C S Lewis and the Body in the Basement (C S Lewis Mysteries Book 1) Read Online Free

branch, but I do have my passbook with me.’ As he spoke he pulled off his rucksack and fished in its depths. After a moment of fumbling he produced a small, blue-covered booklet which he handed to the teller.
    Franklin Grimm opened this and perused its contents with a look of deep suspicion on his face. The lengthy silence that followed was broken only by the quiet clattering of the typewriter.
    ‘So your account is actually with the Oxford branch of the bank then, sir?’ was the question that finally emerged from the sceptical teller. He had finally deduced this astonishing fact from Jack’s reference to Oxford and from the word “Oxford” appearing in large letters on the front of the passbook.
    ‘Correct.’
    ‘Do you have any identification on you, sir?’
    ‘What sort of identification?’
    ‘A passport, driver’s licence, anything of that sort.’
    ‘Do I need something of that sort?’ asked Jack with a note of surprise in his voice.
    ‘Well, sir,’ said Franklin Grimm with a coldly superior sneer, ‘how can I be certain that you are indeed the person whose name appears in the front of this passbook?’
    ‘What nonsense!’ snorted Warnie. ‘This is definitely Jack. Tom Morris here and I can both swear to it. I’m his brother—known him all his life.’
    ‘So,’ continued the teller, ‘you’re assuring me that this man is your friend and brother Jack?’
    ‘Exactly!’ said Warnie, blowing out his cheeks in indignation.
    ‘Well, that does present me with a problem, sir,’ said Grimm, ‘since the name in the front of this book is not Jack Lewis, or even John Lewis, but Clive Staples Lewis.’
    ‘Yes!’ insisted Warnie, becoming quite heated. ‘That’s him.’
    ‘Clive Staples Lewis is also Jack Lewis?’
    ‘Yes . . . well . . . ’ Warnie suddenly saw the problem. ‘When he was quite a small child he told the family that he didn’t like his name and wanted to be called Jack. And he has been ever since.’
    Another silence followed this explanation with the teller slowly turning over the pages of the passbook. Finally he looked up and said to Jack, ‘Do you have any paperwork at all, sir, in the name of C. S. Lewis?’
    ‘Not on me, no,’ Jack admitted. ‘All I have in my rucksack, apart from that passbook, is clean clothing and my sponge bag. And in my pockets . . . ’
    With these words he patted his pockets and produced the contents. ‘Just my pipe and tobacco pouch and a couple of books.’ Jack set on the counter two small volumes: the Oxford World Classics edition of
Palgrave’s Golden Treasury
in its blue cloth binding, and a compact Bible, printed in small type on what used to be called rice paper.
    ‘Hang on,’ I volunteered, and digging into my jacket pocket I produced the book I was carrying:
The Pilgrim’s Regress
by C. S. Lewis. I waved it in Jack’s direction and said, ‘That’s him, you see—the author.’
    ‘I see,’ said Franklin Grimm very slowly. ‘So you have a book written by this C. S. Lewis and a savings bank passbook belonging to the same man, but no other identification?’
    ‘I was here last year,’ Jack boomed, becoming slightly annoyed by this farrago of nonsense, ‘when I was passing through on another walking holiday. On that occasion I dealt with the manager. He may well recognise me. If, that is, the same man is still the manager here.’
    ‘Mr Ravenswood has been here for six years, sir,’ said the teller.
    ‘That’s the man,’ Jack said with delight. ‘I remember the name—Ravenswood. Just wheel him out of his office, my good man. I’m sure he’ll recognise me.’
    The teller turned and said to the young woman at the typewriter, ‘Is Mr Ravenswood in his office, Ruth?’
    ‘No, Mr Grimm,’ she replied. ‘He’s down in the cellar doing the quarterly maintenance.’
    The teller turned back to us and said with a smarmy smile, ‘Perhaps you’d care to wait until Mr Ravenswood is available?’
    ‘Take me down to him in the