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

He shook his head and I had to assume I’d failed to understand the point of his tale. “My fool of a brother was killed in the Transvaal Rebellion. He’d been in the army for years, but always safely away from the action until Westminster decided that a future lord should have a company of men. He got himself and half of those under him slaughtered, left poor old Clementine without a husband and their sole daughter fatherless. In time, my parents passed Cranley on to me.”

His words dried up once more and I could tell that, despite his criticism, he still mourned his older brother. “My parents demanded I leave the police but I wouldn’t give in. If you’re ever in such a position, you must know that you don’t always have to do what is expected of you. I’m a lord and a copper. I worked my way up to become a superintendent of the Metropolitan Police, but I also took on the duties required of me here.

“My parents were wrong to think that I couldn’t do both and I was wrong to think that being the Marquess of Edgington was an indignity. I have tried to run this house and protect the wards of our estate with compassion. And I pray, with every fibre of my being, that whoever finally succeeds me will do the same.”

He had become more confident as his speech went on, but his voice still sounded as though it could give way at any moment. I wanted to shout and scream at him to make him see sense. I wanted to pull him up by the lapels and make him listen to me but I knew it would do no good.

So instead, I leaned down to his level and spoke in the softest tone I possessed. “You said it yourself; you’re a copper; present tense. You never stopped, and I’m not going to let you rot away in that ugly old chair. You’ve got a job to do and a killer to catch.”

He looked down at the armchair with its fraying fabric and lumpy seat. “I suppose it might have seen its best days.” He spoke as if this was the most convincing part of my argument.

I smiled. “But you haven’t, so stand back up and let’s get to work.”

Chapter Nineteen

Grandfather got changed into another of his grey morning suits and we set off towards the armoury. He wanted to have a professional inspection of the room – after my entirely amateurish poke around – but Alice accosted us in the hall.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Lord Edgington,” she said, all flustered. “I wouldn’t want to bother you at a time like this, only-”

“Spit it out, girl.” Some of his quick anger had returned to him, but he saw how upset she was and lowered his voice. “Tell me what the problem is.”

Alice looked at me then and, from the expression she wore, I was worried that I’d been a bit too obvious with my longing looks at her at the ball. I was sure she was about to denounce me to her employer as a blackguard and a bounder.

“It’s Mr Fellowes, Milord. There’s something wrong with him. He’s been in bed half the morning. He barely had the strength to lay out the dining room for breakfast and Cook’s made him lie down. He says it’s nothing, but I really think we should send for a doctor. He looks awfully sick.”

I noticed that she smoothed out the stronger notes of her Irish accent, and I could tell how nervous she was. Even in an unconventional house like Cranley, it wasn’t typical for a maid to address a lord. With Fellowes incapacitated, the usual order of things was at risk of falling apart.

Grandfather’s moustache curled in. “Take me to his room, this instant.”

My lovely Alice turned on the spot and scuttled away down the corridor, like a mouse escaping from an elderly cat. Grandfather had found his strength of will once more, but could not maintain the pace and she soon had to slow down. She gave me a shy smile and, despite the two corpses and our ailing butler, I couldn’t help feeling a little cheered that I was not in her bad books after all.

As we cut back through the hall, I saw no sign of Blunt, but his minions were hard at work. There were even more officers there than the night before. In every room we passed, they were picking through drawers and taking books from their shelves, in search of some elusive piece of evidence.

We took the servants’ stairs to the hidden away corner of the house where Fellowes and the other household staff had their rooms. It was a dark, gloomy spot, little more than a basement really with one small window permitting a meagre allowance of light to shine through. Alice knocked on the door at the end of the corridor and entered.

“No!” Fellowes instantly wailed. “What did you bring him down here for?”

With no windows open and the curtains drawn, the room smelled like death itself. Cook was sitting at the bedside with a bowl of cold water and a flannel. Her patient was writhing in agony even as we entered.

“I’ve told him we need a doctor,” the gaunt-cheeked chef explained. “He won’t listen to me though so I sent Alice to fetch you. I hope it’s not an imposition, Milord.”

“Never mind that now.” My Grandfather went straight over to his retainer, unafraid of what terrible infectious disease might be ripping through him. “Tell me exactly how you’re feeling.”

Fellowes was as white as a cloud and just as clammy. The sweat was dripping off him as he clutched his bedclothes between two clenched fists. “It’s my stomach. It feels like I’ve been swallowing glass in my sleep.”

“When did it come on?” I wasn’t sure what medical knowledge my grandfather possessed but his brusque and aggressive bedside manner was still