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

thoughtful, but at least twice he mumbled that the police—or Inspector Hyde, at least—must have evidence of my guilt that he so far hadn’t revealed.
    ‘Even Hyde,’ muttered Jack, ‘with the IQ of an elm tree, wouldn’t be so narrowly focussed on you unless he had something more than the opportunity you had to administer the poison from sitting next to Connie Worth. There must be something more.’
    We were still discussing what that might be when we drew level once more with
The Cricketers’ Arms
. As we did so, two figures disappeared around the side of the pub into the shadows.
    ‘Furtive activity,’ said Jack. ‘Worth investigating?’
    I nodded.
    We walked to the pub wall and then edged down it in single file, with me in the lead. At the end of the wall I cautiously peered around the corner into the pub’s backyard. This was bathed in dark shadows, and that crepuscular dimness was empty except for two figures—a young man and a young woman—entwined in each other’s arms in passionate embrace. The young woman was Stephanie Basset, known as Stiffy—and, interestingly, the other party was most certainly
not
Douglas Dyer, the young man she was, either officially or unofficially, engaged to.
    I edged back from the corner and gestured to Jack to take my place. He did so. When he returned to my side he whispered, ‘I recognise the young man. He’s a barman in Oxford at the Bird and Baby—the
Eagle and Child
.’
    ‘Our pub!’
    ‘As you say, our pub.’
    Now voices could be heard coming from the backyard. Jack and I ceased our whispered colloquy and listened.
    Stiffy was promising herself, in the most passionate language, to the young barman—‘even,’ she said, ‘when I’m married to Douglas. That won’t stop us seeing each other and doing whatever we like with each other.’ These last words were accompanied by a salacious giggle. ‘I’ll have Douglas for the money,’ she continued, ‘and you for the fun. And don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll get your share of whatever part of the Dyer millions I can get my hands on.’
    As Jack and I made our way, with quiet footsteps, to the front of the pub, Jack was shaking his head. ‘It’s sad, Morris, the damage that people inflict on themselves, on each other and on their relationships when they choose to plunge into immorality.’
    ‘You think she’s heading for unhappiness then?’
    ‘I think they all are. It will all end in tears.’
    ‘Do you know much about the barman?’ I asked.
    ‘Very little,’ said Jack, still shaking his head sadly at human folly. ‘His name is Evans, I believe. My impression is that he’s a bit of a local Lothario in Oxford. I doubt that he is any more faithful to her than she is to Douglas. Young people do seem to be able to get their lives into a tangled, unhappy mess.’
    ‘Could this be connected to the murder?’
    ‘Ah, that’s the question, young Morris. Once people have secrets they may well have a motive for murder. We must press on and find out more.’

ELEVEN

    The publican, Alfred Rose, emerged from the doorway of the pub, wiping his hands on his large white apron.
    On his face was a contented smile, like a bookmaker just after a race in which the favourite has run last. He said, ‘To tell you the truth, Mr Lewis, this murder is good for business.’
    Jack asked him in what way, and Rose replied, ‘Well, first I got your custom out of it, and now I get a telegram telling me to get rooms ready for two Scotland Yard men who are coming on the late afternoon train.’
    And that late afternoon train, it appeared, was due to arrive in around ten minutes.
    ‘We shall meet it then!’ cried Jack heartily. ‘Let the experts from Scotland Yard meet their chief suspect the moment they step off the train.’
    With that he set off with long strides in the direction of the Plumwood railway station. A few minutes later we were waiting on the platform, peering down the track in the direction of Market