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

“That’s right.” I was grinning by now. “Since I arrived at Cranley Hall, the old man hasn’t left his suite and he’s never once called for me. It’s awfully hard to have a conversation when, until today, we were never in the same room.”

My family had returned to their gawping, but I was saved by a knock at the door.

Fellowes didn’t wait to be admitted and strolled right in. “Lord Edgington wishes to see Chrissy.” With his gruff delivery, not only did Grandfather’s most loyal servant not sound like a butler, he also didn’t look like one. Short and skinny with a scar under his left eye, he was unusually scruffy at the best of times. I once saw him wandering through Cranley Hall with his shirttails flapping loose. Still in his thirties, he was also younger than most such retainers and swaggered about like he thought he was Don Juan.

My parents’ stunned reaction told me that they had no idea how to reply to such a request. Fellowes had already left the room, so I hurried out after him.

“‘Ere, what’s wrong with your brother?” he asked when we drew level in the corridor.

I’d spent enough time with the man to not be offended by his lack of manners, or the fact that he let his true South-London accent emerge when we were alone together.

“Albert’s still nursing his wounded pride after Evangeline De Vere refused to go to the university ball with him.”

The butler wore a perplexed expression. “Nah, not what’s wrong with ‘im today. Why’s he always such a wet blanket? He goes about with a face like an orphaned monkey.” He laughed like he really enjoyed his own joke.

“I think it must be hard being the firstborn son,” I attempted to explain. “There are a lot of expectations to live up to. Or at least, that’s what Father says.”

The conversation tailed off as we both chewed this over. Crossing Cranley Hall can take quite some time and the quarters where I stay when not at boarding school are about as far from my Grandfather’s suite as he could have put me. We cut across the water garden, then traversed the two-hundred-yard corridor in the western wing with its black and white chessboard tiles and endless selection of Cranley family portraits. When we reached the stairs up to his rooms, we did not turn off as I’d been expecting but carried straight on.

We passed the odd, lingering relative along the way. Great-Aunt Clementine had found a new spot in the smoking room to snooze in and her granddaughter, the young, pretty, ultra-modern Cora Villiers, was puffing on a large cigar. She shot Fellowes a distrustful look as we passed and I gave her an inappropriately cheery wave in return. In the grand salon, Uncle Maitland and his two snobby children were having an argument and some chap who looked like a pigeon (plump, sallow and rather hungry) was sizing up an expensive vase as we made our way towards the ballroom.

I have to say that I was taken aback to see my grandfather roaming the house. The last time I’d seen him anywhere but his own suite was at Grandma’s funeral. Her sudden death in her sixties had profoundly affected him and yet, there he was in all his brittle elegance; lord and legendary police superintendent, proudly surveying his domain.

“Fellowes,” Aunt Belinda growled as she passed us in the other direction. “See if you can talk some sense into the old fool!” It was my auntie who had been the most aggressive in the ruckus that had followed Grandfather’s announcement. She’d looked at me like I was trying to steal the food off her only son’s plate.

Fellowes put on an innocent smile and bowed his head to her. She scowled in my direction, then slunk from the room.

“The boy,” the butler told my grandfather. “As requested, Milord.”

I’d often wondered exactly why it was that the renowned Lord Edgington would put up with such un-butlerish behaviour from a servant. At the time, though, I didn’t have the guts to look my grandfather in the eyes, let alone ask him such a question.

“Jolly good,” he said, without turning around. “Fellowes, you must tell Violet that she and the family are to stay an extra night. Make up the dining room and we can eat there all together.”

Fellowes looked surprised. “The dining room, Milord? Not in your suite?”

“That’s what I said, man!” Grandfather’s temper flashed like a cracking whip. “Now run along and do as instructed.”

Fellowes squeaked back across the shiny floor, and we stood in silence, appreciating that fine spring afternoon through the French windows. A gardener was trimming the hedgerows in the distance with a rhythmic snipping of his shears, and a breeze ruffled the oaks over in the wood. If I’d been alone, I might have closed my eyes and drifted away with the music of nature, but, instead, I tensed all my muscles and waited for my grandfather to address me.

“You like birds, don’t you, Christopher?” he finally enquired, his gaze twitching over in my direction, like he’d only just realised I was there.

“No, sir,” I floundered. “Well, yes. But it’s not as if I imagine they’re my friends or…” I was never the most confident person and right then I was a jittering bag of nerves. “I actually think they’d make rather good friends, but I know that’s not possible.” This is exactly the kind of thing my father always told me off for saying. I braced myself for a withering look from my grandfather, but his moustache twitched upwards a fraction.

“I think you’re onto something there. Birds are sensible creatures. They’re focussed, hardworking, loyal to their own.” He stroked the hair on his chin contemplatively. “Yes, if I was to choose an animal to make friends with, I could imagine a lot worse than a bird.”

As if she’d been listening, his lolloping golden retriever, Delilah, nearly fell