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

was at a loose end. It presented me with the dilemma of having to decide whether to return to my copy of Martin Chuzzlewit or head outside for a stroll. In the end, I grabbed my binoculars, checked in with Cousin Cora to see how Fellowes was doing and took Delilah with me for a trip to the woods.

As much as I adored birdwatching, I can’t say I was particularly good at it. Take warblers for instance, there are just so many of them and they all look so darned similar to one another that I could never tell a willow warbler from a garden warbler – and don’t get me started on chiffchaffs!

That notwithstanding, just seeing the little blighters hopping about in the bushes filled me with calm. You might think that taking a large, waggy dog with me would not be the best idea, but I swear that Delilah was just as keen on my hobby as I. She was perfectly happy to hide in the undergrowth with me for an hour to spot the family of woodpeckers. In fact, her big, soulful eyes lit up with joy whenever mine did.

We cut through the Italian gardens, around the lake and were in the woods in no time. In fact, we were just gearing up for a nice long sit on the ground, when I noticed something at the foot of one of the ancient oaks. There were papers strewn about the place. Wax wrappings from the butcher’s, along with a trail of crumbs that the birds were yet to get to. I followed them a way, hoping that they would lead me to whoever had dropped them, but sadly they went in a circle through the trees and back to where we’d started.

I recognised the wrappings from Cook’s larder. There were all sorts of goodies in paper parcels there, from pies to cold meats and… well, that was the bulk of it actually. I’d been known to raid it myself for afternoon snacks. I didn’t have to think long to work out who had been hiding in the woods.

I planned to abandon my stint of ornithological observation but then I spotted a nightingale, which turned out to be a sparrow, and that slowed me down a tad. But five minutes later, with one of the wax papers pocketed as evidence, we returned to the house in search of Grandfather.

I found him looking maudlin in the library. He was slumped in an armchair in the corner with books strewn all around him. I had a quick peek at the titles but they weren’t the kind of thing I was interested in. There was no fiction at all, in fact, and they appeared to be largely scientific in nature. Most had long Latin sounding titles which I couldn’t decipher.

“Chin up, Grandfather,” I told him somewhat inappropriately, but he was too distracted to pay me any attention.

The library at Cranley was the real gem of the estate. It was started by… well, one of my ancestors no doubt, and had been expanded over the centuries by each successive generation. Whatever your area of interest, you could find a trove of information there. The uppermost shelves were housed on their own floor, which was accessible by a moveable staircase that spiralled around towards the heavens (appropriately, this was where we kept the religious literature.)

I loved the sight and smell of all those books. The green and red spines recalled memories of the first time I was allowed in there aged five. I’d just mastered the simpler books at school and the thought that there were so many tomes still left for me to enjoy was both joyous and frightening. I’d read my way through the meagre children’s section several times over before I turned nine and discovered my love of Charles Dickens.

I had never noticed before, but perhaps the one thing missing from the collection were detective novels. I could only assume that Grandfather preferred real life to fiction, which would explain all the dry books he was surrounded by.

“I thought I had it cracked,” he told me, his gaze now off through the window. “I felt sure that, after two murders in a short space of time, the killer would have made a wrong step. With such a short list of suspects, how can I still be so lost?”

It was hard to see him like that. He’d been passing in and out of sorrow all day of course and I was worried this would be the straw that broke the camel’s proverbial.

“Please don’t be so despondent,” I tried again, though I knew that a few empty words couldn’t bring his children back. “I’m sure you’re close.”

He shook his head but did not reply. He was watching the tiny dabs of cloud gliding over his estate and I could only imagine the thoughts coursing through his mind. Perhaps he could have borne the strain of Belinda’s death. But to lose two of his children in such a short space of time, was too much even for a man of his resilience.

Unlike my grandfather, I’d run away from the scene of the crime. I didn’t have to witness the life draining out of poor Maitland, didn’t have to hear my uncle’s last words, which were surely still echoing about the antechambers of the old man’s mind.

When he spoke again, his change of topic surprised me. “Did I ever tell you about the Bow Boys gang?” he blurted out and I took a seat beside him.

“No, Grandfather. You’ve never told me about any of your cases.”

He looked at me, narrowed his eyes uncertainly and started on his tale. “Tommy Bow was a savage. A real monster of a man, as tall as an elephant and almost as broad, there were rumours he’d once ripped a rival’s head clean off its shoulders. And though we knew what he was capable of, and believed him responsible for any number of crimes, we never had enough evidence