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

His erratic journey came to a stop at the place where Aunt Belinda had breathed her last, and he threw his arms in the air in frustration. “I don’t even know for certain why my children were killed. Most investigations begin by focussing on the victim, but I’ve been so set on the idea that this whole thing came about because someone was after my money that I’ve ignored the basic tenets of police work.”

He crashed down in the nearest chair and buried his head in his hands. I felt awful for him and realised that it was my job to help him along to the solution. Perhaps I’d never tell him that I’d discovered it first. He could have all the glory and I’d enjoy the satisfaction of making an elderly chap feel less bleak about the world.

“Why don’t we go back to the beginning and think about everything we know about Belinda, Maitland and our suspects?”

He didn’t look up at me immediately but, when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “That’s a grand idea, Christopher. Really, top notch.”

“Why don’t you start with Cora and Fellowes?” I suggested, as subtly as a fox.

He was up on his feet and back to his old self, but instantly brushed aside my idea. “No, no. We’ve already ruled them out. That would just be a waste of time.”

I felt like screaming. Of all the stubborn, pig-headed people I’d ever met, he had to be the worst!

“Let’s start with Belinda as you suggested before.” He breathed in to steel himself for what he was about to do. “Though we believe every glass of champagne was poisoned, the killer might have predicted that she would be the first to drink. So, why would anyone want her dead?”

“She wasn’t the most popular person in the family and she’d been jealous of me for helping you prepare the ball when…” I never finished that sentence as I realised that it might well implicate my father in the crime.

Luckily, Grandfather had his mind on other things. “No, it has to be something bigger. You’re right that she was unpopular. Belinda had the most impressive skill for making enemies. Even my staff couldn’t stand her. But she wasn’t close enough to anyone outside the family to warrant murdering.” It was odd to hear him speak of his daughter in such unfavourable terms. “If anyone had something against her, it was George.”

A thought sprang to mind. “You’re right. We know that Belinda had stopped paying her son’s debts. Perhaps he was seeking revenge.”

Grandfather stroked the long, white hair on one side of his jaw. “Yes, and I have to say, I wasn’t entirely convinced by what your cousin had to say for himself. You were right about George, he’s not the kind soul I believed him to be. He assaulted a sixteen-year-old boy and, though he might claim that he was sticking up for you, I do not believe it for one moment. We know he would gain from the death of his mother, that there was no risk of him drinking the poison after he dropped his glass and that he is in debt to a potentially dangerous adversary.”

I was carried along on the wave of his ratiocination and almost forgot about my own infallible theory. “So you’re saying he’s our man?”

He thought for a moment then shook his head. “No, it’s not enough. We haven’t found a shred of physical evidence to link him to either of the murders and I think it would be a stretch for him to have poisoned Fellowes, unless he was working with an accomplice.”

“Then what about the Adelaides?”

“Nope. That’s a dead end, I’m sure of it. As George told us himself, Horatio Adelaide has spent the last three decades keeping his distance from violent crimes. It wouldn’t make sense for George to kill anyone on his behalf.”

It was good to see him recover his vigour and I urged him on once more. “It seems like you’ve ruled him out then. So that’s one down. And Clementine surely can’t have been involved.”

He turned away from me abruptly and marched from the room. I was rather tired of chasing around after him, and positively fed up of my supposed mentor ignoring my ideas, but I followed him anyway.

“Haven’t you learnt anything from me, Christopher?” he down the hall. “We can never rule out a suspect until we have concrete evidence that they were in no way involved.”

I drew alongside him as he stepped into the library. “But you just did the very same thing with Cora and Fellowes!”

“Yes, but only because I have concrete evidence that they were in no way involved.”

I groaned then as, even by our family’s standards, he was becoming eccentric.

I had to wonder whether he’d slept at all the night before, as the room we’d entered was covered with scraps of paper. There were hundreds of the things, taking up every inch of carpet, floorboard and desk and I had to walk over them to sit down in my usual armchair. I took a peek at the notes around me, but the handwriting was practically illegible.

I continued to lay out the evidence. “Great-Aunt Clementine is a thousand years old and can barely look after herself. She surely wouldn’t have had the physical or mental capacity to carry out such an elaborate scheme.”

His distaste for his sister-in-law flared up and he let out a snorting laugh. “Ha, that’s just what she wants you to believe!”

I really felt like waving the white flag at this point, but responded all the same. “You can’t mean that, Grandfather. Didn’t you see how grubby she was when we went to her house? She was covered in dirt and the place was an absolute pigsty. I really don’t think she could have been involved.”

“Prove it!” the belligerent old man declared, in a rather school-boyish manner.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

I tried to think of some concrete evidence to rule out his far-fetched theory but failed. “I