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

Plumpton, looking for the first puff of smoke that would herald the arrival of the late train.
    As we waited we talked about the people in the case: Sir William and Lady Pamela Dyer, Douglas and Stiffy, Uncle Teddy, young Will Dyer, Keggs the butler, Mrs Buckingham the cook, the maids Jane and Lizzie, and even Franklin the gardener. Which of these people, if any of them, could have had a motive to murder Connie Worth? She was not a likeable person, a cold fish of a personality (the ‘Ice Queen’ according to Will, the ‘Black Widow’ according to Douglas and Stiffy)—but people are not murdered just because of their lack of table manners.
    Our discussion of possible motives, methods and opportunities was ended by the sound of a distant train whistle wailing like the sad hoot of an aged owl whose children have all turned out to be disappointments in life. Some minutes later the small locomotive, with its few carriages, steamed, chugged, wheezed and clanked to a halt at the platform.
    Only two passengers alighted—and to our surprise they turned out to be familiar faces: Inspector Gideon Crispin and Sergeant Henry Merrivale of Scotland Yard.
    Crispin, who still looked like a well-tailored city banker, recognised us almost as quickly as we recognised him. He strode up the platform and offered his hand in greeting.
    ‘A pleasure to see you again, I’m sure, gentlemen—although we could, perhaps, wish for pleasanter circumstances.’
    The silent Sergeant Merrivale nodded in recognition. He could not offer to shake hands as he was carrying all the bags.
    ‘You don’t seem surprised to see us, inspector,’ said Jack.
    ‘I read the case notes on the train journey, so Mr Morris’s role in this affair I was familiar with. And it did occur to me, Mr Lewis, that you might have come to Mr Morris’s aid, given that the local police have cast him under some shadow of suspicion.’
    We fell into step beside the two detectives and walked with them down the village street in the direction of the pub.
    ‘And do you share Inspector Hyde’s suspicion that Morris here is some sort of homicidal maniac?’ asked Jack.
    ‘Early days, Mr Lewis, early days,’ replied Crispin. ‘I find it pays not to leap to conclusions too quickly.’
    At
The Cricketers’ Arms
Alfred Rose warmly welcomed his latest pair of murder tourists, and bellowed for Ronnie Fish to carry their bags up to their rooms.
    Then he said, ‘As it happens, gentlemen, you already have a visitor. Someone is waiting for you in the snug.’
    With an air of gleeful mystery the publican led the way to the small private back bar, and there we found, waiting for the Scotland Yard officers, Dr Henderson.
    Mine host made the introductions and then left. The small, bustling local GP rose to his feet to shake everyone’s hand. He pulled a sheaf of papers out of his medical bag. Then he hesitated.
    ‘The final toxicology report,’ he began, and then paused, looking at Jack and me. ‘But I’m not sure if . . .’
    ‘Undoubtedly,’ said Inspector Crispin calmly as he pulled up a chair, ‘the contents of that report will be around the village by tomorrow morning, so there’s no harm in these gentlemen hearing them now.’
    ‘If you say so,’ muttered the doctor doubtfully.
    ‘I do say so,’ said the Scotland Yard man. ‘I know these small villages. And I know their gossip networks tend to be as quick and efficient as anything invented by Mr Marconi. So, go ahead, doctor.’
    Henderson cleared his throat and, still looking at us doubtfully, resumed. ‘To be on the safe side I sent the stomach contents to the home office pathologist in London. Case of murder, you know. Don’t see many of those myself. Best to be scientifically precise.’
    ‘And what did the home office pathologist say?’ prompted Inspector Crispin when Dr Henderson came to a halt, perhaps overawed by his own efficiency in the face of murder.
    ‘Say? Oh, yes. Well, he confirmed my finding of death