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

snort to clear whatever muck was in his nose. “It’s Inspector Blunt now, as I’m sure even an old fella like you must have heard. And furthermore, this is not your investigation. You are not a serving member of the police and I’d recommend you keep your nose out of it.”

Lord Edgington did not appear to be intimidated. “We’ll see about that, old chap. You do what you have to and we will tread our own path.”

The little man marched towards us then, his sausagey finger pointed like a pistol. “No doubt you can call up your mates in the top brass and get it all smoothed over, but I’m telling you now, I’m going to treat you like any other suspect.”

I surprised myself then by answering the fiery inspector back. “My grandfather had nothing to do with the murder and I think it shows an awful lot of cheek to talk to him in such a disrespectful manner.”

“Oh yeah? I thought I’d been unusually polite.” Barely looking at me, he curled his lip and thundered past us to shout orders at his underling constables.

The owner of the estate that the vile little man had just invaded watched him go with a mix of annoyance and amusement shaping his face.

“He can’t talk to you that way, Grandfather.”

“Yes, he can.” He hesitated, as if he needed time to accept the truth of this himself. “And he’s right, I am a suspect, like anyone else. I’ve been at locked horns with Belinda and her brother for weeks and Fellowes wasn’t in the drinks room when I wandered past. It only makes sense to consider my guilt.”

“Oh, please!” I’m normally a rather placid individual. I don’t know whether it was my grandfather’s temper rubbing off on me, or my innate reaction to Inspector Blunt, but I was suddenly fuming with rage. “That would mean you were willing to kill your whole family and leave Cranley to some distant relative for the sake of a petty argument? The very idea is absurd.”

“The question of absurdity rarely comes up in a criminal investigation, Christopher.” He gripped my arm and led me back towards the house in the footsteps of the officers. “I am a suspect until I can prove that I had neither the inclination nor opportunity to carry out the crime.”

“I can accept that, but why was the inspector so rude to you?”

As we crunched down the gravel path, he did not immediately answer but stroked the long white hair on his chin.

“I can’t say for certain, my boy. I suppose he just doesn’t like our sort. Most people I worked with accepted me as one of their own, but Blunt only ever sees rank and class. He started in the force when I was an inspector and assumed that I got to where I had because of my family’s wealth. He could be commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and he’d still be angry that I was a lord.”

“I always thought that it was wealthy folk like us who were supposed to be the snobs.”

He laughed a little and waited by the entrance for me to walk past him into the house. “Oh, no, Christopher. In this world, anyone can be anything.”

Chapter Twelve

More officers arrived from the villages around the traditional Hundred of Edgington, but it was Inspector Blunt’s operation to run. He launched himself down the corridor and into the ballroom, determined to stamp his mark on the proceedings.

“Has anyone left this room since the body was found?” the Inspector demanded of Todd, who was on duty at the entrance to the room.

“Only those who have returned, Sir.”

“Did anyone try to resuscitate the deceased?” His eyes swung about the group of guests whose grand gowns and formal attire now looked frivolous and self-indulgent.

No one spoke, so my grandfather sighed and delivered his answer. “I checked her pulse; she was already dead. It happened extremely quickly and there was nothing we could do for her.”

Blunt didn’t reply, but his eyes traced a path across the room to where my aunt had slumped over.

The new heir to Cranley Hall was sitting on the floor beside his mother’s stiffening corpse. All the fizz and bravado George Trevelyan had brought with him had disappeared. From the red streaks in his eyes it was clear he’d been crying. I didn’t blame him. I was glad that I’d been allowed to walk around the house instead of being trapped in the ballroom.

“Who are you?” Blunt spat as he approached my cousin.

When he spoke, George was a faint, spectral version of the young man I knew. “She was my mother.”

I found his phrasing rather unusual. The fact he’d already put her into the past tense seemed too soon, too sudden. And instead of answering the inspector’s question directly, he’d reframed the information.

“All right.” Blunt signalled to his subordinates. “Put him in another room and cover up the body. We’ll need statements from anyone with anything worth hearing. It’s going to be a long night.”

George was pulled up to standing by one of the uniformed officers and then he stumbled towards the corridor with a futile glance over his shoulder. Though I’d assumed he was now resigned to the inspector’s authority, my grandfather rushed forward to stake his claim to the case once more.

“You can lead the interview, Blunt, but Christopher and I will be in that room when you speak to my nephew. This is my house and I won’t have it any other way.”

I expected a loud rebuttal but, instead, the middle-aged officer simply huffed, turned his back to us and got on with his work. While he spoke to our still nervous butler, I went to see my family. They were huddled together, far from where Aunt Belinda had collapsed.

It was hard to tell what my mother was thinking. Rigid and barely moving, she sat in a chair between two gigantic vases of delphinium. Albert was the one who seemed most distressed, though not for the reasons one