Read Online C S Lewis and the Country House Murders (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 2) by Kel Richards - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kel Richards
Tags: Fiction
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age of lettering, was the word ‘Dispensary’.
The front door to the tiny shop opened with the tinkle of a small bell that hung from a spring on the top of the door.
Recalling that bell later made me think of a ‘Had-I-But-Known’ detective novel by Mary Roberts Rinehart I once read. The heroine kept hinting to the reader of dreadful deeds by saying ‘Had I but known what lay ahead . . .’ Well, Had-I- But-Known what was about to be revealed, I would have heard that tinkling bell as tolling my doom.
Behind the small counter, and in front of shelves displaying multi-coloured packets of patent medicines, stood a village girl.
Inspector Crispin introduced himself and produced his warrant card to establish his authority. She nodded dumbly, looking somewhat frightened by this important figure from Scotland Yard.
‘And your name is . . . ?’ asked Crispin.
‘Ruth Eggleston,’ she replied in a voice little more than a frightened whisper.
‘And your role here is . . . ?’ continued the inspector.
‘I work for Mr Williamson. This is his shop. I serve in the shop and he does the dispensing.’ As she spoke she glanced over her shoulder to the shop’s interior.
‘Now, Miss Eggleston—I’d like to see your poisons book,’ said Crispin.
The young woman froze into immobility, like a rabbit staring blankly into the headlights of an approaching motor car—a rabbit wishing it had never left the comfort of its nice, warm burrow; a rabbit wishing it had listened to its mother (‘Avoid Mr McGregor’s garden and busy roads on dark nights,’ she’d said).
‘You do keep a poisons book, don’t you?’ Crispin continued. ‘Every chemist is required by law to keep a poisons book, so I presume you have one?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ she said quickly, suddenly finding her voice again. ‘Mr Williamson says everything must be done properly.’
‘Then please produce your poisons book, Miss Eggleston,’ Crispin said patiently.
Once again she gave her impersonation of the rabbit in the headlights—this time with eyes as wide as saucers staring at the headlights getting closer.
Suddenly Sergeant Merrivale barked, in his gruff bulldog voice, ‘The poisons book please, miss . . . now!’
She jumped, as if the rabbit had heard a blaring horn emanating from behind the headlights, then reached under the counter and extracted a large, leather-covered book. It looked very old. It was possibly the same poisons book that had been kept in that shop since the early childhood of Queen Victoria.
‘Here it is, sir,’ she said in her small, trembling voice as she laid it on the counter.
Inspector Crispin spun it around so that it was facing him and slowly turned over the pages. He kept turning until he came to the most recent entries. He stared for a moment at the small, neat writing, then turned and stared at me, and then returned his gaze to the book.
‘Your name is in the book, Mr Morris,’ Crispin said.
‘It can’t be,’ I protested.
‘But it is—see for yourself.’
Crispin stood to one side and I stepped up to the counter. There, in small, neatly curved handwriting, was a notation saying that the most recent purchase of poisons was half a gram of potassium cyanide and the purchaser was . . . ‘T. Morris’.
‘But I didn’t . . . that’s not possible . . . why would I ever . . . I didn’t . . .’
The Scotland Yard man shook his head and said quietly, ‘That’s what it says, Mr Morris.’
Sergeant Merrivale reached over and picked up the poisons book. He closely examined the page, with Jack looking on over his shoulder.
Crispin looked back at the nervous young woman behind the counter. ‘Now, Miss Eggleston,’ he said, ‘according to this book Mr Morris here purchased half a gram of potassium cyanide in this shop two weeks ago. Is that correct?’
In a voice so close to a whisper as to be almost inaudible, she said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he tell you what is was for?’
‘He said he was buying
The front door to the tiny shop opened with the tinkle of a small bell that hung from a spring on the top of the door.
Recalling that bell later made me think of a ‘Had-I-But-Known’ detective novel by Mary Roberts Rinehart I once read. The heroine kept hinting to the reader of dreadful deeds by saying ‘Had I but known what lay ahead . . .’ Well, Had-I- But-Known what was about to be revealed, I would have heard that tinkling bell as tolling my doom.
Behind the small counter, and in front of shelves displaying multi-coloured packets of patent medicines, stood a village girl.
Inspector Crispin introduced himself and produced his warrant card to establish his authority. She nodded dumbly, looking somewhat frightened by this important figure from Scotland Yard.
‘And your name is . . . ?’ asked Crispin.
‘Ruth Eggleston,’ she replied in a voice little more than a frightened whisper.
‘And your role here is . . . ?’ continued the inspector.
‘I work for Mr Williamson. This is his shop. I serve in the shop and he does the dispensing.’ As she spoke she glanced over her shoulder to the shop’s interior.
‘Now, Miss Eggleston—I’d like to see your poisons book,’ said Crispin.
The young woman froze into immobility, like a rabbit staring blankly into the headlights of an approaching motor car—a rabbit wishing it had never left the comfort of its nice, warm burrow; a rabbit wishing it had listened to its mother (‘Avoid Mr McGregor’s garden and busy roads on dark nights,’ she’d said).
‘You do keep a poisons book, don’t you?’ Crispin continued. ‘Every chemist is required by law to keep a poisons book, so I presume you have one?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ she said quickly, suddenly finding her voice again. ‘Mr Williamson says everything must be done properly.’
‘Then please produce your poisons book, Miss Eggleston,’ Crispin said patiently.
Once again she gave her impersonation of the rabbit in the headlights—this time with eyes as wide as saucers staring at the headlights getting closer.
Suddenly Sergeant Merrivale barked, in his gruff bulldog voice, ‘The poisons book please, miss . . . now!’
She jumped, as if the rabbit had heard a blaring horn emanating from behind the headlights, then reached under the counter and extracted a large, leather-covered book. It looked very old. It was possibly the same poisons book that had been kept in that shop since the early childhood of Queen Victoria.
‘Here it is, sir,’ she said in her small, trembling voice as she laid it on the counter.
Inspector Crispin spun it around so that it was facing him and slowly turned over the pages. He kept turning until he came to the most recent entries. He stared for a moment at the small, neat writing, then turned and stared at me, and then returned his gaze to the book.
‘Your name is in the book, Mr Morris,’ Crispin said.
‘It can’t be,’ I protested.
‘But it is—see for yourself.’
Crispin stood to one side and I stepped up to the counter. There, in small, neatly curved handwriting, was a notation saying that the most recent purchase of poisons was half a gram of potassium cyanide and the purchaser was . . . ‘T. Morris’.
‘But I didn’t . . . that’s not possible . . . why would I ever . . . I didn’t . . .’
The Scotland Yard man shook his head and said quietly, ‘That’s what it says, Mr Morris.’
Sergeant Merrivale reached over and picked up the poisons book. He closely examined the page, with Jack looking on over his shoulder.
Crispin looked back at the nervous young woman behind the counter. ‘Now, Miss Eggleston,’ he said, ‘according to this book Mr Morris here purchased half a gram of potassium cyanide in this shop two weeks ago. Is that correct?’
In a voice so close to a whisper as to be almost inaudible, she said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he tell you what is was for?’
‘He said he was buying
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