This was the man who, in his calm, serious manner had taught me how to play (or rather lose at) chess, find flint to make arrowheads and tell a cuckoo from a sparrowhawk. He’d been gone for so long that just the glimpse of his re-emergence was thrilling and unnerving in equal measure.
“Thank you for choosing me,” I said, not quite sure where the words had come from.
“You’re welcome. You know, having my own assistant reminds me of my days in Scotland Yard, I-” There was a clang then, as a pole rolled off a wooden platform. My grandfather flinched. “What in heaven’s name…?” He walked towards the house, where the workmen were assessing the fallout. Halfway across the garden, he called back to me. “We’ll have to continue this later, I’m afraid. But remember, this is just the first part of my plan. I haven’t even told you about the hot-air balloon yet.”
It made me happy to see his enthusiasm return but then his words sank in and I called after him. “What balloon, Grandfather? What are you talking about?”
“Motorbikes and racing cars too, of course, but before long we’ll be up above the clouds. You wait and see!”
I ground to a halt, unable to comprehend such dangers. Luckily, Delilah sensed my pain once more and proceeded to whimper affectionately. It was almost enough to soothe away the shock.
Chapter Four
Everything happened remarkably swiftly after that.
By the end of the day, my grandfather had hired all the contractors we would need to get Cranley spruced up in time for the ball. He had even extracted a commitment from the builders that we would see neither hide nor hair of them on the first of June.
I spent my time considering the ingredients for a successful party. My parents were forever swanning off to balls, dos and soirees, but I hadn’t been to many myself. The one thing I came up with for certain was dessert; so I made an alphabetical list of the different types of cake we would need. It started like this:
Apple turnovers.
Battenberg, Belgian buns, Black Forest gateau.
Carrot cake, Chocolate eclairs, chocolate profiteroles, chocolate pudding…
In fact, the entry for C went on for a page in itself.
I was never allowed to use the candlestick telephone in my own home so it was great fun to take charge of both the mouthpiece and receiver in the petit salon and connect with the operator. I needed contacts for caterers, florists and entertainers in the local area. Sadly, they didn’t have a number for any musicians and, as liberating as it was to be able to choose the band for the ball myself, the only one I knew was “Gilbert Gordon and his Cabaret Cohorts”. My brother had picked them for my last birthday and it looked as though they would have to be hired again.
“Yeah, I know a bloke who knows a bloke,” Fellowes informed me when I asked for advice. This is one of his standard answers. Another is, “I can get you a good price if ya like,” which I’m fairly sure means he’ll be receiving a cut himself. He’s a little like my father, but, instead of being a stockbroker who knows all the right people in the City, he has a network of dubious contacts in every field.
He left me with a sausage and mango roulade (much better than it sounds) and I left him with the task at hand. I hadn’t been able to get any more information from my grandfather about what the second stage of his plan might involve, nor how balloons and motorbikes came into it, but he had told me to spare no expense in organising the ball.
“You’re the expert of course,” I told the florist in our local village of St Mary-Under-Twine, “but I suspect we’ll need two, no, let’s say three thousand delphinium.”
I heard the old lady crash down in her seat and the telephone made a buzzing pop. “That’s an awful lot of delphinium. About a field’s worth, I’d say. Are you certain about this?”
I had a quick think to confirm it. “Well, it’s an awfully large space we’ll be decorating. One field of flowers for one big room; that’s the ticket. Throw in half a field of peony and a copse of lilac and I think we’re onto a winner.”
She swallowed hard. “And you’re sure you’re Master Cristopher, from the hall?”
“Yes, that’s right; Lord Edgington’s grandson. I bought some roses off you for Mothering Sunday. Perhaps you remember?”
She made a sort of warbling sound in confirmation and we concluded our deal. Party organisation is clearly one of my hidden gifts. Perhaps it would be the trade for me, once school and university were out of the way. Father said he wanted me to go into banking, but I’ve never too hot on numbers or mathematics, or any kind of counting, really.
I was just contemplating this conundrum when I heard voices in the corridor. I instinctively ducked beneath the table, as no one had expressly told me that I was allowed to use the telephone.
“You can moan all you like, Maitland, but I’m the one who’ll suffer.” I recognised my aunt’s voice as she berated her brother. “I’m the eldest and it will be my son who ends up destitute if Father starts giving George’s inheritance away willy-nilly.”
Uncle Maitland wasn’t the type to point out that his sister’s house was no cottage and that she’d already inherited her late husband’s impressive wealth. “Yes, Belinda, and that’s why I said we should do something about it. This ridiculous ball mustn’t go ahead. I for one won’t stand by while the old fool bankrupts us.”
I inched forward under the table to spy on them.
A devious look crossed my aunt’s face. “What do you suggest we do about it?”
It was hard to comprehend how my sweet, gentle mother could be related to either of her siblings. Uncle Maitland 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, but Cook spoke again before I could decide whether it was a good idea.
“Her father will outlive her and that’s something you can bet on. Shrivelled old Belinda will have drunk herself to death long before-”
She never finished the sentence as, just then a looming figure appeared in the doorway and everyone held their breath.
“Don’t let me interrupt you.” My grandfather took a hesitant step into the kitchen, like a schoolboy entering the teacher’s corridor. I’d never seen him look so uncertain before. “I thought I’d come down and say hello.”
