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

abilities, whether Fellowes’s tummy was on the mend or not and, in great and lengthy detail, what he would eat once he was back to one hundred per cent.

It was cold out and, though I could cower against the building to avoid the worst of the perpetual downfall, large drops occasionally splashed down upon me from the edge of the roof. It was enough to make a spy give up and go back inside!

My commitment to the investigation held out though and, while I did get a little sleepy at one point, my watch finally bore fruits.

“You mustn’t worry so much, Reg,” Cora told him and I wish that I hadn’t got distracted by a rather affectionate robin who had landed down beside me. “The old man adores you. And, though I may say so myself…” She let out a rather wicked laugh just then. “…he’s putty in my hands!”

Fellowes joined in with the laughter and I heard a kissy noise that turned my stomach. The two of them were thrilling in their crimes and the deaths of my aunt and uncle.

“All I’m saying is that we don’t want to do anything to compromise our position.”

I heard the bed springs flex then and imagined that my scheming second cousin was cuddling up to her partner. “You’re such a worrier, Reg. Just stay calm and everything will turn out fine.”

There was some more smacking of lips and I felt a bit guilty for listening into such a private moment, then remembered they were most likely murderers and didn’t feel so bad.

As they enjoyed their time together, I processed the evidence against them once more. Fellowes was the one with primary access to the champagne. He’d left his post unnecessarily – I’m sorry, but butlers aren’t generally granted kissing breaks in the middle of an important function – and he even lied about hearing the gardeners call his name when first challenged on the issue.

Cora on the other hand, stood to gain more than any other person without a glass of champagne. Though her elderly grandmother was the next in line to the family fortune, she was Clementine’s only direct heir and would easily have gained control of the inheritance. With Fellowes help, Cora must have planted the cyanide in the bottle. Which means that Maitland spotted them together and he was about to tell us when she shot him dead from the armoury, only to use the sleepy old woman as her alibi. As my parents descended to find out what had happened, the not entirely incapacitated Fellowes nipped upstairs to plant the crossbow. It all made sense!

I’d answered Grandfather’s big outstanding question for certain now. All the pieces had fallen into place and so I let out another triumphant, “Yes!”

“Chrissy?” Cora asked through the window. “Is that you out there?”

I swallowed hard, feeling dreadfully silly. Richard Hannay would never have made such an amateurish mistake!

“Um, yes. It’s me.” I searched through the winding corridors of my brain for something to explain why I was outside their window, in the rain, whilst they were in bed together. “I… You see… There was a robin out here. Awfully friendly chap. He’s gone now, but I wasn’t listening to your conversation. I promise.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Despite this minor setback to my otherwise sterling detective work, I returned to the relative warmth of Cranley Hall. I couldn’t decide whether to head back to my room to update my notebook on my findings, or search out Grandfather to reveal the terrifying truth I had discovered. In the end, the choice was made for me.

“Chrissy,” the old man’s voice boomed out of the ballroom as I passed.

Until now, there had been chairs blocking the entrance, which the police had put there to stop anyone contaminating the crime scene. Of course, if anyone had the authority to barge through them it was former-Superintendent Edgington. When I looped back and stepped inside, he was standing in the middle of the room, apparently in a daze.

I didn’t like to say anything as he looked so distant that I was afraid he was sleepwalking and I know how dangerous it can be to wake a somnambulist. I read a newspaper article once about a woman in East Grinstead who beat her husband to death with a chair leg after he attempted to wake her. I wouldn’t be trying that.

It turned out, though, that Grandfather wasn’t sleeping at all. He glanced around the ballroom inquisitively, as though deciding what new furnishings to buy. Furthermore, he wasn’t alone. I hadn’t spotted him at first, but Todd was standing near the French windows and Halfpenny was sitting beside the door to the grand salon, looking bored.

“One moment, Chrissy,” Grandfather told me. “We’re working through something. I’ll explain when I can.”

Just then, dear, sweet Alice bustled past me from the corridor. She was apparently quite drunk all of a sudden.

“Excellent acting, Alice.” Grandfather beat his hands together in appreciation. “Really quite remarkable stuff.”

“Thank you, Milord,” she replied in a voice that was as melodic as any Celtic harp.

“Stay in character, though. I need to maintain the atmosphere if we’re going to work this thing out.”

I was surprised to see Cook appear in the doorway, pushing a drinks trolley with a host of champagne flutes on board.

“I’ll put these over here shall, I, Milord?” she asked, as she came to a stop near her employer.

“Jolly good, Cook.”

To complete the tableau, the two gardeners came in from the hall in the slow, apologetic manner they adopted whenever Grandfather was present.

Our host looked about between his staff. When no one else joined us, he explained, “We’re a couple of suspects short. Marmaduke Adelaide remained outside on the terrace, whilst my dear sister-in-law was asleep in one of the neighbouring rooms.”

It was at this point that I finally realised what was going on. They were re-enacting the events of Aunt Belinda’s last moments on Earth.

Grandfather stepped forward to direct. “So, we all took a glass.”

Todd, the two gardeners,