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

On the carpet underneath the empty bracket, I noticed traces of tobacco ash. I gave it a sniff and decided it was almost certainly from a cigar as it smelt just like the ones my father smoked. This could only mean that we were looking for a short, cigar-smoking murderer. I had just seen someone who fitted that description running from the scene of the crime and, as far as I was concerned, the case was closed.

The window was also closed, but I assumed the police would be along soon to dust for fingerprints. It’s a shame that fingerprints are so hard to spot. It would make detective work a darned sight easier if they stuck out like poppies in a meadow.

I went back out to the hall where a crowd had formed. The last lingering guests had come to discover what the commotion was about and I noticed that several of our suspects were close at hand. In fact, assuming he wasn’t hiding in one of the adjacent rooms, it was really only Marmalade we could now rule out for certain.

“They say Maitland’s been shot,” George informed the crowd, as I caught sight of my father at the end of the hall. “What did you find in there, Chrissy?” He was either a very good actor or he really didn’t know what had happened.

I studied him for a moment before answering. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” my mother replied, a note of panic in her voice.

“Well, no one.”

“And what about Maitland?” as she said this, her tears came. “Is he…?”

In my hurry to catch the killer, I hadn’t considered what state my uncle was in. I hadn’t even thought to telephone for a doctor, though I was sure one of his children would have seen to that by now. I peered back along the hall, just as my grandfather emerged from the petit salon. His grey morning coat was covered in rusty red stains and his face told us all we needed to know.

My mother ran to him, with great sobs already escaping her slender lips. She buried her head in her father’s chest and he wrapped his arms around her. Nobody said a word as we stood watching the tragic scene.

I had never witnessed my grandfather crying before; the sight made me want to lie down on the floor and never get up again. Lord Edgington was a legend, a great detective and a great man. To see that titan reduced to tears was almost paradoxical in my mind and it took my brother Albert putting his arm around my shoulder to steady my nerves.

Two murders. Two dead Cranleys in twenty-four hours and, just as my grandfather had predicted, there was no reason to assume the killer would stop there. His first attempt at murdering my family had failed, and now it looked as though he was keen to knock us off one by one instead.

Through an open window in the billiard room, we could hear the distant cry of my Aunt Winifred as the reality of her widowhood sank in. Right at that moment, Cora tiptoed out of the smoking room to witness the destruction for herself.

My anger burst out from within me. “She did this,” I screamed, marching towards her. “I saw her running away from the armoury just after the shot was fired.”

Looking unflustered by the accusation, she replied in her usual nonchalant tone. “What a ridiculous insinuation. The boy’s a fool.”

“So where were you coming from when I saw you?”

My father had arrived and stepped between the two of us to calm us both down. “There’s no need for raised voices,” he told me, as if this was the real danger we were facing. “Cora, answer Christopher’s question.”

All eyes fell on my second cousin. “I…” Peering back into the room where she’d taken shelter, she searched for a convincing answer. “I went to get my grandmother some tea.” She flicked her short fringe from her face with one darting hand. “Isn’t that right, Grandmother?”

Great-Aunt Clementine had presumably been woken by the argument, or perhaps just the mention of refreshments. She sat upright in the armchair she was cradled within and said, “Tea, oh yes, lovely,” before reaching for the heavy pot on the table beside her and immediately splashing the amber liquid all over the tray, her black lace gloves and a large part of her dress, so that I had to run over to help her. Rather impressively, she’d managed to miss the cup entirely, and I noticed that the tea was already cold.

My Grandfather arrived then and addressed us in a slow, careful manner. “As you have heard, my son is dead.” The words were hard for him to muster and he had to pause to process this fact before continuing. “The police have been called and Inspector Blunt is on his way.”

He scanned the faces of everyone there. It was hard to say whether he was searching for comfort in their flabbergasted expressions or looking for signs of guilt. “I have already lost two of my children. The last thing I want is for anyone else to get hurt. So, as soon as the police have interviewed you, I believe it would be best for you to return to your homes.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Cora was finally feeling the pressure of suspicion. “I swear, that I had nothing to do with these terrible crimes. You know me, I wouldn’t…”

She never finished that sentence as she could tell from the cold, silent response she received that we would not let her off so lightly. The Villiers and the Cranleys were not close, had not been close for several decades in fact and, given the chance to get rid of us, they would be at the front of the queue.

Possessing a far more charitable soul than the rest of us, my grandfather pulled away from his daughter to comfort Cora and lead her down the hall to wait for the police.

Chapter Eighteen

My uncle’s death had a