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

mirror on her dressing table. “Your father had nothing to do with it and nor did mine.” I felt she was saying this for her own reassurance. “I really can’t imagine that anyone from the family would want to hurt poor Belinda.”

I was running through the suspects again in my head and probably didn’t tread as carefully as I should have. “But that means it could only have been Fellowes or Marmaduke Adelaide.”

She turned around in her chair to look straight at me. “Well, there you go then; it must be that horrible boy. He should never have been at the ball after what he did to you, and I’ve heard frightful stories about his family.”

I thought about this for a moment. Adelaide was a savage at school, but could he really have murdered someone in cold blood? “I’m not so sure, Mother. The way he was acting before he escaped this evening didn’t suggest that-”

In a single moment her whole demeanour changed. “Christopher, that’s enough!” She threw the brush down so that it skidded across the carpet and came to a rest under the window. “You’re not a detective and I’m sure this will all be resolved by the morning anyway.”

Her hollow voice shot over to where I sat at the end of the curtained bed. We looked at one another, neither of us quite sure what to say next. I thought of apologising and, knowing mother, I’m sure she did the same. In the end, neither of us could break the deadlock and I mumbled, “I should probably leave now,” and left the room.

The problem was that I didn’t want to go to bed and couldn’t fall asleep when I tried. I just lay there, going over the events of that night and trying to understand who could be behind my aunt’s horrendous fate. I was somehow colder under the scratchy woollen quilt than I had been outside, but I must have drifted off at some point as, several hours later, I woke up to find a figure sitting in the armchair by the door.

A patch of moonlight cast a silver halo around my grandfather and made his white whiskers shine. He didn’t say anything at first, and I could tell he was lost in his thoughts. I sat up in bed, but even then he didn’t react.

“Are you all right, Grandfather?”

He made a questioning hmmm sound as if he’d just noticed me there and then voiced aloud the notions that had been playing in his mind. “Blunt got the better of me this evening. I’m not too big a man to admit it. But this was just the opening gambit and tomorrow the real investigation will begin.”

Still groggy, with a heavy head and half-closed eyes, there wasn’t much I could say to this. Luckily, he stood up from his chair and pulled his shoulders back like a soldier being inspected by his commanding officer.

“I’ll need you up nice and early. We’ve work to do if we want to catch the killer before he strikes again.”

This woke me up. “Do you think that’s likely?”

“Oh, almost certainly. With so many people around at the time of the murder, there are bound to be loose ends that the culprit will need to tie up. Killing once is a test of character, but the second time comes more easily.” He put his hand on the door and, with an incongruous smile, said, “Sweet dreams, Christopher.”

And with that, he was gone.

Chapter Fifteen

After that unwelcome interruption, I had a restless night. My dreams were filled with giant ginger bullies and dying aunts. I imagined each one of the suspects confessing to their part in the crime, but, when I woke up, the details of each explanation were gone from my head.

I was feeling more positive than the night before though, if for no other reason than the thought of all the cakes left over for breakfast. When I got down to the dining room, the staff had laid out a truly sumptuous feast. There were custard tarts, fondant rings, Eccles cakes, Danish pastries and a huge assortment of petit fours which Cook had prepared especially and no one had touched. Sadly, there was a scrum of old family friends and distant relatives already helping themselves, so I joined the back of the queue and waited.

Fellowes was hard at work being rude to the family but the only other official suspect I caught sight of was Great-Aunt Clementine. She was singing Noel Coward’s ‘There’s Life in the Old Girl Yet’ to her captive audience. As a result, once the food had been taken, very few people stayed in the room to eat. On the bright side, I hoped that her caterwauling might make the scroungers and loiterers head home sooner.

Just when it was my turn to take my fill of the sweet selection, Grandfather appeared.

“No time for that, boy,” he informed me. “There’s work to be done.”

I almost cried, but put my plate down and hurried after him. Five seconds later, I changed my mind and pushed back through the crowd to claim a cream horn. Aunt Belinda was dead and she wasn’t going to get any deader because I’d had a spot of breakfast.

“Where are we going?” I asked as I licked granules of sugar from my fingers.

“We’ll interview Blunt’s prime suspect first, see what he knows. With a smooth fellow like George Trevelyan, it’s best to catch him when he hasn’t had time to prepare his answers.”

He was full of energy that morning and strode up the stairs to the wing of Cranley Hall where guests normally slept.

“I was up before the dawn.” He breathed in noisily, like he was recalling the fresh morning air. “I’ve spoken to the servants already. Every one of them has an alibi and the extra staff we’d hired to help with the preparations had all left before the ball began.”

Halfway along the upper corridor, he came to a stop and banged on the door. He didn’t