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

“And what about my boy?” he said, as if this was a key piece of the puzzle. “Why has no one mentioned Marmaduke in the proceedings?”

Grandfather let out a huff of laughter. “Are you putting your own son forward as a suspect, Horatio? Really, that’s low even for you.”

Adelaide folded his powerful arms across his chest. “I’m merely trying to ascertain the facts. That boy of mine has been running wild for years, so I’d like to confirm that the version of events he described was the truth.”

“But why would he have killed anyone?”

The former gangster took a deep breath, as if what he was about to say would be difficult to get out. “I have given Marmaduke every advantage in life, every possible luxury, and yet he has grown up to be the very thing I feared that I myself would become at his age. The boy is a brute. He enjoys nothing more than inflicting pain on others and, if you tell me he was responsible for the murders, I will believe you and remedy the situation myself.”

I was trying to imagine what the man was implying when Grandfather answered him. “Marmaduke was an unlucky bystander in more ways than one. I’ve spoken to him and can honestly tell you that he is no brute. He is merely a sixteen-year-old boy who has never learnt right from wrong. He’s not the first person I’ve known with such an issue and he won’t be the last.” His eyes flicked over to George, who raised his glass sarcastically in reply.

Horatio wasn’t convinced. “But he was in the vicinity of both crimes and couldn’t tell me exactly what he was doing during either one.”

Grandfather shook his head despairingly. “That’s probably because he lives in crippling fear of you and didn’t want to admit that he’d had his head slapped about by the man whose care you’d put him under.” He was shouting by now and leaned across the table to drive his message home. “Spend some time with the boy, show him that you care about him – rather than accusing him of murder – and perhaps he won’t be so wild.”

The fact that my grandfather could find such compassion for a hopeless soul like Marmaduke surely suggested where my excessively sympathetic nature came from.

Horatio Adelaide turned away in disgust but stayed right where he was. Like everyone, he was eager to discover what had really happened the previous weekend at Cranley Hall and, like everyone, he was about to find out.

Grandfather raised himself up to his full height and pulled the cuffs of his sleeves down so that there was not the faintest crease visible on his long silver coat. “Now, if no one else wishes to put forward a theory, perhaps I can begin.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Though my grandson Christopher may not have reached the right conclusion, he spoke any amount of truth in the case he presented to us. I believe that my daughter Belinda and my son Maitland were murdered for money. Well, money and the oldest reason in the world; jealousy.”

After the slew of chattering interruptions, Grandfather was easing in to his tale. All eyes were upon him. The only sound was his sonorous voice, which sailed through the still air like music from a gramophone.

“Had everything gone to plan, I wouldn’t be here today to speak to you. In fact, half the people in this room and most of our immediate relatives would have been wiped from existence.” In one mechanical movement, his eyes flicked to his eldest grandson. “But not you of course, George. You were lucky enough to avoid that possibility when your glass of champagne conveniently slipped from your fingers.”

My cousin did not seem intimidated by the arch look our grandfather gave him. “Oh, yes, that’s me. Lucky old George Trevelyan!”

Grandfather gave a sad laugh and continued. “I have to say that there were elements to this case that had me truly baffled. My assistant Christopher must have concluded that it was my old age which held me back, but, in fact, this was one of the most perplexing and contradictory murders I’ve come across.”

I was so caught up in his story that I barely took the time to notice that he’d read my mind again. Of course, I no longer thought he was a foolish old man. I was willing to believe he was an absolute genius. The fact that I had somehow helped him reach his conclusion was the real miracle.

“There were certain questions which I simply couldn’t get beyond. For one thing, as we’ve already heard, it didn’t make sense that our killer would happily murder a whole family – men, women and children alike – but stop short of getting rid of a witness to their crime.”

He picked up a knife from his place setting and waved it through the air as he spoke. “Christopher came up with a number of interesting solutions for why the poison that Fellowes ingested gave him little more than a dicky tummy. He wondered whether an insufficiently strong toxin had been administered in the hope of incapacitating Fellowes and leaving the champagne unattended. I steered him away from such thinking and then, in front of you all this evening, my grandson described how Fellowes could have consumed some weak dose of poison himself to throw us off the scent.

“While I considered these two possibilities early on, it is wonderful to see that Christopher’s young mind could function almost as efficiently as one with my years of experience.”

George scoffed at this and gave me a wry look. There was a brief moment of silent tension, which was broken by Great-Aunt Clementine taking up her song.

“Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! Bow wow!

Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! Bow wow!

I’ve got a little cat,

And I’m very fond of that,

But I’d rather have a bow-wow

Wow, wow, wow, wow.”

Inspector Blunt looked impressed once more