The Corpse in the Cellar (25 page)

‘Even Bertrand Russell?'

‘Even Russell.'

This was a bold attack on my flank that I hadn't expected and didn't understand.

‘Since what you say seems to be patently absurd, I'm sure you'll have a good explanation.'

Jack's smile widened as he said, ‘There is some dispute over the origin of the English word “religion”, but nowadays most philologists suggest that it comes from the Latin
religare
—which you'll remember means “to bind”. Our word “ligature” comes from a related source word, and, of course, a ligature is a binding. So if, as it seems, “religion” means “that which binds” then everyone is religious, because everyone has something that they are bound to—or something which binds them.'

‘What's Bertrand Russell's religion then?'

‘That I couldn't possibly answer. For a start he belongs to the other university, so I don't know the man personally. And I haven't read enough of his writings to know what opinions he feels tied to—feels bound to defend no matter what. Of course, for some people their “religion” (that to which they are bound hand and foot) is their own pleasure, or their career, or some particular task. But feeling bound and committed to something is part of human nature. So in that “binding” sense, everyone has something that could be called their “religion”.'

I leaned forward and said, ‘You'll notice that I'm squinting here, trying to get a good look at these fine philosophical hairs you're splitting.'

Jack laughed heartily. ‘And if you're telling me that etymology is not meaning you're quite right. So looking at the word “religion” as it's most commonly used in our world today, it seems to me that God is not religious.'

This was another bold move, as if he was trying to leap across the board and capture my queen. ‘Hold on, that's a step too far for me. Back up several paces and explain that one.'

‘You'll understand that since, reluctantly, abandoning my atheistic dogmas and becoming a Christian I've been reading my Bible assiduously. And from my reading it seems to me that what God cares about is not religion—if by religion we mean things like membership of this or that body, attendance at services, rituals and routines and the like. It strikes me that much of what we label “religion” these days consists of things the Bible would have called “idolatry”. Again and again God seems to tell his people that an empty show of ritual is not what pleases him. It's matters of the heart that please him, not belonging to the “religious club” or taking part in this or that service or act of worship or ritual.'

‘Well, if God's not religious, what is he? What is it he really wants from us?'

‘It seems to me that what God cares about is relationship, not religion. His goal is not that you become religious, but that you have a personal relationship with him. Remember when Jesus was asked to summarise God's requirements of us he said they could be boiled down to just two commandments. The first was to love God with all our heart and mind and soul and strength, and the second was to love our neighbour as ourselves. Now, what are those two commandments about? Surely both are about relationships. The first says: here's how to relate to God. And the second says: here's how to relate to each other.'

‘So if I am sincere in pursuing an appropriate relationship with God, that will put me right—even if I dodge all the hymn singing and organ music and lighting candles and stained-glass windows?'

‘There is, in a sense, only one requirement, young Morris: that you pursue a relationship with God in the way that God requires and the way that God makes possible.'

At that moment Warnie sailed back in through the door carefully balancing a fresh brandy and soda in his hand. He saw our heads together and Jack's eyes sparkling with battle and said, ‘Ah, you're still at it, I see. Then it's another game of darts for me.' And with those words he disappeared again.

‘But what if,' I said, ‘I have no interest in pursuing God? What then? It seems to me that I am a strictly secular person. Is there no place for secular folk like me?'

‘The notion of being secular doesn't bother me at all,' Jack replied. ‘We are all secular, since the word “secular” just means pertaining to this mundane, everyday world around us. My problem is with your expression “strictly secular”. That sounds as though you have ruled out a whole region of thought—a whole realm of life. We human beings are made to be amphibians.'

‘Amphibians?'

‘We have two modes of existence. Just as those creatures we commonly call amphibian can thrive both on land and in the water, so we are designed to thrive in dual environments—both in the secular and the sacred, both in the material and the spiritual. Once you label yourself as “strictly secular” you are narrowing your life down to half of its potential.'

‘But if I'm only ever aware of the secular, of the material, what then?'

‘Ah, but you see, young Morris, I don't believe that you are. There are those things that lift your heart, that make your spirit soar, that fill you with hope or with longing. In those moments you catch a glimpse of that realm that is beyond the strictly secular and material.'

‘Such as?' I asked, not denying his observation because I knew it had a kernel of truth in it.

‘When, after a day's hard walking, you get to the peak of a high bluff and look out on beautiful countryside, rolling away to a distant horizon, lit up in brilliant red and gold by a setting sun—the stirring in your spirit cannot be explained as the product merely of photons of light striking the retina at the back of your eye and nothing more. Something else is going on. You should investigate what that something is.'

I sipped my brandy and soda in silence for a moment, then said, ‘And if I investigate, what do you imagine I'll discover?'

‘Any thoroughgoing and honest investigation will turn up the key that opens this particular door. Namely that Jesus founded a universal faith—not a regional religion.'

This seemed to me to be switching the discussion onto an entirely different track, but I didn't interrupt. I wanted to see where this line of thought was leading.

‘There are parts of the world,' Jack said, ‘defined both geographically and ethnically, in which cultural systems are based on Hinduism or Buddhism or Confucianism or what have you. But everywhere the message of Jesus arrives it takes root and flourishes and finds appropriate local cultural expression.'

‘And this is because . . . ?'

