The Corpse in the Cellar (13 page)

‘I have you puzzled, have I, young Morris?' Jack replied, looking over his shoulder with a cheerful grin on his face.

‘That's the word! Puzzled. No one—and no one way of looking at the world—can see the whole story and the whole truth. That's how scholarship works: each researcher contributes a bit of the picture. Remember our discussion of the jigsaw puzzle? Well, if life's a puzzle, and we each do our bit of puzzling things out, we each have a bit to contribute.'

‘But we need some standard to evaluate each contribution,' said Jack. ‘Some way of knowing whether an idea is a part of the truth or a pointless blind alley leading us in the wrong direction, or even a flat-out falsehood. Hence my claim that Christianity, in the jigsaw puzzle image, is the “picture on the lid of the box” that the puzzle comes in—the picture that shows us what we're aiming at with all our ideas and discoveries.'

‘See, that's what puzzles me,' I said. ‘That seems like a remarkably arrogant claim to make. You were once an atheist, so you know there are other ways of looking at the world.' I was groping for the words to express the vague notion floating somewhere at the back of my brain. But my brain was not helping me find it. It seemed to think it had had quite enough shocks for one day and was putting its feet up somewhere in a dimly lit corner of my cerebellum and having a little doze.

‘Look,' I said, ‘your mention of a “blind alley” made me think of something that might explain what I'm getting at.'

Jack said nothing, but I saw his head nod as he waited for me to go on.

‘You've heard the story—we all have—of the four blind men and the elephant.'

‘I've heard it,' said Warnie from his position in the lead. ‘Chappie who'd served in India told it to me. Very clever, I thought. Very interesting.'

‘Remind us,' said Jack.

‘Well, in the story there are these four blind men—' Warnie began.

‘No,' Jack said, ‘I want to hear how young Morris explains it and what he thinks it means.'

‘Oh, all right then,' mumbled Warnie, slightly miffed.

‘The story I heard,' I said, ‘went like this. Four blind men were walking down a road and came upon an elephant. They had never encountered an elephant before, nor had the concept of an elephant been explained to them. So they gathered around this animal and each of them grabbed hold of a different part of the beast. Then they argued about what they'd encountered. One blind man was feeling the elephant's ear and said he'd found a large leaf from a palm tree—the sort of large, flat leaf used as a fan. The second blind man had the tail and said he'd found a rope. The third had the elephant's trunk and said he'd found a hose. And the fourth ran his hands over one of the elephant's legs and said he'd found a large tree trunk.'

I paused at that point, so Jack asked, ‘And what do you think the story—or fable, or parable, or whatever you call it—teaches us?'

‘That none of us has an exclusive and complete grasp of the truth. Not one of us can get hold of all of the truth. Each one of us can comprehend only part of the whole, so we have to pool our knowledge—and even then our understanding is likely to be partial and incomplete.'

‘But your conclusion doesn't fit,' Jack said. ‘It's not a reasonable conclusion to draw from the story.'

‘Hang on,' I protested. ‘I'm not drawing some strange or eccentric conclusion. The moral I see in that story is the moral most people see. In fact, it's the whole point of the story.'

‘Well, in that case,' Jack insisted, ‘the story doesn't support the moral.'

I was now completely confused so I said nothing, and Jack continued, ‘There's one person in your story who
does
see the whole picture—who understands all the parts and how they fit together and what they mean.'

This baffled me. ‘Who?' I asked genuinely puzzled by his remark.

‘The storyteller,' said Jack with a hearty laugh.

He let this sink in and then continued, ‘The only reason the story has any meaning or any point at all is that it's told by a storyteller who
knows
the object is an elephant—to an audience that knows the object is an elephant. Clearly the storyteller is not blind and can see that it's an elephant being groped by the four sightless men. The storyteller is clearly familiar with elephants and knows the animal for what it is. If there had been no sighted storyteller at the encounter, there would be no story.'

We all had to duck as we passed under a low-hanging tree branch, then Jack went on, ‘If you told that story to blind men who knew nothing of elephants, the story would mean nothing. It only has meaning because a sighted storyteller who is familiar with what elephants really are is telling us the story and drawing the moral. Without the storyteller who sees the bigger picture, the story is meaningless. And the same is true of life. In the story the four blind men are meant to represent each of us—individuals groping towards the truth. And perhaps that's not a bad picture of how each of us copes on our journey through life. But in that case, who does the storyteller represent? Who is it who sees the bigger picture and understands what the bigger picture means?'

He stopped while we pushed through some bushes that almost overgrew the narrow towpath, and then he resumed, ‘Even the most intelligent and well-informed men I know have limitations. In fact, being human involves having limitations. So what we all need is the equivalent of the “sighted storyteller” to give us the big picture and make sense of it all, to tell us the meaning and the purpose. We all have some of the clues—for instance, our in-built moral sense, our sense of right and wrong, is a clue to the meaning of the universe.'

‘But you say we need help to see the bigger picture?'

‘The real arrogance is in those human beings who insist they know enough, who refuse to be told, who refuse to submit to the direction of a greater intelligence than theirs.'

We rounded a bend at this point and the town came into view. ‘Nearly there,' said Warnie.

Jack stopped for a moment and turned around to face me. ‘Imagine your blind men examining an unfamiliar building. They each feel different parts of it and disagree about how those parts fit together, what they mean and what they're for. Then the architect of the building arrives. He tells them about the design—what it looks like, its purpose and what its function is. It would be stubbornly arrogant of those blind men to refuse to listen, wouldn't it?'

Well, yes, of course it would, but I wasn't going to admit that out loud—so Jack continued.

