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

had a nervous, ratty way about him, like so many self-serving minor villains from Dickens novels. And, though my parents said that Aunt Belinda could be charming when she wanted to, with her pallid skin and witch-like posture, it was difficult to imagine.

Maitland lowered his voice. “We should do whatever it takes to bring him to his senses.”

“And if he won’t listen?” Belinda was quick to ask.

As if some gossamer demon had crossed the space between my uncle and the window, darkness momentarily consumed Maitland’s countenance. “If he won’t listen to reason, we’ll have to-”

I can only imagine what rotten plans they would have hatched together if a rasping breath hadn’t broken into their conversation. It wasn’t me, I’m glad to say, but Great-Aunt Clementine who was asleep in an armchair beside the door.

Recovering her nerves, Belinda let out an ill-tempered moan. “What on Earth is she still doing here?”

Maitland wore a baffled look. “I thought Todd had driven her home?”

Except for taking me to school and back each week, Grandfather’s chauffeur had very little work to do and was always willing to drop off stray guests.

“I thought you’d taken her?” Like a comedy duo from a music hall sketch, the two stared at one another in mute wonder, waiting to see who would give in first.

It was down to Clementine to break the uneasy stalemate with a gentle snore.

Maitland peered at the old woman with a question mark on his face. “Surely she hasn’t been in here since yesterday.”

Belinda took a few steps closer to her elderly aunt and looked at her up close as though checking she was still breathing. “Auntie? Auntie, it’s me, Belinda. Are you-”

Clementine suddenly surged forward. “Oh, dear. I must have nodded off.” She looked at her niece and nephew and then at the room where she found herself. “Cranley? How nice. Is the party still going or has everyone gone home?”

Clementine is my Grandfather’s sister-in-law. His older brother was the original heir to Cranley but died in the First Boer War. People say that it left her with a few screws loose but, as far as I was concerned, at eighty years of age, she had every right to be a little batty. She had a unique smell to her, like lavender, boiled cabbage and Christmas trees, and I think I was one of the few people in my family who genuinely liked her.

The frail old thing tottered up to standing and then fell back down for Maitland to catch.

“Why don’t we get you home, eh, dear?”

Her feeble eyes shone more brightly. “Oh, you are good to your old auntie.”

All the spite and cunning had disappeared from their faces and they gazed at her in apparent affection.

“Come along now.” Belinda took her by the arm. “Let’s find Todd, shall we? Or perhaps you’d like Cook to knock you up something first?”

Clementine’s face took on a decidedly green hue. “No, thank you. I think I’d rather just go home.”

The three of them toddled off and I was left to consider what my aunt and uncle had been planning.

Chapter Five

During term time, I spent my weekdays at school in Oakton and popped down to grandfather’s house every Friday afternoon. Mother and Father thought it would be a good idea for someone to look after me so that I didn’t get into trouble with the other boys. Of course, until that weekend, Grandfather never left his rooms and his staff got up to far more mischief than I ever could at school.

It wasn’t just Fellowes the butler who had the run of the place. Cook’s cooking grew wilder by the week. She enjoyed experimenting with new combinations of completely incongruous ingredients – which only Lord Edgington himself could endure. The pack of Irish maids, household staff and gardeners made sure that every night was a celebration and Todd, our chauffeur, was the only one who seemed to have his head about him. As his head was normally buried in an adventure novel, he didn’t have time to play nanny.

They all made a fuss of me and fed me treats, but I can’t say there was much supervision going on. The night after Grandfather’s birthday was a case in point.

“Why don’t you cough it up?” Our atypically skinny cook demanded as the staff sat in the kitchen, playing cards.

“It’s not my place to tell ya.” Despite his own humble background, Fellowes liked to believe he was more cultured than his colleagues. He loved nothing more than to lord some juicy titbit of information over them.

“What about you, Christopher?” The youngest maid, Alice, enquired. I was a little bit in love with Alice. She had a kind Irish lilt and pretty blue eyes. “Do you know why Lord Edgington decided to throw this ball?”

The atmosphere changed as I slurped at my boiled ham and anchovy soup. It was almost appetising, despite the cinnamon.

“I don’t completely understand it,” I replied once the scalding concoction had made its way down my throat. “All Grandfather said was that he wants to shake the place up and have a celebration. Mother and Father wouldn’t tell me what he said to them after dinner last night. Though I’m sure they think he’s lost his mind.”

There was some laughter at this and one of the gardeners said, “Aye. That may be.”

Cook threw her cards across the table in disgust. I had no idea of the rules of the game, but she always claimed they were rigged against her.

“I heard Lady Belinda in the kitchen garden with him this afternoon and she said a lot worse than that.” It was her moment in the spotlight and we listened attentively. “She was awfully angry and accused him of trying to palm off her George’s inheritance to young Christopher.”

Fellowes let out a despondent sigh. “I hope Lord Edgington lives to be a hundred. I can’t stand the thought of that harridan taking over Cranley Hall.”

I almost considered telling them what I’d overheard from under the telephone table,