Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery

by Benedict Brown

  “What were ya thinking, getting into a fight, Master Christopher?” she asked in her perfectly melodious Tipperary accent.

  Luckily, she didn’t give me time to reply but ran off to fetch a chunk of ice to get the swelling down. It stung a little as she pressed it against the bruise but this gave me the perfect opportunity to gaze upon her ice-white skin and nigella-blue eyes. Marmaduke Adelaide, dull, dusty classrooms and even warring relatives seemed very far away just then. For a moment, I could imagine that we lived in a world where the grandson of a lord was free to confess his adoration to an émigré housemaid.

  I imagine I’d been gawping, as Alice looked rather out of sorts. I pulled back from her and pretended that I hadn’t been imagining us walking hand in hand on a sunlit beach.

  “I… Well, I should probably find out whether the operator has a telephone number for vase rental.” I took the ice from her soft, soft hand and held it to my eye. “Do you know if that’s a service which exists?”

  “And sure how would I know?” she replied, in rather short fashion and went off to attend to her duties.

  Through an incredible stroke of luck, a call to Selfridges put me in touch with the right people. At ten o’clock that night, a lorry turned up from London full to the brim with porcelain vases. Sadly, all the temporary staff had finished work for the day which meant that, as it was essentially all my fault, I had to stay up until four in the morning putting the flowers in water to make sure they didn’t wilt and die.

  By twelve o’clock I was barely able to keep my eyes open, but then an unexpected assistant arrived.

  “Two fields of flowers, eh?” My grandfather stood in the doorway to the billiard room enjoying my misfortune.

  “Not quite two.” I yawned and snipped open my hundredth bundle of lilac. “Barely one and three quarters in fact.”

  “Come along, Chrissy.” He surprised me by pulling a chair over to the bridge table where I’d been working. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  He moved with a swiftness and determination which belied his advanced years. In one flowing movement he scooped up a bundle of flowers from the floor, deposited them between us, then pulled a crate of vases up next to him.

  “Do you know anything about flower arrangement, Grandfather?”

  “I know that you shouldn’t handle delphiniums with your bare hands. They can be quite toxic in fact. We’ll have to ring for some gloves. Except for that… no, not very much.” He surveyed the ranks of vases I had already filled. “Though, clearly, neither do you.”

  I smiled and we worked out who would do what in our newly formed production line. I enjoyed the precision with which he did everything. Even this mundane task was invested with great care and concentration. Perhaps it was my fatigue, but I felt oddly close to him then and, before I knew it, the words had fallen from my mouth.

  “Grandfather, why exactly do you talk to your staff the way you do?”

  He kept his eyes on the peony stems which he was dealing with. “How do you mean?”

  I realised the weight of the question I’d just asked him, but there was no going back now. “Even Mother keeps her distance from our staff at home, and she’s quite modern compared to most people. But you…” It was hard to express my thoughts without sounding terribly judgemental. “Well, you’re rather unique, aren’t you?”

  He allowed himself the briefest of glances in my direction before responding. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” I thought that this was all he would provide in way of an answer but then he finished one of the arrangements and sat back in his chair. “It’s not just the staff here at Cranley, I try to treat everyone as equals, no matter their standing or station in life.”

  Now that the gate was open, I found that the questions came flooding out of me. “Yes, but, have you always been like that? And why do you let Fellowes act the way he does? And why go to the kitchen when-”

  He interrupted before I could get anything more out. “No. I haven’t always been so enlightened on the matter but, after I saw the sacrifice of so many ordinary citizens during the war, I realised that class is not the great divider that so many believe.”

  He paused again and looked at me as if trying to decide whether I was old enough to understand such concepts. “You know, during the time I sat in my tower, like Rapunzel waiting to be saved, the world changed so much. I followed what happened in newspapers and novels to try to understand how humans could bring such misery upon ourselves.”

  I could see that this question was still running through his mind as he spoke. “Perhaps I’m too much of an optimist, but I’d like to believe that the tragedy that we’ve lived through could give us a greater appreciation of just how precious a resource our fellow humans are. It doesn’t matter where a person comes from or what they’re trained to do, we are all born equal and we all have the potential to do good.”

  I’m not the best at pretending to understand what people are talking about. I imagine I had my usual distant look in my eyes as I nudged him back to my original questions. “And Fellowes? Mother says he acts like he’s the master of Cranley and that you don’t notice.”

  My lordly grandfather laughed at this. It was a big, booming sound that shook the table we were sitting at. He reminded me of a Father Christmas I’d once seen at a children’s party. In fact, with his white whiskers and impressive height he’d fit right in at the North Pole (though he should probably gain a few stone first).

