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

at their feet. Jack cupped his hands to his mouth and called out loudly, ‘Hello! Hello! Anyone there?’ We waited but there was no response, so Warnie scooped the unconscious young woman up in his arms and carried her inside.
    The front door of the farmhouse opened onto a hallway. This hall ran straight through the middle of the cottage, exactly bisecting it. It was what I believe is called in the country a ‘shotgun cottage’, meaning you could fire a shotgun through the front door and it would go straight out the back door.
    The first door on the right proved to be a small sitting room, filled with over-stuffed armchairs and a lounge. Warnie laid her on the lounge. Then we stopped and looked at each other. The farmhouse was ominously quiet except for the loud ticking of a cabinet clock in the hall. Amelia Proudfoot lay on the lounge as unmoving as if she were in a coma. But at least she was still breathing—we could see that.
    I followed Jack’s example and stepped into the hallway and called, ‘Hello? Anyone about?’ Then I went back out through the front door and called again. The sound of my voice died away in the distance with no response. I came back to the small front parlour, looked at the others and shrugged my shoulders.
    Warnie looked down at the young woman, then he looked helplessly at Jack and said, ‘What do we do now?’
    ‘Morris,’ said Jack to me, ‘find the kitchen and put on the kettle. This young lady needs a cup of strong, sweet tea.’
    I returned to the narrow hallway and explored. The kitchen was the last door on the right. Inside I found an Aga cooker with its fire burning, so I filled a kettle from a jug of water beside the sink and put it on a hotplate. Then I stoked up the wood fire in the Aga and hunted around for a teapot and the tea caddy. I found both in a side dresser, along with cups and saucers. When the kettle boiled, I made enough tea for the four of us, put the teapot, cups, saucers, a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk on a tray, and carried it back into the front room.
    Young Mrs Proudfoot was just starting to move and groan as I re-entered the room. Her eyes flickered open and she suddenly pushed herself bolt upright with a look of terror on her face.
    ‘Please don’t be anxious, Mrs Proudfoot,’ Jack said soothingly. ‘We’re the visitors who knocked on your door just before you fainted. I hope you don’t mind—we’ve brought you inside and made you a cup of tea.’
    She opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. She was still a little shaky and reached a trembling hand out to the arm of the lounge to steady herself.
    ‘Will tea be all right?’ asked Warnie. ‘If you like I can hunt around for something stronger—a little brandy perhaps?’
    She shook her head. ‘Tea’s fine, thank you,’ she half-whispered in a weak voice.
    ‘We do apologise for barging into your house like this,’ said Jack, ‘but when you collapsed and no one else seemed to be around, we thought we should do something.’
    She nodded and tried to smile.
    ‘If you’d rather we leave, we will,’ Jack offered.
    She saw the tray and the crockery I had brought in from the kitchen, shook her head and said softly, ‘No . . . no . . . It’s all right. Help yourselves to tea.’
    We did. Then we seated ourselves in the old armchairs, sank back into their cavernous embrace, and sipped on our tea in silence for a few minutes. Eventually the colour began to return to the young woman’s face, and she spoke again.
    ‘You said you wanted my husband, I think?’
    ‘Yes,’ Jack responded, ‘but I take it he’s not around.’
    ‘He’s taken the pony trap,’ she said, and then added, a little uncertainly, ‘He’s gone into town, I think . . . ’
    Whatever train of thought our question provoked seemed to have an effect on her. She lowered her eyelids and her face lost all its colour and went quite pale again. We sipped our tea in silence for a minute while she