Murder at the Masquerade Ball

by Margaret Addison

  Hallam stared miserably at the telephone receiver and sighed. It was no good. He could not hope to hold his own with Lavinia across the telephone wires. Much better to see her face to face and feign an interest in her masquerade ball, if only to defer his inevitable meeting with Commander Wrenfield when he would be required to inform him of the success or failure of his mission.

  All of a sudden, Hallam’s faced brightened. What a perfect ass he’d been. Of course he must go to Kingsley House without delay rather than stand here parrying with Lavinia over the telephone. For, above all else, it was of the utmost importance that he renew his acquaintance with the house itself. Certainly he must do so if he were ever to achieve his goal of identifying a secluded room suitable for their purposes.

  Hilary Casters emerged from the study at Sycamore House and pulled the door firmly to behind her, fumbling a little with the door knob as she did so. She had hurried out of the room in a rushed and ungainly fashion and her first instinct was to continue her journey in a similar manner. If she were to march across the hall and up the stairs, taking them two at a time and not stopping until she had reached the top, it would be only a matter of minutes before she reached the relative sanctuary of her room.

  Decorum, however, dictated that she should act otherwise, and she paused a moment, taking the opportunity to brush a loose strand of hair out of her eyes and fasten it with a hair pin. Her fingers trembled, grazing her face, and she felt her flaming cheeks, a vivid reminder of her recent encounter. Shame and humiliation rose up inside her and yet, regardless of her own inner turmoil, a need for self-preservation demanded that she maintain at least a semblance of dignity. For, in a house brimming with servants, there was always the likelihood that an individual’s actions were being observed. Any display of odd behaviour on her part would draw attention, and she had no wish to attract an audience to her agitated state. The very thought that her present distress should form a subject for speculation and ridicule in the servants’ hall was quite abhorrent to her.

  Besides, while in spirit she felt inclined to run, it was likely her body would not oblige. Her recent exploits had left her feeling a little giddy and her legs felt strangely both heavy and weak. Indeed, she found she could hardly manage to put one foot in front of the other, let alone scurry. Instead of flight, therefore, she succumbed to the more immediate and urgent need to remain still in order to gather her strength and regain her composure. With this in mind, she leaned her back against the door, revelling in its solid and comforting form, and closed her eyes. In spite of what had just happened, she was tolerably confident that it would be a while before Raymond Franklin deemed it prudent to open the door of his study and poke his head out into the hall.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly gone and blown it this time, my girl,’ she muttered to herself, ‘and no mistake. Stuffing your head with all that silly nonsense and making a fool of yourself. You should have known better, you really should.’

  She proceeded to chide herself sternly and stifled a sob. How easy it would be to give way and burst into tears right here in the hall. What did it really matter anyway if she were observed? The staff would know soon enough that she had lost her position. It was hardly something one could very well hide. ‘Sent off with a flea in her ear,’ that’s what they’d say and ‘good riddance’, for she did not delude herself that she had been popular among the servants. The worst of it was, she had only herself to blame. Oh, if only it were possible to turn back the clock, for the last few excruciating minutes never to have happened. If she had resisted acting on impulse ... But, of course, she had been tempted; what girl in her position wouldn’t have been? But, really, she should have hesitated. If she had done so, she might have thought better of it and no harm would have been done. But instead she had ploughed in with barely a thought for the consequences. It was only now that the outcome loomed up before her, dark and bleak. A job was hard enough to come by these days, as it was, but without a character, why, it was almost impossible to obtain a decent position. And she could hardly expect Raymond Franklin to give her a reference. Certainly she could not bring herself to ask him for one, even if he were willing to provide it. No, her job was lost to her, and so were her prospects.

  It was only now, as she stood forlornly in the hall feeling sorry for herself that she acknowledged how much her work had meant to her. It had not merely been a way of earning her own living. She had truly enjoyed categorising the Smithingham Collection, not knowing what little piece of treasure she would discover next on peeling back the crumpled sheets of old newspaper and wadding. Often the object was tarnished or dusty and it was not until the layers of dirt and grime had been carefully removed that its true purpose and beauty were discovered. She recalled, as if it was a long time ago instead of yesterday, the many happy hours she had spent researching an article’s provenance. She stifled a sob.

