C S Lewis and the Country House Murders (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 2) (21 page)

The last of the shallow valleys, little more than dips in the rolling moorlands, between us and the ruins of the Hunting Tower was heavily wooded. As Jack and I entered the belt of trees, we saw movement ahead of us in the shadows.

As we’d been walking the conversation had so gripped my attention I had failed to notice the change in the weather. The high pressure ridge had knocked off after a busy day’s work and dark clouds had rolled across the sky in its place.

The result was a deepening purple gloom, made still blacker by the thick pattern of tree trunks filling the small hollow. And in the twilight it was difficult to see anything, let alone the mysterious cause of the shadowy movements somewhere among those bare, skeletal trees of early spring.

I laid a hand on Jack’s arm and pointed ahead to where I thought I saw, or possibly heard, the movement. We both stood still and listened. Then there came the quiet crunching of leaves underfoot, accompanied by a dim shifting of shadows against shadows.

‘Is it an animal?’ I asked. ‘A deer?’

‘Or is it,’ asked Jack with a gleeful grin on his face, ‘the wild man of the woods?’

The sound of our voices alerted whoever, or whatever, it was to our presence. Against the dim tree trunks, the dark patch of the moving figure dropped into a crouching position and then stayed very still.

‘Now that didn’t look anything like a deer,’ I said.

‘And we are, remember, in the vicinity of the Dark Tower,’ said Jack, clearly enjoying the moment, ‘the source, according Constable Charlie Nile, of the spectre of the creeping man.’

With those words Jack began striding boldly forward. This provoked a flurry of movement ahead of us in the purple twilight. There was a crashing in the undergrowth, and then a crouching shadow was fleeing from us—across the thickly wooded copse of old trees and up the slope on the far side.

It was like a moment out of the one of those Sexton Blake serials in
Union Jack
, my favourite weekly story paper when I was a boy. And I was not about to miss out on the adventure.

I took off in pursuit. Despite my rapid ducking and dodging in the darkness, I managed to collect a heavy blow on the side of the head from a tree branch that I failed to negotiate with sufficient clearance. As I staggered, Jack was by my side.

‘I’m all right,’ I insisted, and resumed the pursuit.

As I cleared the trees, the creeping man became visible sprinting in a strange, crouching, loping run towards the ruins of the old tower. At times he seemed to be proceeding almost on all fours.

‘Hey!’ I shouted. ‘Stop there! We just want to talk to you.’

These words inspired a yet greater burst of speed, and the wild man of the woods reached the ridge top while Jack and I were still staggering up the slope.

At the peak we paused to catch our breath.

Before us, but still some distance away, stood the ruined tower. Its jagged and broken battlements stood out against the purple storm clouds like a set of rotting teeth. As we watched, the hunched shadow appeared at the base of the tower. Again it was creeping like an animal, almost down on all fours. The thing, or person, or whatever it was, tried to pull open the door.

But the door refused to budge. Once again it rattled in its frame, just as it had done for me. It appeared to still be locked.

Then the shadowy figure stood to its full height, grasped the door handle and wrenched with an almost superhuman strength. With a scream of splintering timber the door flew open and then hung limply on its hinges.

Jack and I resumed running—or, to be honest, jogging in a puffed manner—towards the tower. At the moment when the door crashed open, the shadowy figure turned around and saw us. His reaction was swift: he turned and ran. Somehow his strength seemed to be not in the least diminished, and he disappeared in a low, loping run so quickly that there was no chance of our catching him.

By the time we had reached the ruined tower on its hilltop the mysterious figure was nowhere to be seen.

‘Did you . . . see what he did . . . with this door?’ I gasped, my lungs still aching for air.

Jack made no attempt to answer immediately but stood catching his breath for a minute.

‘I grant you,’ he said at length, ‘it was quite astonishing. Warnie knew a chap in his old regiment once, a weightlifter, who could do remarkable things, but nothing quite like that.’ As he spoke he reached over and touched the newly splintered edge of the lintel where the lock had been torn from the frame by sheer brute strength.

At least, I pointed out, the absence of the key was no longer a problem.

‘That’s what everyone needs when a locked door stands in the way,’ said Jack with a loud guffaw, ‘your friendly, neighbourhood wild man of the woods. Better than any locksmith.’

Still feeling a little puffed, I flopped down on a block of stone at the entrance to the tower.

‘You suggested a walk,’ I said. ‘Well, we ended up getting something rather more vigorous than that.’

‘To an old rugger blue like you, Morris,’ said Jack cheerfully, ‘that sort of run should be no more than a walk in the park.’

‘Except that I’m no longer as fit as I once was,’ I replied ruefully.

Jack lit his pipe and puffed in silence for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Well, the door stands open, young Morris. It is an open invitation. Shall we do as you once suggested and explore the tower?’

I pronounced this to be a good idea and stood to my feet. I was thinking in terms of getting to the top of the tower—young Will had said it was once possible—and looking at the panorama of the landscape. If there was a spectacular thunderstorm sweeping in from the coast it might be a stunning view.

I pulled back the now sagging door, and the first thing I was struck by was the sound—the buzz of countless insects, perhaps flies or bluebottles. As I stepped in through the doorway, the second thing I became aware of was the smell. I staggered back.

‘We can’t go in there, Jack,’ I said, coughing to clear my lungs. ‘The stench is horrible.’

Jack walked over and stood in the doorway, puffing furiously on his pipe to surround his head with rich tobacco smoke and so keep out the overpowering smell. He stood peering into the darkness at the base of the tower.

After a moment he came back to my side. ‘We’ll have to go and fetch the police,’ he said. ‘There’s a dead body in there.’

