked up the winding drive to the Hall. I had, I discovered, missed dinner, but Mrs Buckingham, who couldn’t stand to see anyone go hungry, served me some steak and kidney pie in the kitchen. She warmed the pie first in the oven, and chatted to me cheerfully as she waddled around, laying out the things she would need for breakfast next morning.
I responded to her cheerful chatter by telling her the story of our adventures on the moors. I left out our encounter with Douglas and the bookmaker’s tough as I wanted to give that episode a great deal more thought. But I talked about the rain storm, about getting lost and about the hidden cottage we came across with its strange inhabitant.
‘Oh, I know who that is, sir,’ said she. ‘He made my blood run cold when he come up to the Hall when he first arrived.’
‘Arrived from where?’
‘South America, sir. They told me he come from the Amazon jungle, sir. He was the one that brought the body of Lady Pamela’s brother back home. A surprisingly kind thing for him to do, I thought—him being a heathen and all.’
‘This is Edmund, I take it?’ She nodded. ‘I’ve only just recently been learning about him. I’ve been here for the better part of a year, and I’ve not heard him mentioned very often before.’
‘Well, it were made clear to us, sir, that Lady Pamela was so upset about her brother dying—so young, and in such a faraway place—that we were never to mention it. And, of course, the family do the same.’
At this point the steak and kidney pie was placed in front of me, and I set to work demolishing it with a knife and fork.
‘So this chap in the cottage,’ I mumbled through mouthfuls, ‘why is he still here in England? And why is he living in a cottage on the moors?’
‘Well, that cottage belongs to the Plumwood estate. Years ago Lord Bosham had a gamekeeper living there—when I first come to work at the Hall, as a mere slip
Then the door closed swiftly and firmly in our face, and we heard all those bolts being slid back into place.
SEVENTEEN
Getting back to Plumwood turned out to be tiresome but fairly straightforward after that. Unseen in the background, Fate was quietly ticking off all the unpleasant surprises as having been delivered on cue and was now leaving us to our own devices. The clouds broke up a little further, scattering moonlight and starlight on the landscape, and we were able to make a straight track across the fields in the direction the stranger had indicated.
Sure enough, he had put us on the right path, and we soon came to the hedge that bordered the road. We searched until we found a small gap in this and pushed our way through onto a familiar narrow country road.
As we walked back to the village—and a long, winding walk it was, for my uncanny sense of misdirection had taken us further away from Plumwood—we discussed the mystery of the isolated cottage and its strange inhabitant.
‘Clearly he’s a foreigner,’ said Jack, ‘a native from some remote place judging by those strange tattoos on his face. However, I claim no expertise in such matters.’
Then we talked about what such an exotic character might be doing in an isolated cottage on our moors. Finding him in this very English rural landscape was as disconcerting as discovering an opium den in a Women’s Institute meeting hall. The man, colourful though he was, simply did not fit with the damp, dull English countryside.
We also talked about who else might have been in the cottage with him—for we had the impression there might have been someone else inside, someone who had cried out as we approached.
We concluded by tossing around theories and possibilities, with me suggesting that I raise the matter with the Dyer family at Plumwood Hall. Perhaps they knew of the cottage, or who owned it.
We parted at the gates to the Hall, Jack going on to the village, and supper and a comfortable bed at the pub, while I walked up the winding drive to the Hall. I had, I discovered, missed dinner, but Mrs Buckingham, who couldn’t stand to see anyone go hungry, served me some steak and kidney pie in the kitchen. She warmed the pie first in the oven, and chatted to me cheerfully as she waddled around, laying out the things she would need for breakfast next morning.
I responded to her cheerful chatter by telling her the story of our adventures on the moors. I left out our encounter with Douglas and the bookmaker’s tough as I wanted to give that episode a great deal more thought. But I talked about the rain storm, about getting lost and about the hidden cottage we came across with its strange inhabitant.
‘Oh, I know who that is, sir,’ said she. ‘He made my blood run cold when he come up to the Hall when he first arrived.’
‘Arrived from where?’
‘South America, sir. They told me he come from the Amazon jungle, sir. He was the one that brought the body of Lady Pamela’s brother back home. A surprisingly kind thing for him to do, I thought—him being a heathen and all.’
‘This is Edmund, I take it?’ She nodded. ‘I’ve only just recently been learning about him. I’ve been here for the better part of a year, and I’ve not heard him mentioned very often before.’
‘Well, it were made clear to us, sir, that Lady Pamela was so upset about her brother dying—so young, and in such a faraway place—that we were never to mention it. And, of course, the family do the same.’
At this point the steak and kidney pie was placed in front of me, and I set to work demolishing it with a knife and fork.
‘So this chap in the cottage,’ I mumbled through mouthfuls, ‘why is he still here in England? And why is he living in a cottage on the moors?’
‘Well, that cottage belongs to the Plumwood estate. Years ago Lord Bosham had a gamekeeper living there—when I first come to work at the Hall, as a mere slip
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