  “I notice. Of course I notice. Fellowes is as much a pain to me as anyone. You don’t think I’ve suffered having no one but him for company for the last ten years?”

  The deeper we got into the conversation, the less I understood for certain. Instead of hanging on his every word, I went back to filling the vases as though I was really very blasé about the whole discussion. “Then why not fire him?”

  The answer that I’d been pondering for so long came straight back to me. “Because I trust him.” The old man was watching me as I made a terrible job of splashing the overfilled bucket of water about the carpet. I pretended I hadn’t noticed and let him keep talking. “The last thing I need is a yes man, and Fellowes is far from it. We’ve known one another for a long time and, without him, I’d probably still be up in my room lamenting my misfortune.”

  “So how did you meet?” All that practised nonchalance was gone from my voice. I’d only just got the question out when he changed the subject.

  “Do you know what I’d like to talk about?” He came to a halt and I was worried for a moment that it might not be a rhetorical question. “I’d like to know about the black eye you’ve acquired. Did you get any punches in yourself?”

  I attempted a laugh. “Of course, I did. I was a positive mauler, just like Jack Dempsey. They had to put the fragments of my opponent in an envelope to send them home to his mother.”

  Grandfather’s moustaches pulled wide in a smile and we continued with our work. I was coming to realise that, no matter how many mysteries I might unpick in my family, there would always be more to discover.

  Chapter Eight

  It was almost too good to believe when the evening of the ball finally arrived and our guests appeared. My aunt and uncle’s attempt at sabotage had not materialised, we’d got everything ready in time and I even looked rather dashing in my top hat and tails, or at least, that’s what Alice told me in a whisper as she served canapés.

  “You look fat,” was my paternal grandmother’s contrasting perspective.

  “Oh, do leave him alone, mother.” For once, my father came to my defence. “He’s not fat, he’s got Daddy’s big bones.”

  My grandmother was a rake of a woman with a grip like a metal clamp and a voice as loud as a radio transmitter. She was not one for changing her mind.

  “Your father was fat! His bones were big, but so was all of the flesh on top of them.” She addressed me directly then. “Boy, what
have they been feeding you? A strict diet of lard and butter no doubt.”

  “Don’t listen to your grandmother, Christopher,” Father intervened once more. “She tells Albert that he’s too skinny. Nothing is ever good enough for Mummy.”

  The old lady looked scandalised. “What is the world coming to when my own son would say such a thing? A young boy should always listen to his elders.”

  “I should check on the other guests,” I said, before the two of them could get into one of their favourite arguments. I didn’t specifically know which guests I should be looking after but I’d been trapped in the grand salon by a gang of my elderly relatives for half an hour already and was beginning to feel a little aged myself.

  Peeking into the petit salon, there was nothing much going on there except for my prehistoric great-aunt Clementine snoring away behind the door with her feet up on an ottoman. I was a little disappointed that so few people had taken advantage of my culinary selection, so I helped myself to a slice of fruit cake and headed back to the party.

  It was a whole different situation in the ballroom where things were starting to swing. With its long mirrors, which caught the beams from the the crystal chandeliers above the dancers’ heads, and all those pretty beaded dresses on the young ladies, the whole place was ablaze with light. While it was true that the vases of flowers which circled the room caused a bit of a crush in the middle of the floor, everyone appeared to be having a wonderful time.

  The band had started playing and they were a little racier than I had expected. Most of their musical choices appeared to be of American influence, not that my brother and his friends seemed to mind. They shimmied about the place with arms and legs whipping through the air. Albert had clearly got over his broken heart and only had eyes for the young lovely he was dancing with. He presumably hadn’t realised that she was our cousin, Margaret Hillington-Smythe, whose family had recently returned from South Africa.

  A few senior guests were standing at the side of the room looking appalled by the display of such frivolity. As far as I was concerned, they could think what they liked. I was on top of the world and no stuffy, old dinosaurs could change that.

  Marmaduke Adelaide, however, very much could.

  “Hello there, Chrissy!” Oakton Academy’s fiercest bully always spoke at a level that ensured everyone could hear him, no matter how large the room. “How’s the eye?”

  “My mother had to put makeup on it, thanks to you.” Why did I tell him this? “If you think you can come crashing in here uninvited, well… you can think again.”

  He grew even smugger. “Really, Christopher. What do you take me for? I have an invitation just like everyone else.”

  I seriously considered losing my temper then, but couldn’t forget the stomach-churning click I’d heard when his fist had made contact with my eye.

  “Oh, yes? And who invited you?”

  Marmalade’s huge, ginger head displayed a Cheshire Cat’s smile right then and I wished I’d had the courage to wipe it off his face.

