The Corpse in the Cellar by Kel Richards Read Free Book Online

saying, ‘If you’ll just follow me, gentlemen, I’ll show you the way to
The Boar’s Head
. You’ll like it there, nicest little pub in town.’
    We had stepped back out into the blazing sunshine of a warm midday and found ourselves blinking in the light. The nightmare behind us started to fade. In fact, as we walked into the sunshine I was finding it moment by moment more impossible to believe that there really was a dead body in the bank cellar—a body for which there was no possible, logical explanation. The warm sun made it all seem like a wild story from a cheap novel—the sort of detective novel Warnie loved to read. If Warnie had told me that exactly the same thing had happened in something called
The Secret Nine
or
The Purple Hand Strikes Again
, I would not have been the least bit surprised.
    The constable led the way out of the town square, on the opposite side to the church, and around several corners until we reached the pub.
    â€˜There it is, gentlemen,’ he said with the pride of a gardener showing off his prize pumpkin at a county fair. ‘Frank Jones is the publican. Good chap. And his wife Annie is the best cook for miles around. I often have a bite to eat here myself.’
    He then plunged through the open door of the bar parlour and introduced us to the man wiping glasses behind the bar. Dixon stood close beside us and watched carefully as each of us signed the register. Then Frank Jones summoned his wife to show us up to our rooms. Halfway up the stairs I stopped and looked back. The constable and the publican had their heads together in a whispered conversation.
    Annie Jones showed us to three rather small, but neat and cheerful, rooms. I tossed my rucksack onto my bed then joined Jack in his room. Warnie did the same, dropping into the only armchair in the room with the words, ‘This is a bit of a turn up for the books, eh? Here we are in the middle of a murder, what? Almost like being in the middle of a book actually. Sort of thing that Agatha Christie woman writes about. Rather like her books myself.’ Then he chuckled and said, ‘She always baffles me . . . always turns out to be the person I didn’t expect. Jolly clever, eh?’
    â€˜Unfortunately,’ said Jack, lighting his pipe, ‘the role we have in this particular plot is far from ideal.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ said Warnie. ‘I don’t follow you, old chap.’
    â€˜I mean that in this particular story we are cast as the main suspects,’ Jack replied with a merry twinkle in his eye.
    â€˜What? No. Surely not. But that’s absurd,’ spluttered Warnie.
    â€˜Well, think about it,’ Jack continued. ‘We are outsiders and strangers—in a small town suspicion is sure to fall on us first.’
    â€˜And did you see Constable Dixon whispering to the landlord as we came upstairs?’ I asked.
    â€˜I did,’ Jack said, ‘and I’m certain the landlord was receiving his instructions. If we three “suspicious characters” should attempt to flee, I’m sure he’s been ordered to telephone the police station immediately.’
    Warnie began to make ‘harrumphing’ noises, but before his indignation could turn into words, Jack said, ‘Don’t worry about it, Warnie old chap. Our shoulders are broad enough to carry a bit of local suspicion for a few days.’
    â€˜And after all,’ I added, ‘we were the only people in the bank at the time Franklin Grimm died . . . apart from the office girl, and she’s a little thing who surely could never have murdered a big chap like Grimm. Oh, and apart from the manager Ravenswood, who was locked behind the brick wall and thick steel door of the vault while the murder was happening. So you can understand them wanting to make sure of us.’
    â€˜It may seem understandable to you,’ Warnie protested, ‘but it seems like dashed