Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery by Benedict Brown (romantic novels in english .txt) 📗

and led me to the billiards room, which was being used as the centre of operations for our mission. Well, that was the plan, but you could no longer enter the room as it was filled with flowers.

“One field of delphinium, half a field of peony and a copse of lilac,” he dryly repeated. “The florist was very apologetic about the whole thing. She felt sure there’d been a mistake, but I hear you insisted.”

I sneezed in reply. All that pollen was going straight up my nose. “I… Oh, dear.” No great explanation sprung to mind. “Now that I see them all together like this, it does look rather a lot, doesn’t it? Do we have enough vases?”

“Did you order any vases?” I could see he was enjoying this.

“No, I…”

“And did Lord Edgington not give you a budget for the party? Or did you think that a small fortune for flowers seemed like a reasonable price?”

I had a moment of sheer panic at the thought of my grandfather’s temper being directed upon me. Eventually, Fellowes took pity and helped calm my nerves.

“Don’t worry about it, lad.” A smile curled across the butler’s face. “I told the old man already and he didn’t seem too worried. I believe the words that he used were, ‘They will add some colour to the place.’”

I took in the endless harvest which had been stuffed into the room before us. The white delphiniums were as bright as any star and their luminescence reflected back off the walls. They’d transformed the usually drab billiard room into a spring meadow. I realised that there were no peonies just as Fellowes pointed to the smoking room.

“This is just the beginning, there are more across the hall.”

It was fairly clear now that I should have taken the florist’s advice.

Despite this minor setback, all other preparations were progressing well. Our regular staff were in on the act and the work didn’t let up for a moment. Todd would be doubling as a footman for the next couple of days, when not ferrying guests about. Fellowes had more opportunities than ever to bark orders at everyone and the maids were hard at work getting the house ready for an influx of tipsy overnighters. Alice spotted me soon after I arrived and fussed herself over my black eye.

“What were ya thinking, getting into a fight, Master Christopher?” she asked in her perfectly melodious Tipperary accent.

Luckily, she didn’t give me time to reply but ran off to fetch a chunk of ice to get the swelling down. It stung a little as she pressed it against the bruise but this gave me the perfect opportunity to gaze upon her ice-white skin and nigella-blue eyes. Marmaduke Adelaide, dull, dusty classrooms and even warring relatives seemed very far away just then. For a moment, I could imagine that we lived in a world where the grandson of a lord was free to confess his adoration to an émigré housemaid.

I imagine I’d been gawping, as Alice looked rather out of sorts. I pulled back from her and pretended that I hadn’t been imagining us walking hand in hand on a sunlit beach.

“I… Well, I should probably find out whether the operator has a telephone number for vase rental.” I took the ice from her soft, soft hand and held it to my eye. “Do you know if that’s a service which exists?”

“And sure how would I know?” she replied, in rather short fashion and went off to attend to her duties.

Through an incredible stroke of luck, a call to Selfridges put me in touch with the right people. At ten o’clock that night, a lorry turned up from London full to the brim with porcelain vases. Sadly, all the temporary staff had finished work for the day which meant that, as it was essentially all my fault, I had to stay up until four in the morning putting the flowers in water to make sure they didn’t wilt and die.

By twelve o’clock I was barely able to keep my eyes open, but then an unexpected assistant arrived.

“Two fields of flowers, eh?” My grandfather stood in the doorway to the billiard room enjoying my misfortune.

“Not quite two.” I yawned and snipped open my hundredth bundle of lilac. “Barely one and three quarters in fact.”

“Come along, Chrissy.” He surprised me by pulling a chair over to the bridge table where I’d been working. “I’ll give you a hand.”

He moved with a swiftness and determination which belied his advanced years. In one flowing movement he scooped up a bundle of flowers from the floor, deposited them between us, then pulled a crate of vases up next to him.

“Do you know anything about flower arrangement, Grandfather?”

“I know that you shouldn’t handle delphiniums with your bare hands. They can be quite toxic in fact. We’ll have to ring for some gloves. Except for that… no, not very much.” He surveyed the ranks of vases I had already filled. “Though, clearly, neither do you.”

I smiled and we worked out who would do what in our newly formed production line. I enjoyed the precision with which he did everything. Even this mundane task was invested with great care and concentration. Perhaps it was my fatigue, but I felt oddly close to him then and, before I knew it, the words had fallen from my mouth.

“Grandfather, why exactly do you talk to your staff the way you do?”

He kept his eyes on the peony stems which he was dealing with. “How do you mean?”

I realised the weight of the question I’d just asked him, but there was no going back now. “Even Mother keeps her distance from our staff at home, and she’s quite modern compared to most people. But you…” It was hard to express my thoughts without sounding terribly judgemental. “Well, you’re rather unique, aren’t you?”

He allowed himself the briefest of glances in my direction before responding. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” I thought that this was all he would provide