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

Daddy always hated being far back in the theatre and no doubt wanted a good view. Uncle Maitland was pacing up and down in front of the fireplace and poor, orphaned George inevitably looked distraught. He had draped himself across a bookshelf and chewed his nails nervously as we waited.

Fellowes poured whisky from a decanter and, when he served Clementine, she thought it would be rather funny to return the favour. Still in the over-the-top, theatrical style of her previous performance, the old lady made a big show of splashing out the single malt into a tumbler for the butler.

“You know,” she began, in her high, quivering voice, “when I was a girl, we ladies were never allowed in smoking rooms and now here I am serving the gentlemen drinks! What thrills!”

She launched into another song as she poured her granddaughter Cora a drink of her own. Fellowes looked unsure how to react, but decided to humour the mad old thing and stood back against the bookshelf with the discretion required of his position. Once Clementine had finished her task, and her song, the inspector began.

“There’s a killer in this room.” His opening line was appropriately direct. “Someone you all know planned and carried out a murder. I want you to think about this simple fact and remember that keeping secrets won’t do you nothing but harm.”

I was one of the few people present who could not actually have killed my aunt. This felt jolly good to know, but Inspector Blunt’s demand still had its desired effect. I looked about at the figures who’d been a fixture in my life for so long and processed the fact that one of them had not only murdered Belinda, they’d almost wiped out my whole family.

Blunt continued to address us in a truly bizarre manner. Presumably attempting to sound like a member of the upper classes, he added extra Hs to the beginning of words. “If hany of you know hanything, you must tell me now. Whatever you were up to between eight fifty and nine ho’clock this evening, give hor take a few minutes, I need to know about it. Whatever you’re keeping to yourself, don’t.”

I took in the reactions of those around me as he spoke. Chic, modern Cora peered through her monocle at the inspector. She was obviously nervous and hugged her glass close to her body, but barely took a sip. Clementine was peering out of the window and humming once more, Uncle Maitland’s round, ruddy face looked as vexed as it ever did and I couldn’t bring myself to look at Father just then as I was still trying to ignore the reality that he was a suspect.

The inspector swept his searchlight eyes from one side of the room to the other. “This is not my first time investigating a case like this. And it doesn’t matter if it’s a car stolen in Hounslow or a man stabbed to death on the steps of Westminster Cathedral, people like you always make the same mistakes. So, whatever you think you’ve got to lose by telling me the truth, it can’t be worse than being arrested for murder.”

Standing beside me at the back of the room, the most experienced officer there nodded his approval at his old rival’s message. My grandfather was a fair man, even when faced with unpleasant people.

“So,” Blunt continued, “what have you got for me? Hanyone want to admit to seeing hanything suspicious? Hanyone want to cough up to the crime?” He waited for a response and, when nothing came, he abandoned his posh tone altogether and addressed his subordinates. “Nah, didn’t think so. Right, separate ‘em all up into rooms of their own and don’t let any of ‘em say a word to one another. It’s like I said, boys, it’s going to be a very long night.”

As the constables dispersed, he pointed to my grandfather then with malicious glee. “And start with that one!”

Lord Edgington was incensed and shot his response across the room. “You can’t do this, I told you what will happen if you shut me out of the investigation.”

Blunt just ignored him. “And make sure that there’s no phone in the room you lock him in.”

Chapter Fourteen

The police carted their suspects off to separate cells along the corridor. I noticed they shut Grandfather up in what amounted to a cupboard used for storing silverware, while I was left out entirely.

It had gone eleven by this time. I could tell that Blunt would make them wait before starting the interviews and, as most people had retired for the evening, I decided to do the same.

My parents have a suite beside my own and so I called in to see my mother before bed. I very much hoped that, wherever the staff had stuck Albert, he was far away from our cousin Margaret Hillington-Smythe.

“Aren’t you worried about Father?” I asked as I watched my mother’s pearl-handled brush fall through her long, brown hair for the fifth, tenth, one hundredth time. I’ve always found watching her at such tasks to be most soothing, but even this was no balm after that night’s cavalcade of disasters.

She stopped the movement to answer me. “No, Christopher. Of course I’m not worried about him. There is no way on this green and pleasant Earth that your father could be mixed up in my sister’s murder.” Her soft voice peaked then. “And besides, do we even know it was intentional? Could it not simply be that the champagne was fifty years old and had turned to acid?”

I considered this for a moment, but it didn’t seem possible. “Grandfather doesn’t think so. He said there are very few poisons that could have killed her like that and cyanide is the most likely.”

My mother shivered a little then. Cyanide was a poison you heard about in penny dreadfuls and ghastly newspaper stories. It was not the kind of thing we dealt with at Cranley Hall.

She looked at my reflection in the