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

in way of an answer but then he finished one of the arrangements and sat back in his chair. “It’s not just the staff here at Cranley, I try to treat everyone as equals, no matter their standing or station in life.”

Now that the gate was open, I found that the questions came flooding out of me. “Yes, but, have you always been like that? And why do you let Fellowes act the way he does? And why go to the kitchen when-”

He interrupted before I could get anything more out. “No. I haven’t always been so enlightened on the matter but, after I saw the sacrifice of so many ordinary citizens during the war, I realised that class is not the great divider that so many believe.”

He paused again and looked at me as if trying to decide whether I was old enough to understand such concepts. “You know, during the time I sat in my tower, like Rapunzel waiting to be saved, the world changed so much. I followed what happened in newspapers and novels to try to understand how humans could bring such misery upon ourselves.”

I could see that this question was still running through his mind as he spoke. “Perhaps I’m too much of an optimist, but I’d like to believe that the tragedy that we’ve lived through could give us a greater appreciation of just how precious a resource our fellow humans are. It doesn’t matter where a person comes from or what they’re trained to do, we are all born equal and we all have the potential to do good.”

I’m not the best at pretending to understand what people are talking about. I imagine I had my usual distant look in my eyes as I nudged him back to my original questions. “And Fellowes? Mother says he acts like he’s the master of Cranley and that you don’t notice.”

My lordly grandfather laughed at this. It was a big, booming sound that shook the table we were sitting at. He reminded me of a Father Christmas I’d once seen at a children’s party. In fact, with his white whiskers and impressive height he’d fit right in at the North Pole (though he should probably gain a few stone first).

“I notice. Of course I notice. Fellowes is as much a pain to me as anyone. You don’t think I’ve suffered having no one but him for company for the last ten years?”

The deeper we got into the conversation, the less I understood for certain. Instead of hanging on his every word, I went back to filling the vases as though I was really very blasé about the whole discussion. “Then why not fire him?”

The answer that I’d been pondering for so long came straight back to me. “Because I trust him.” The old man was watching me as I made a terrible job of splashing the overfilled bucket of water about the carpet. I pretended I hadn’t noticed and let him keep talking. “The last thing I need is a yes man, and Fellowes is far from it. We’ve known one another for a long time and, without him, I’d probably still be up in my room lamenting my misfortune.”

“So how did you meet?” All that practised nonchalance was gone from my voice. I’d only just got the question out when he changed the subject.

“Do you know what I’d like to talk about?” He came to a halt and I was worried for a moment that it might not be a rhetorical question. “I’d like to know about the black eye you’ve acquired. Did you get any punches in yourself?”

I attempted a laugh. “Of course, I did. I was a positive mauler, just like Jack Dempsey. They had to put the fragments of my opponent in an envelope to send them home to his mother.”

Grandfather’s moustaches pulled wide in a smile and we continued with our work. I was coming to realise that, no matter how many mysteries I might unpick in my family, there would always be more to discover.

Chapter Eight

It was almost too good to believe when the evening of the ball finally arrived and our guests appeared. My aunt and uncle’s attempt at sabotage had not materialised, we’d got everything ready in time and I even looked rather dashing in my top hat and tails, or at least, that’s what Alice told me in a whisper as she served canapés.

“You look fat,” was my paternal grandmother’s contrasting perspective.

“Oh, do leave him alone, mother.” For once, my father came to my defence. “He’s not fat, he’s got Daddy’s big bones.”

My grandmother was a rake of a woman with a grip like a metal clamp and a voice as loud as a radio transmitter. She was not one for changing her mind.

“Your father was fat! His bones were big, but so was all of the flesh on top of them.” She addressed me directly then. “Boy, what have they been feeding you? A strict diet of lard and butter no doubt.”

“Don’t listen to your grandmother, Christopher,” Father intervened once more. “She tells Albert that he’s too skinny. Nothing is ever good enough for Mummy.”

The old lady looked scandalised. “What is the world coming to when my own son would say such a thing? A young boy should always listen to his elders.”

“I should check on the other guests,” I said, before the two of them could get into one of their favourite arguments. I didn’t specifically know which guests I should be looking after but I’d been trapped in the grand salon by a gang of my elderly relatives for half an hour already and was beginning to feel a little aged myself.

Peeking into the petit salon, there was nothing much going on there except for my prehistoric great-aunt Clementine snoring away behind the door with her feet up on an ottoman. I was a little disappointed that so few people had taken advantage of my culinary selection, so I helped myself to