  It was perhaps unfortunate that it should be at this precise moment, when Hilary was dabbing at her eyes with the edge of a lace handkerchief, that the girl realised she was not alone in the hall. A sharp intake of breath informed her that she had company. Recalled rather rudely and abruptly to the present, she had the vague and unpleasant impression that she had been scrutinised. Opening her eyes, she fully expected to see one of the young footmen smirking at her. She intended to dismiss him with a stinging remark which was already on her lips. It was, therefore, something of a shock for her to discover that the person regarding her was none other than the lady’s maid. To make matters worse, the woman had a scornful expression on her face that she made no attempt to hide.

  ‘Well, Crabbe, what is it?’ said Hilary, trying to maintain an aloof tone, though all the while her heart was beating very rapidly, aware that she must look a frightful sight with her eyes filled with unshed tears and her cheeks a blotchy and unbecoming shade of red.

  Miss Crabbe bristled. It was true that Hilary Casters was a member of staff rather than a servant, but she wasn’t her mistress and she had no right giving herself airs and graces just because the master was sweet on her. It wouldn’t harm the girl to be polite and call her ‘Miss Crabbe’. After all, she was owed a bit of respect, particularly from a little slip of a thing that was young enough to be her daughter. She pursed up her lips, as was her way, and glared at Hilary. Something had happened, all right. Well, it would serve the girl right. Lord knew, she wasn’t one to gossip, but it was in all the scandal sheets that you’d have to be an eremite not to know what was going on. Carrying on with the mistress’ husband right under the poor woman’s nose! And now, by the look of it, she’s come a cropper. Likely as not, there had been a falling out. Well, Miss Casters needn’t expect to get any sympathy from her.

  ‘The mistress would like to have a word with you, in private, like,’ she said, taking a perverse delight in seeing the colour ebb from the girl’s face. In the ordinary course, hers was not a vindictive nature, and yet in this instance she found herself minded to be spiteful. ‘Awful urgent, the mistress said it was,’ she added, the words issued curtly.

  She had lied, but Miss Crabbe did not blush. Iris Franklin had, in fact, said nothing of the kind. If anything, she had implied only that she wished her husband’s secretary to do a small service for her and that she should call on her when convenient. But Hilary wasn’t to know that, Miss Crabbe reasoned, not with the mistress invariably keeping to her rooms and having her meals sent up to her on a tray as if she were some sort of invalid. Her mistress’ almost hermit-like existence had meant that Iris’ and the secretary’s paths had crossed so rarely, that each could have very little idea of the character of the other. No, it would do the girl good to have the wind put up her, and no mistake. Then perhaps she would think twice about making eyes at the master.

  ‘Mrs Franklin wishes to see me?’ Hilary sounded rather breathless, as if she had been running. She dabbed at her cheeks again with the handkerchief and swallowed hard.

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Miss Crabbe was enjoying herself considerably. �
��And, if you don’t mind my saying, you’d do well to wash your face before you present yourself to her.’

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Hilary, rallying a little. ‘I daresay my nose is all red. I’ve … I’ve come down with a bit of a cold.’

  ‘If you say so, miss.’

  Hilary might have been mistaken, but she thought the lady’s maid gave a snort, or perhaps she was just being fanciful. Before she had time to reflect further, Miss Crabbe had disappeared through the green baize door and Hilary found herself once again alone in the hall. This time she was alert, her gaze travelling to the staircase, which seemed to loom up in front of her. She gave a little shiver. How tempting it would be not to go up the stairs, to pretend that she had never received the message. After all, it would be her word against the lady’s maid and when she put her mind to it she could lie quite convincingly. Why should she see the mistress? It was Raymond Franklin who was her employer, not his wife.

