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

of a lass that was.’
    As I watched the almost circular figure of Mrs Buckingham bustling around the kitchen I found it impossible to imagine her as a ‘mere slip of a lass’. It was like trying to picture Mount Everest as a slight bulge in the front yard.
    ‘It stood empty for many years, then this heathen chappie turned up with the body of Master Edmund, and it seems he didn’t want to go straight back home. Well, I dare say England is much more comfortable than some jungle. Anyway, they let him have the old gamekeeper’s cottage.’
    ‘When was this?’
    ‘Two years ago it would have to be. Maybe a bit more than that. Anyway, this dark gentleman from the jungle come up to the house when he first arrived to stock up on things—cutlery and crockery and linen and the like. And some bits of furniture too. Well, the place had been empty a long time,’
    ‘Does he have a name, this Amazonian native?’
    ‘Lady Pamela called him Drax. It seems like these heathens only have one name. Just Drax and nothing more. Or so I were told.’
    I asked Mrs Buckingham as many questions as I could think of, but it seemed she had told me all she knew. I thanked her for the supper and went up to bed in a very thoughtful frame of mind.
    The next morning I was at my desk in the library when Keggs suddenly appeared, having apparently materialised in the silent and efficient way only butlers can, and presented me with an envelope.
    ‘This came in the morning post, sir,’ he said. Then he turned and floated away in the same frictionless way in which he arrived. The letter was postmarked London. It was from the auction house I had approached for expert advice. They had authenticated the Shakespeare quarto from the photographs I had sent, and submitted a tentative appraisal.
    I hurried up to Sir William’s office on the first floor and broke the good news of the prize find that had turned up in a dusty corner of his library. He was delighted and shook my hand as if I were some long lost uncle from whom he expected to inherit a small fortune. And, in effect, he just had—given the value of the quarto. However, he made it clear that he had no intention of putting the rare book on the market, but instead he wanted me to find a way to display it in the library.
    Sir William insisted we have a brandy to celebrate. Although the sun was not yet over the yardarm, I accepted the offer, knowing how good Sir William’s cellar was. He rang for Keggs and in due course two brandies in snifters were delivered. So there we were: drinking French brandy, in a very English oak-panelled study, with South American memorabilia on the walls. In the past I had taken those items of decoration to be merely an assortment of eccentric collectables chosen by Sir William, but I now realised that the arrows, blowpipes, spears and the rest must have some connection with the late Edmund.
    I asked Sir William if the collection on his walls came from his late brother-in-law and he coughed and spluttered into his brandy.
    ‘Oh, so you’ve heard about Edmund, have you?’ he said when he’d recovered. ‘We do try not to mention him for poor Pamela’s sake. She misses him dreadfully, the poor dear.’
    He took another sip to show the Napoleon the respect it deserved.
    ‘Look here,’ he said, with an anxious expression on his face, ‘I don’t know who mentioned Edmund to you, but it shouldn’t have happened. And now that you’ve heard I trust that you’ll be sensitive and not mention it in Pamela’s hearing. Not ever.’
    After assuring him I would be vigilant in the matter, I finished my brandy and left, not for the library but for the village—having put in a few moments of effort in my salaried position I wanted to return to my main employment for the moment: keeping Tom Morris out of the hands of the law on a charge of murder.
    I found Jack at
The Cricketers’ Arms
in Plumwood, sitting in the parlour doodling in a notebook. Although when I glanced over his