Todd the chauffeur bolted to his feet and a couple of the gardeners did the same. There was an awkward hush as Fellowes looked about at his colleagues in the hope that one of them might know what to say next. When none of the adults could make a decision, I decided to offer my grandfather a chair.
“Well… yes, Christopher. Why not?” He asked the question as if hoping that someone would provide a good reason. “I’m happy to see that you’re being fed… Growing boy and all that.”
I was taken aback by the change in him. This wasn’t the same Lord Edgington who had brought the Ealing Strangler to the gallows or cracked the Bow Boys crime ring. As he sat down at the table, he was acting like a stranger in his own house.
“Please, everyone, sit down,” he said and the men slowly retook their places at the long, wooden worktable. They looked as sombre as mourners at a funeral.
“Are you hungry, Lord Edgington?” Cook enquired. “Would you like some broth?”
Regaining something of his composure, Grandfather sat up straighter and shook his head. “It looks delicious, Cook, but I should really refrain. Though I’m sure Fellowes will have told you how I much I enjoy your soups.” My grandfather was the only living person who could make such a claim.
He cleared his throat before continuing. “It occurred to me this evening how strange it is that there are rooms in my house that I’ve never visited and people who live here I’ve never spoken to.” As he said this, he cast his gaze towards the two, normally rowdy gardeners, who looked down at their hands in reply. I was coming to think that my parents were right and old Grampapa had finally lost it.
“Would you like a drink, Milord?” Fellowes was up on his feet and had assumed his butlering pose; heels together, feet turned out, chin raised high. “We have a nicely aged whisky. I know how you like your single malts.”
“That won’t be necessary. Sit down, man.” The vein of annoyance reappeared in his voice but died away again just as quickly. “And please, everyone, go back to your game. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
On catching her master’s raised voice, Delilah poked her sleepy head out of her basket before bumbling over.
“So what did you come here for, Grandfather?” I asked. He looked straight at me and I wished I could take my question back and hide in the pantry.
“I came to talk to everyone. You see, I may be the occupier of Cranley Hall, but you…” He peered around the nervous visages of his employees. “All of you, are its heart; its lifeblood. A house is nothing without humanity and that is what you provide the place with.”
There was some appreciative murmuring, but the staff kept their eyes low, as if Lord Edgington was a star that was too bright to look at directly.
When the voices faded out, he continued. “I can see that my plans are going to make life more complicated over the next month, but I know you all have it in you to cope with the changes.” He paused and his moustache wiggled a little like he’d heard something funny. He pointed over to his chauffeur and serving staff. “Todd, Fellowes and Halfpenny, I’m expecting you to lead the younger members of staff in their duties and address any problems they might have.”
The three men looked proud to be singled out by name, and my grandfather moved on.
“Cook, you needn’t worry. We’ll be bringing in a fleet of assistants to prepare the food for the party and Christopher here is in charge of the menu, so it shouldn’t be any more work for you than normal.”
He scanned the faces of the young maids. “To the rest of you, I’m afraid you’re going to have your work cut out. We’ll be using rooms in the house which haven’t been opened in years. Not just the ballroom and salons, we’ll have a number of guests staying the night and so the unused bedrooms in the east wing will also be r
equired.”
It was the gardeners’ turn next and they finally looked up at him. “The gardens will need to be at their very best too. I know that change can be frightening, so try to stay focussed on the end result. Cranley will look more beautiful than she has in a century and I believe in each and every last one of you.”
His rousing words finally seemed to have had an impact and Alice smiled across at me enthusiastically as Grandfather finished his speech.
“You probably think I’m quite mad. But I promise that’s not the case. I merely want to fulfil a few lifelong dreams, while there’s still time.”
“Very good, Milord,” Fellowes offered in reply, and his words seemed to rally his colleagues. There was a buzz of chatter as Grandfather stood back up and, like celebrants before communion, we all rose.
“I’m sure the ball will be wonderful, your lordship,” Cook added and performed a little curtsy where she stood.
“That’s right.” The old man smiled, finally looking comfortable in his own kitchen. “Wonderful is just the word for it.”
Chapter Six
After Todd dropped me off at school that week, the days dragged by. I can’t say I’ve ever been particularly scholarly (if that’s the right word for it) but after my weekend of surprises, each sixty-minute period at Oakton Academy took forever. I felt just as my grandfather must have for the last ten years; held in stasis, waiting for life to kick back in.
In general, boys my age fall into two camps, the bullies and the bullied. With my love of birds, cakes and Charles Dickens, I doubt I need to tell you which one I belonged to. The only good thing about my academic career at Oakton was that I was so entirely average at science, maths, rugby, cricket, hockey and lake swimming that I never stood out among the more successful boys. But with Cranley’s spring ball firmly planted on that year’s social calendar, I was suddenly the talk of the school.
Who knows how these things get out to the wider world (my best guess would be that Fellowes had sold the information to some gossip hound) but there was even an article about it in the social column of The Daily Telegraph. Such provincial events rarely made it into the national papers, so you can imagine what a story it was that Lord Edgington, the wealthiest landowner in the whole of Surrey and one-time scourge of London’s criminal underworld, was dipping his toe into high-society functions.
Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery Page 3