  In the end, it was curiosity mostly that drove her to fulfil the summons, that and the feeling of not knowing quite what else she should do. Besides, she reflected, she had already burned her bridges; matters could not get much worse. It was also just possible that she might find out something to her advantage.

  Despite this reasoning, it was with various misgivings that she took a deep breath and began to mount the stairs. She stared at her hand on the banister and was vaguely aware that it shook.

  Chapter Six

  Kingsley House, the Belvederes’ rather splendid London residence, was situated in Mayfair. It formed part of a quadrangle of four blocks of Georgian terraced houses, which were grouped together to form a square around a large communal lawn, collectively known as Kingsley Square.

  The Belvederes’ house had once had the distinction of occupying one full side of Kingsley Square. However, in the nineteenth century, a propensity for gambling by one of the family’s more disreputable ancestors had necessitated that the house be divided into four, with three of the lots sold off to satisfy the wagering debts. The family had managed to keep the largest of the four lots for themselves and Kingsley House, while somewhat a shadow of its former self, still occupied an enviable corner plot.

  Its favourable location had enabled the house to retain both a considerable walled courtyard garden and well-proportioned rooms. The house itself was brick-built with regimentally spaced windows of the sashed variety. Its façade at ground level was greatly enhanced by a vertical-lined rendering of lime mortar, within which were sunk the half round street-level windows. Beneath these, and overlooked by the basement windows, lay a small open courtyard which served as the servants’ and trade men’s entrance, and was partially concealed from the view of visitors and the family by cast iron railings.

  It was a little after half past four, on an afternoon marred by incessant rain, that Hallam reached Kingsley House. The rain, together with the distant rumblings suggestive of a looming thunderstorm, had encouraged the young man to hasten his steps. Having at one time been something of a frequent visitor, he bestowed on the building’s splendid exterior only the most cursory of glances. His attention was instead focused on navigating the stone bridge, slippery with the rain, which led from the pavement, over the basement courtyard, up to the front door.

  The door was opened immediately on his knock by a housemaid. Before he quite knew it, Hallam found himself standing in the stark but imposing entrance hall. The room, if it could be referred to as such, gave the impression of being large but sparsely furnished, consisting as it did of little more than wood-panelled walls painted a pale ivory colour and a tiled floor of large white octagons interspersed at regular intervals with small black diamonds. Occasional marble busts were mounted on stone plinths and positioned in the alcoves. There was no other obvious decoration and, as always, Hallam was struck by the extreme simplicity and lightness of the entrance hall which, in a nod to its Georgian heritage, resembled more an external room than an internal one. Certainly it appeared somewhat out of keeping with the rest of the house, which was both overly furnished and lavishly decorated.

  ‘Lady Lavinia is expecting you, sir,’ announced the servant, a rather comely girl of seventeen. ‘Her ladyship is in the small drawing room with Mrs Franklin and Miss Belling.’

  Hallam gave an involuntary start, which he attempted rather belatedly to conceal. Aloud he said: ‘Oh, her ladyship has company, has she?’ while inwardly he groaned. Really, Lavinia should have known better than to surround herself with guests when he had made a particular point of wishing to speak with her. Admittedly, he had not specified that she should be by herself, not in so many words, but he had certainly expected that she would be. The last thing in the world he wanted was for there to be an audience. How very odd it would sound to the others, his asking for the exclusive use of a room in the house for the duration of the ball. Indeed, he found himself blushing at the very thought of three pairs of womanly eyes staring at him intently as he gave voice to his request. It was quite obvious the conclusion they would reach. More likely than not they would assume that he was attempting to arrange a clandestine assignation with a girl. He supposed such speculation could not be helped, but it did not prevent his cheeks from turning a more vivid shade of crimson.

  With an effort, Hallam returned his thoughts to his surroundings. Despite the rich décor and good proportions of the rooms, there was a certain intimacy, even a cosiness, about Kingsley House, which had much to do with the fact that the ground floor, while spacious, consisted of only three rooms besides the hall. It was to one of these rooms, located to the right of the hall, that he was led by the housemaid.

