C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) by Kel Richards Page A

glanced up at the sky and then said, ‘I wish Mr Jones had seen fit to indicate which way was north on his little map.’
    ‘Here, let me have a look,’ I said. Warnie happily handed it over. At first it looked like just a series of squiggly lines wandering across the page. I tried turning it upside down and then sideways. I held it at arm’s length and squinted at it as if trying to bring a blurred picture into focus. Then I turned it back so that the X that marked the position of
The Boar’s Head
was at the bottom. That was when it seemed to start making sense to me.
    ‘I think I can see where we are now,’ I said uncertainly. ‘Or where we might be. See this curving line here?’ I pointed at the paper. ‘Well, I think that’s the road we’re on. Ahead of us should be a crossroads, and that’s where we turn right.’
    Jack and Warnie looked over my shoulder, and then Jack told me to lead on. We walked for perhaps another quarter of a mile and came to a fork in the road. This appeared not to be marked on Frank Jones’ map, so we took a chance on the left-hand fork. A hundred yards further on I became convinced we were heading in the wrong direction and persuaded the others to go back and take the other road.
    When Warnie grumbled I said, ‘Well, we’re supposed to be on a walking holiday, and at least right now we’re walking!’
    Back at the intersection where I thought we’d gone wrong we headed up the right hand fork instead of the left. A hundred yards later we came to the crossroads, with the ancient oak tree Frank Jones had told us about on the corner.
    ‘Well done, young Morris,’ said Jack, slapping me on the back. ‘You’ve got us back on track. Now we head right from here, don’t we?’
    The map said we should, and so we did. Half an hour of brisk walking brought us to a farm gate. Hanging from the roadside letterbox next to the gate was the name ‘Proudfoot’. And just behind some trees we could make out the farmhouse.
    ‘Well,’ said Jack as he unlatched the gate, ‘let’s go and see what young Nicholas Proudfoot has to say for himself.’
    We walked through and relatched the gate behind us. We hadn’t gone far down the farm track when a chorus of dogs began yapping to alert the inhabitants to our arrival, and alert us to the fact that we were stepping on territory that was rightly theirs under the Canine Real Property Act.
    Soon the farm dogs were dancing around our feet, telling us that they knew we were strangers and intended to keep an eye on us. Warnie, who has a way with dogs, stopped to talk to them. Soon he was scratching their backs and had become their new best friend.
    There was no sign of life at the old stone farmhouse. Its weathered walls were covered with moss and lichen. There was complete silence in the yard in front of the house—apart from the panting, yapping dogs—and the place looked deserted.
    Jack knocked on the front door. The sound seemed to echo throughout the house, and for a long time there was no response.
    ‘There’s no one here,’ muttered Warnie.
    ‘No, I definitely heard a sound,’ Jack said, and he knocked again. Eventually footsteps could be heard, and the door was opened halfway. The face we saw was that of a young woman with dark eyes and dark hair. In other circumstances she would have been strikingly beautiful, but the most striking thing about her that morning were her eyes—red and swollen from crying.
    ‘Good morning,’ said Jack in his softest and most affable manner. ‘Mrs Proudfoot, isn’t it?’ She nodded blankly. ‘My name is Jack Lewis; this is my brother Warren and our friend Tom Morris. We just happened to be in the bank yesterday when your husband visited Mr Ravenswood, and we wondered if we could have a word with him please.’
    Her only response was to collapse in the doorway in a dead faint.

ELEVEN

    There was a moment of awkward embarrassment as three single males looked at a fragile young woman lying unconscious