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

contribute for once, I started in on a question of my own. “Why did Maitland owe so much money? His family are well off, they have a lovely house and servants and all that sort of thing. How did he become involved with Adelaide in the first place?”

George took five seconds to decide whether he wanted to cooperate, sighed and gave in. “They have a nice house for the moment, but they won’t for much longer if Adelaide has his way.” He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “You know, people think I’m such a cad for going to the horses once in a while, or dropping a few hundred pounds at a Saint James’s club, but nobody worries about the Maitlands and Walters of this world. No one criticises the bankers and brokers who gamble with the wealth and welfare of the people whose lives depend upon them.”

I followed up my question with another. “So Maitland invested poorly then?”

“Ask your father. He might be scraping through this mess, but I can’t imagine he’s doing a great deal better himself.”

I thought about where my father was just then – locked in a cell or enduring another of Inspector Blunt’s interrogations – and my skin prickled.

My Grandfather took over. “Young Adelaide said that Maitland had owed his father money for years. How could it have gone on for so long without any of us knowing about it?”

My cousin released another cold burst of laughter. “I thought you would have worked that out by now. After all, you know the kind of business that Horatio Adelaide is involved in.” He paused to allow our grandfather a moment to consider this.

“Maitland was investing Adelaide’s money? Making his ill-gotten gains look respectable through the markets?”

George gleefully extended one finger towards us. “Right first time, Grandfather. And that was fine when times were good, but when the war hit and the stock exchange was closed, Adelaide made a loss which he was not willing to bear. Maitland spent the last decade trying to recoup the money and Horatio finally ran out of patience.”

The atmosphere in the room had changed. I was suddenly nervous listening to George’s story. There was darkness to everything he said, like he couldn’t care less what had happened to our uncle and perhaps even his own mother. This was all just business to him, and I was determined to take him up on it.

“So Horatio Adelaide had you poison the champagne and, when that didn’t go as planned, you murdered Maitland with the crossbow.” I admit that I should have waited for Grandfather to draw his own conclusions. In my defence, I was caught up in the moment and, as George kept shuffling in his seat like he couldn’t wait to get away, it seemed like a sensible suggestion to make.

“Ha! No, of course not.” Turning to address the old man, George’s whole demeanour brightened. “You’d better watch this one, Grandfather. He’s been reading too many racy stories and thinks the worst of everyone.”

“Actually, I’m rather partial to Charles Dickens!” I replied in a haughty tone which did nothing for my standing in the discussion.

“Chrissy, dear boy. I didn’t kill anyone.” The temptation had got too much for him and he lunged for the nearest bottle, uncorked the stopper and poured the last traces of clear spirit down his throat. “Horatio sent me to warn Maitland that if he didn’t make up the money that Adelaide had lost, he’d be taking the family home.”

Grandfather held his gaze on his eldest grandson for five ticks of the carriage clock. “Are you absolutely sure of this, George? You honestly believe that the Adelaides played no part in the murders?”

When my cousin replied, the arrogance had drained from his voice. “Well, as far as I know. Horatio’s no fool, after all. His business would only suffer if he started killing off members of the ruling class willy-nilly.”

I was trying to judge for myself whether he was speaking the truth, but it was so hard to say for certain. Still, there was one chink in his argument that I had spotted. “What about Marmaduke? Why did you beat him black and blue?”

He straightened up then and, like my geography master when explaining the effects of erosion on British coasts or listing the different types of soil, he raised his hand and counted off the fingers.

“For three clear reasons actually. First, I knew it would strike fear into wimpy old Maitland – though, I admit, I got a little carried away with the gangster role I was playing. Second, I know that Horatio has little patience with his son, and was only going to be grateful that I’d given Marmaduke a thrashing.” He paused then and turned his head to one side, his eyes on me alone. “And third, I’d heard the little blighter boasting that he’d given my favourite cousin a black eye at school and I didn’t like it one bit.”

I wanted to believe him, I really did, but there was something holding me back.

“Well, that was admirable behaviour, no doubt,” Grandfather replied with a sarcastic note in his voice. “But you should have told me all of this yesterday. Why string it out for so long?”

George stood and wandered over to the window. He pulled a slim box from his pocket and lit a cigarette before answering. “Because, in case you haven’t worked it out yet…” He made us wait, sucking the smoke into his lungs and then letting it back out again in a single, perfect ring. “…I don’t always do what’s in my best interest.”

Chapter Thirty-One

The journey home was a depressing one. The rain fell like a blanket over the car and it was all right for Grandfather and Todd under the drophead roof, but I got positively drenched in the back, all squashed up in my dickey seat.

I wasn’t the only one feeling blue either. Grandfather had left George’s flat in a foul mood. It was hard