  The room, referred to affectionately by its inhabitants as the ‘small drawing room’, to distinguish it from the much grander reception room on the floor above rather than anything else, was far from moderate. Its windows overlooked the street so that it had a fine view of the square with its well-manicured stretch of lawn. The walls were papered in a pale yellow, the lower half decorated with white-painted panelling. Rich, dull gold, brocade curtains hung in great swags of material from the windows and draped down on to the floor. Damask-covered sofas and chairs of a similar hue were scattered among one or two good pieces of elegant Georgian furniture with their claw feet and delicate proportions. Pale watercolours, in gold gilt frames, adorned the walls.

  There was something very feminine about the room which made the visitor hesitate for a moment on the threshold before entering, as if he were afraid that he was trespassing and would be rebuffed by the room’s occupants. As it was, three female faces turned towards him and regarded him curiously.

  ‘Hallam, darling!’ exclaimed Lavinia, jumping up from the sofa and running forward. She embraced him warmly. ‘What have you been doing with yourself? It’s been an age since I last saw you. You know Mrs Franklin and Miss Belling, of course?’ She gave a brief nod in the direction of her companions, but did not wait for him to reply. Instead she took the young man by the arm and propelled him towards the sofa, where she sat down and patted the seat next to her invitingly. ‘I was just saying to Iris and Priscilla that I was expecting you,’ she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a great excited rush. ‘Really, you could not have come at a better time. We were just talking about the arrangements for my ball.’ Lavinia paused a moment to stare up at him appealingly. ‘Oh, do say you would like to hear all about it?’ Again she did not wait for an answer before continuing. ‘And, in a few minutes, Betty will be bringing in the tea; you will stay for tea, won’t you? Or do you have to go back to that dreary old office of yours and put in an afternoon’s work?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Hallam quickly, eager to avoid any mention of his occupation. ‘I’m all yours. I say, do tell me about this masked ball of yours. I’ve never been to one before, you know.’

  ‘Haven’t you, darling?’ Lavinia beamed up at him. ‘I say, why can’t all men be like you, Hallam? You won’t believe how tiresome Ceddie is being. Would you believe that he’s even objecting to wearing a mask? I
ask you, how can one possibly hold a masquerade ball if the host absolutely refuses to wear a disguise?’ She gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘At least darling Rose isn’t making a fuss and I’d almost forgive her if she were. Now, do sit down, there’s a dear, you’re giving me the most awful crick in the neck,’ she paused to tap the seat beside her again. ‘Let me look at you. Haven’t you grown, or does one only say that about children? Anyway, you look different, certainly older. It must be that job of yours.’

  Hallam sat down on the sofa and there followed an interval of a quarter of an hour or so where Lavinia plied him with questions about himself and his family and he obliged by providing answers that were mildly amusing. His was naturally a kindly disposition and, having been brought up with two older sisters who had endlessly teased and mollycoddled him, he acquitted himself admirably. Indeed, he even began to relax a little, noting absentmindedly the various differences and similarities between his three female companions.

  Priscilla Belling, with whom he was only slightly acquainted, reminded him very much of Lavinia in character. Certainly she appeared equally animated and seemed to share something of the other girl’s inherent radiance. Like their hostess, her conversation veered toward the superficial. Though, for the most part, the colloquy was dominated by Lavinia, Priscilla showed herself willing to contribute the odd remark or observation with an accompanying giggle or exclamation which mirrored Lavinia’s own natural exuberance. It fact, it was only in appearance that the two girls obviously differed. While both were tall and willowy in figure, Lavinia possessed a cold and pale aristocratic beauty offset by peroxide curls, while Priscilla had an olive complexion and glossy raven locks which suggested a Mediterranean lineage. It seemed to Hallam, studying them idly, that each girl complemented the other splendidly and, had it not been for the other occupant in the room, the atmosphere would undoubtedly have been deliciously light and frivolous.