I took a deep breath, clapped my handkerchief over my mouth and stepped into the stone building. Sprawled across the ground floor of the tower was a body. It had been there for some considerable time. Much of the flesh was gone and the bones exposed. Flies and bluebottles were crawling over the flesh that was left.

The bottom half of the face had been reduced to bony skeleton—turning the teeth and jaw into a hideous grin, an appalling death mask.

As I watched, a large grey rat crawled out of the shadows and over the chest of the corpse. It raised its head for a moment and its red, venomous eyes stared into mine. Then it decided I wasn’t a threat, so it lowered its head and began to chew on the rotting flesh.

I staggered outside to the fresh air and vomited on the grass.

Jack made sure I was all right, then he followed my example and stood just inside the doorway to the tower—staring grimly at the horror within.

When he rejoined me he asked again, ‘Are you sure you’re all right now?’

‘Fine, fine,’ I gasped.

‘Then let’s head back to Plumwood as quickly as we can. We have to report this to the police.’

‘Can we just leave him—it—here?’

‘He’s been here on his own for long enough; another hour or so will make little difference. We can try to push the broken door back into place if you wish, but it’s unlikely anyone will be along this way during the short time we’re absent.’

We set off at once at a rapid walk.

We spoke little on that return journey. We stopped at a bubbling brook so I could rinse out my mouth, which still had a foul taste in it, and then kept on striding in a direct line towards the village.

The high street—to be honest, the only street—in Plumwood Village was deserted when we arrived. It was mid-afternoon and the weather was threatening, so all sensible folk were indoors. A brown dog sat under the shelter of the seat at the bus stop and watched us pass—like all dogs, keeping a careful eye on the behaviour of anyone who chose to walk down his street.

We found Constable Charlie Nile at the police cottage at the far end of the village. He was having afternoon tea when we knocked on his door, and he hospitably invited us to join him in a pot of tea with scones and jam. Our grim faces told him this was not a social call.

In a few words Jack sketched out the horror we had found in the Black Tower. Constable Nile pulled on the jacket of his uniform and grabbed his helmet from the hat stand.

‘The Scotland Yard chappies are at the pub. At least I think they are.’ He was clearly flustered. ‘I saw them arrive back there about half an hour ago.’

We found Inspector Crispin and Sergeant Merrivale seated at a small table in the snug at
The Cricketers’ Arms
. They had an official looking file spread out on the table and the sergeant had his notebook out.

Once again Jack told our tale of horror. Crispin made a few inquiries and Constable Nile explained that the spot was only accessible on foot, so the inspector and his sergeant grabbed their hats, donned their macs and followed us out of the village and onto the walking path that led across the moors. Before we left, Sergeant Merrivale hurried up to his room and returned with a small leather case. This he carried with him.

As we walked we filled the others in on the history of the Black Tower, or Hunting Tower, and on how we had found it locked so recently. Then we told the story of the ‘wild man of the woods’ and the startling way he wrenched open that heavy locked door by sheer brute force.

At this point Nile chipped in and told the visiting policemen everything that was known about this ‘wild man’—which was precious little.

As we spoke we walked briskly, and before long we were back at the ruined tower. Jack and I stood back and allowed the policemen to enter—we had seen quite enough of the horror within for one day.

Charlie Nile staggered back out again quickly enough. He sat down heavily on the grass, pulled off his helmet and fanned his face with it. Such grisly horrors were not what he had expected when he signed on the dotted line to become a village constable.

Then Sergeant Merrivale came out and unpacked the small leather case he had been carrying. It contained photographic equipment. He set the camera on its tripod, attached the flash gun and returned to the tower and the decayed corpse. Soon a series of brilliant flashes from within told us that he had started making his photographic record.

Inspector Crispin came out, checked that Constable Nile had recovered and sent him back to the village with careful instructions.

‘We need Dr Henderson out here as quickly as possible. And you’d better phone through to Market Plumpton and inform Inspector Hyde. We’ll need some of his uniformed men out here to help move the body and to search the area.’

Constable Nile set off at a commendable pace back towards the village. Crispin asked us to stay where we were for the time being, and returned to the tower to conduct a further inspection of the body and the scene.

When he returned he was carrying a leather wallet.

‘From the pocket of the dead man,’ he said, holding it up. Using only his fingertips, he cautiously prised the stiff leather of the wallet open and, to our horror, a large, white maggot flopped out. That brought back the shock Jack and I had both felt when we saw that decayed, half-eaten corpse.

Seeing what was clearly written on our faces Inspector Crispin said, ‘Yes, it’s an unpleasant business. But sometimes we need a strong stomach in our line of work.’ Then he began a delicate examination of the contents of the wallet. These he laid out on a flat rock as he removed them from the leather folds.

There were a few coins and a large, white five-pound note. A receipt of some sort with faded printing. And then a driver’s licence emerged. This Crispin unfolded with great care so that it would not tear or disintegrate.

‘Ah, this appears to give us the name of our victim,’ he said, squinting at the faded lettering on the licence. ‘If this is, indeed, his licence, he was a certain Charles David Worth.’

‘I think you might find, inspector,’ I said, ‘that this man is the long-missing husband of the first murder victim, Connie Worth.’

‘Now that, Mr Morris,’ replied the Scotland Yard man, ‘makes this death even more interesting.’

‘How did he die?’ Jack asked.

‘There are no external wounds and no obvious signs of violence. So the short answer is—we don’t know yet. It may be a death by natural causes, or it may be . . .’

His unspoken thought hung heavily in the air.

‘How long has he been dead?’ I asked.

‘Hard to say, sir. That’s a question for Dr Henderson, or for the police surgeon at Market Plumpton. Do you know when he went missing?’

I thought for a moment and replied, ‘I think it must have been over a year ago. I’m pretty sure that’s what I was told. Sorry I can’t be more precise.’