‘It's because Christianity doesn't belong to the East, its birthplace, or to Europe, its current stronghold, but to the world. The “coming down” (and I don't mean spatially, of course) of God into human history, into time and space, takes Christianity from the realm of spiritual speculation into the realm of facts and events. It takes it into the realm of reality—and of a reality that is eternally true.'

‘Now there I have to challenge you. Truth is more flexible and personal than that. The notion that this or that truth is absolute and eternal is surely nonsensical. There are no such truths.'

‘There are, young Morris, truths that are universal. The six times table was true a thousand years ago and it's true today. It's true in England and it's true in Japan—and if we were on the surface of the moon it would be true there. The message about Jesus is like mathematics—universal, eternal truth.'

‘A truth that explains what exactly?'

‘It explains the other half of existence—the half not covered by words such as “secular” and “material”. The parallel here is modern science, in that Christianity exposes the basic principles the world works on. Not, of course, the material and physical principles; rather the metaphysical, supernatural principles. By way of illustration: the formula for water is H
₂
O in every country, in every culture, in every century. Modern science is a universally true explanation of the material world, as far as it goes. It still has much to discover, and still undoubtedly contains some errors that will one day be corrected. Nonetheless, it serves as a parallel or illustration for the way Christianity is the universal truth about that part of Tom Morris that is more than physical—that part of every human being that is more than physical. It is the necessary explanation, the necessary guide, we all need—and without which we are all lost.'

Just then we heard the sound of raised voices in the front bar and went to investigate. We found an angry, red-faced Edmund Ravenswood leaning over the bar and shouting at our publican, Frank Jones.

‘Is she here, Jones?' he demanded. ‘Just tell me that. Is she here?'

As he spoke Ravenswood reached out to grab Jones by the shirt collar. The publican stepped back from the grasping hand and bumped heavily against the dark, wooden panelling behind the bar.

‘Now just calm down, Mr Ravenswood. There's no call for you to be upset with me.'

‘Just answer my question, damn you! Is she here?'

As Jack and I walked into the bar from the snug, Warnie strolled across to the angry bank manager, still clutching several darts, and in his briskest military manner said, ‘I take it your wife has left you again, Mr Ravenswood?'

The bank manager spun around on his heels and spluttered, ‘What? Well—what has that got to do with you?'

This did not disconcert Warnie, who responded, ‘It's a free country, you know. If she's over twenty-one she can do what she likes.'

‘Oh no she can't,' growled Ravenswood. ‘Not this time she can't. This time she's made herself into a thief. This time she's stolen my wallet.'

Jack actually laughed at this revelation. ‘Well, if she has cash, Ravenswood, I think you'll find she's gone—and this time she'll be out of your reach.'

‘She's probably gone back to Mrs What's-her-name's boarding house,' said Warnie, who by now was looming over the fuming bank manager.

‘She's not there,' Ravenswood snarled as he lowered his eyes and managed, for a moment at least, to look a little embarrassed. ‘I've already looked there.'

‘Well, she's not here, sir,' said Frank Jones from behind the bar. ‘We only have three guests staying here at the moment—these three gentlemen here.'

Ravenswood looked around, hesitated, then strode angrily out into the night.

‘Unpleasant gentleman,' said Warnie mildly. ‘I'll have another brandy and soda, please. Anything for you two?'

Jack and I declined a drink. Warnie told the locals in the bar to carry on the darts game without him and walked with us back into the snug.

Seated around the fire I turned to Jack and said, ‘Well, what do you make of that?'

‘Events seem to be coming to a climax,' said Jack. ‘I think perhaps tomorrow morning I should have a talk to our friend Inspector Crispin.'

The next morning Jack didn't have to go looking for Inspector Crispin; he came to us. He arrived just as we three were getting stuck into a hearty breakfast, with the bacon and eggs sitting on slabs of hot buttered toast as thick as doorsteps.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,' said Crispin. ‘I've come to tell you that you're free to leave. We'll detain you in Market Plumpton no longer. Of course, when this matter finally comes to trial, we'll be in touch with you again—I believe we have the contact details for each of you. And you may be called to give evidence at the trial, either by the prosecution or the defence. But that, of course, is still some way off.'

‘So you've solved the baffling mystery of the corpse in the cellar?' Warnie said, chuckling with surprise. ‘Jolly good for you. I must admit I didn't think you boys from Scotland Yard were up to it. It just shows that the detective novels don't always get it right. So you've solved it, eh? How about that.' Warnie raised his eyebrows and returned to giving his breakfast the serious attention it deserved.

‘Are you free to tell us the name of the culprit, inspector?' Jack asked.

‘There's no harm in telling you, sir, that we've issued an arrest warrant for Mrs Edith Ravenswood. She being the one who benefits from the death of Franklin Grimm as his next of kin.'

‘But she's missing,' I said. ‘At least I take it from what Mr Ravenswood said last night that she's missing.'

‘Flight is itself often an admission of guilt, sir.'

‘Mrs Ravenswood . . . who would have thought?' I gulped, half choking on a mouthful of bacon. ‘But I don't understand. She's the last person I would have suspected.'

‘It's always the least likely person who turns out to be guilty,' mumbled Warnie. ‘Happens all the time in those Agatha Christie books.' Then he paused, a puzzled expression passing over his face, and asked, ‘But how on earth did she commit the murder? I mean, how did she get into the cellar unseen to do the killing—and then get out again, still unseen?'