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

hunting jacket, though, to paraphrase my mother, Maitland was a terrible marksman and couldn’t hit a horse with a hammer from half a yard away.

“Can’t it wait, my boy? We’re really very busy.”

My uncle became rather miffed and eyed me angrily. “No, it cannot. You’ve got all the time in the world for this little moneygrubber, but none for your own son. Do you know what I suffered through with that obnoxious policeman last night?”

Grandfather had picked up the stone with his sleeve, so as not to get fingerprints on it, before slipping it into his pocket. “Well, yes. I can imagine.”

“This is a nightmare for me. Imagine how shocked people will be when they find out that Maitland Cranley, the son of Lord Edgington, is a suspect in the murder of his own sister!”

His father was unmoved. “Not nearly so shocked as when they find out that Lord Edgington is a suspect in the murder of his own daughter.”

Getting angrier by the word, Maitland paced up and down on a small patch of path but came no closer. “Oh yes, brush me off with your witty observations. That’s typical of you, Father. You’re too clever for your own good.” He stretched his arms out in an attempt to make himself more noticeable. “But here I am, your flesh and blood, asking you for help and you won’t lift a finger.”

Grandfather sighed and stepped out of the flowerbed. “I’m sorry, Maitland. You’re absolutely right. I don’t make enough time for you and I should.” He sounded quite sincere. “Tell me what the matter is and I will do whatever I can to help.”

The tubby hunter wasn’t expecting this and didn’t appear to know what to say next. “Oh… Well, I have to concede that is awfully good of you and I accept your apology.” He whistled a falling note as he tried to process this development.

“If it makes you feel any better, dear boy, I never imagined for one second that you would have killed Belinda. The two of you were in cahoots from the day you were born. If you were planning to kill anyone, it would surely have been me.”

The two men laughed then, and it appeared as though Maitland had forgotten what he’d come to say. “Thank you, Daddy. I really mean it.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to get off your chest?” Grandfather’s eyebrows climbed higher up his forehead.

“Well, there was one thing and I didn’t think much of it at first but it’s been niggling in my mind all morning and I realised I should probably say something. You see, the reason I wasn’t there just before the toast last night was because…” He paused and looked around, and I felt sure he was about to reveal some vital fact of the case. “…because I’d gone to use the commode. But, on my way back, I saw something rather puzzling.”

Grandfather did not display any of his usual impatience, but listened intently to what his son had to say. “Do go on.”

Maitland looked around once more. “Well, you see, as I was walking along the corridor, I spotted Fellowes leaving the petit salon, and-”

His sentence was interrupted by a resolute BANG! Well, it wasn’t quite a bang actually, it was more of a THWACK! Or perhaps a TWANG! Yes, let’s stick with that.

TWANG! went the noise, and Maitland had just enough time to glance down at the crossbow bolt that had pierced his chest before he collapsed to the ground with a shriek.

Chapter Seventeen

It was Grandfather’s instinct to grab his son and pull him back towards the cover of the house. Whoever had shot my uncle must have been firing from one of the upstairs windows and wouldn’t be able to hit us from there. Maitland was too heavy for his ageing father to shift, though, so I had to help. Luckily, the ancient crossbows we have at Cranley aren’t the quickest weapons to reload and no more shots were fired.

I got the two men to safety, then ran back up the steps, shouting, “The armoury!” as Grandfather attended to Uncle Maitland. When I got to the top, my cousins Francis and Eleanor were both staring down, trying to work out what had happened to their father. Inside, my aunt Winifred evidently didn’t think anything of the rumpus and was tucking in to a currant bun with her feet up.

I ran through the petit salon to the corridor, just in time to see Cora Villiers nip into the smoking room. By the time I got to her, she was sitting reading a book beside the fireplace, with her grandmother Clementine snoring away nearby.

“What happened?” She asked with a look of pure innocence on her face. “I heard a scream. Who was it?”

There was no time to deal with her. I pressed on along the corridor and grabbed a silver candlestick, from the bureau in front of the armoury, before seizing the door handle. I’m fully conscious of the fact that tableware can’t really compete with an arsenal of swords, knives and guns but, unsure what else to do, I said a little prayer and opened the door.

The armoury was empty.

“Oh, thank goodness for that!” I said out loud. I felt like I might pass out from all that stress (and running). In fact my lungs were carrying out a full rebellion on the rest of my body.

Once I’d recovered my breath enough to stand and walk again, I searched the room for evidence. There were several wooden bolts strewn about the place and a space on the wall where the weapon had been taken from. I noticed that there was a matching crossbow pinned to the opposite wall which looked as though someone had tried to remove it. It was at a slight angle and it made me wonder whether our killer was short and had failed in his task before spotting the other crossbow. Where the murder weapon had ended up, of course, was