‘The testable claim of Christianity is that God is the architect in my little fable, and the “sighted storyteller” in yours. We all fight against that—I know I did. But eventually I gave in and admitted that God was God and that I wasn't. God closed in on me. I suddenly felt as if I was Hamlet and had made the startling discovery that I was in a play by someone called Shakespeare, and that the Author wanted to meet me.'

By now we had reached the River Plum and were mounting the footpath to the main bridge across the river. Jack walked silently for some minutes and then said, ‘It was really quite an uncomfortable encounter when I realised I had to face God.' Then after another pause he added, ‘But, of course, reality is often uncomfortable.'

From the bridge we walked up the high street, then turned into the narrow streets in the older part of town that led to the pub. We arrived at
The Boar's Head
in time for lunch.

‘Welcome back from your morning walk, gentlemen,' said Frank Jones with his professional publican's heartiness. ‘Interesting morning?'

‘You could say that,' Warnie chuckled. ‘But I'd call it a famishing morning. Lunch about?'

‘It's a nice day, gentlemen,' said the publican, ‘so why don't you take a seat at a table out in the beer garden and I'll bring it out to you?'

Five minutes later he arrived with a plate loaded with slices of cold roast beef, bread, pickles and a nice piece of cheddar. He also brought us three pints of bitter. For some minutes we were too busy concentrating on our welcome meal to talk much.

Then Warnie leaned back in his chair, took a sip from his pint, wiped the foam from his moustache and said, ‘Odd thing. One of the detective novels I brought with me—been reading it at night in bed—is called
It Walks by Night
by a chappie named John Dickson Carr. Reminds me a bit of our mystery—our “corpse in the cellar of the bank”, as those detective writer chappies would call it.'

He took another sip of his beer and continued, ‘Anyway, in this book a chap is beheaded, in a closed room, when he's on his own, with the doors under observation and the window forty feet off the ground. Jolly puzzling. Just like our bank chappie. And there's this suspected villain who claims he has the powers of a werewolf. Rather like the ghost in our bank cellar, I thought.'

‘And so,' said Jack with a grin, ‘how did it all work out at the end of the book? Supernatural powers? Or deadly human ingenuity?'

‘Well, I haven't actually got to the end yet,' Warnie mumbled into his beer. ‘Let you know when I do.'

Just then Constable Dixon advanced across the lawn towards us.

‘You look much better than the last time we saw you,' I said. ‘Much less like a drowned fish and much more like a policeman.'

‘Well, I did have to change into a fresh uniform, sir,' he muttered, then he drew himself to his full height and said, ‘I have been sent to fetch you. Inspector Crispin from Scotland Yard is waiting for you at the bank.'

On the front door of the bank the now slightly tattered cardboard notice was flapping in the wind, still making its announcement to the citizens of Market Plumpton: ‘Closed until further notice.' Dixon had a key. He let us in and relatched the door behind us.

When we went from the entrance lobby into the bank office, we discovered a group already gathered and apparently waiting for us.

Inspector Crispin came forward, saying, ‘Thank you for coming. Now everyone is here and we can begin.'

I looked around and saw Sergeant Merrivale looming quietly in the background and Constable Dixon guarding the front door. Seated at one of the desks, looking red-eyed and miserable, was Ruth Jarvis, the bank's clerical officer we'd met the day before. Standing side by side were the manager, Edmund Ravenswood, and an unfamiliar woman. As Inspector Crispin went around making the introductions, we discovered that she was Edith Ravenswood, the manager's wife. She was also the sister of the dead man, Franklin Grimm.

‘In a moment,' said Crispin, ‘I'll try, with your help, to reconstruct a timetable of the events of yesterday. But before I do, we should consider the possibility that Franklin Grimm committed suicide. The absence of any sort of weapon would then be the puzzle we'd need to solve. So, psychologically, is it possible that Franklin Grimm killed himself?'

Put bluntly like this, the idea provoked a sob of anguish and another wave of silent tears from Ruth Jarvis.

‘Mr Ravenswood, let's begin with you,' Crispin continued. ‘Did you see any signs of depression or anxiety or stress in Mr Grimm at all?'

‘No, you're way off beam there, inspector,' growled Ravenswood firmly. ‘He was a cocky young chap, was Grimm. Full of himself and his own importance and his plans for making money. I never saw him in a dark mood, not once. Never a moment of self-doubt. If anything, far too full of himself.'

‘Sounds as though you didn't like him very much,' the Scotland Yard inspector responded.

‘He did his job, that's all I care about. Given my preference I might have hired a quieter chap. But Edith wanted me to give him a job, so I did—as a favour to her. And, as I say, he was efficient enough.'

‘Yes, he was your brother, wasn't he, Mrs Ravenswood?'

Edith Ravenswood was dry eyed, but she was pale and clearly shaken by what had happened. In response to the inspector's question, she only nodded.

‘Younger than you, or older?'

‘Three years younger.'

‘Why did you ask your husband to give him a job here in the bank?'

‘He was too good for farm work,' she said quietly. ‘Too clever. Too ambitious. And he always did well at school. I was sure he'd suit the bank, and it would get him into a professional job.'

‘Was he happy here?' I was surprised by Inspector Crispin's question—it was one that would never have occurred to me.

‘Happy enough,' Edith Ravenswood replied cautiously. ‘He would have left sooner or later. Very ambitious, as I said.'

‘So what about the possibility of his taking his own life?'

‘Never.' She was very certain about that. ‘Franklin was full of . . . hope. Yes, hope and confidence about his future. It would have been completely out of character for Franklin to commit suicide.'