  “He did!” He pointed to the entrance just as a handsome gent in a white suit and silk scarf wandered through with a pack of outrageously dressed girls in tow.

  George Trevelyan was Aunt Belinda’s oldest son and an out-and-out bounder. At only twenty-four he’d been engaged three times and run up bills in every club in London which, if the rumours were to be believed, his mother had finally refused to cover. After finishing a degree in moral sciences at Cambridge, he’d shown no great flair for science or morality and spent the years since then as a most notorious gadabout. He was the rogue of our family and I thought he was wonderful.

  He held his arms out towards me as he approached. “Chrissy, how marvellous to see you. I play golf with Marmaduke’s father and heard he was just desperate to come, so I brought him along. Be a good boy and get our guest a Hanky-Panky, won’t you?”

  I was clearly confused by the request as he quickly followed it up with, “Don’t look so scandalised, Chrissy. It’s just a cocktail.”

  George spoke incredibly fast and had a habit of bowling everyone over with the intensity of whatever he was saying so that we’d end up doing his bidding without fully understanding why. Despite the fact there were paid employees to perform this very task, I zipped to the bar in the corner where Todd was cutting a fine figure in his footman’s waistcoat and breeches.

  “I could slip something nasty in his drink, if you like?” he (I assume) joked as he poured various bottles into a shaker.

  I smiled at him soberly. “Thank you for your support. Who knows, I might even agree before the night is over.”

  He winked at me and I carried the drink back across the room, by which time the whole gang of new arrivals had melted into the pulsating crowd of dancers.

  “Oh, Chrissy?” Aunt Belinda called with a high-pitched giggle. “Chrissy darling, is that for me?”

  She was already sozzled but I handed her the mellow brown cocktail. Marmalade was long gone and I couldn’t see how one more glass on top of the ten she’d already consumed would make much difference.

  “I thought that you and Uncle Maitland had decided not to come?”

  Her grey hair was pinned higher and tighter than ever and I had to wonder if there was any blood reaching her brain. She was the only one of her generation dressed in a modern style, but I can’t say it suited her. The hemline of her skirt crashed about above her ankles as she attempted to keep herself upright.

  “Who am I to turn down an invitation to a party?” She put one finger on my lip as if she was afraid I might answer. “My dear sweet nephew, there comes a time when the invitations disappear altogether. So seize these moments. Enjoy them and seize them.”

  She was beginning to repeat herself, and I wondered what I could do to escape when my mother caught sight of her sister draped over me.

  She marched straight up to us. “Why on Earth are you bothering poor Christopher?”

  Belinda managed to support her own weight and her befuddled eyes blinked away the brightness of the room. “How lovely to see you, Violet! It’s been far too long. When was the last time we saw one another?”

  “Sunday.” My mother has a talent for sharp answers and this one was delivered with a surgeon’s blade.

  “Yes, that’s right, well… lovely nonetheless.” Sensing her little sister’s hostility, Belinda waved goodbye and tottered out onto the floor to display her complete ignorance of how to dance a foxtrot.

  “The place looks incredible, Christopher. It genuinely does.” My mother is a good sort really and always knows how to cheer me up. “I hope you’re having a nice time.”

  She took a moment to marvel at our surroundings as the slick dance band, dressed in tightly fitted black suits, started in on a new piece of music. A buzz of horror and delight travelled about the room as it quickly became apparent that what they were playing was a good deal ‘hotter’ than their previous efforts. What they were playing was full-on American jazz.

  My brother let out a squeal of absolute glee as he spun Margaret around him. Scandalising the family with immoral, corrupting music – which the national newspapers regularly railed against – was one of our butler’s more anarchic efforts. Conveniently absent, Fellowes must have known what sort of band he’d recommended, but I didn’t mind. I thought the melody rather catchy and might have gone for a dance myself if the man of the hour hadn’t appeared at that moment.

  Lord Edgington timed his entrance to build suspense and made his appearance when the party was already roaring. It was another sign of the theatrical side to my grandfather’s personality that I had only glimpsed before. He stood in his dove-grey dress suit, with a silver cane in one hand and his top hat in the other, surveying his domain. Any fears I had that he wouldn’t approve of the hedonistic entertainment on display were soon quashed.

  “This is just how I imagined it,” he projected
for everyone to hear.

  As he walked across the room, he shook hands with friends and waved at others like a film star. I almost expected him to spin his hat through the air, tap his cane on the floor and break into song. Instead, and far more wisely considering his age, he made his way to the small stage where the band were playing and waited for them to finish a speedy one-step.

  The dancers came to a rest, the noise of chatter and laughter died down and he cleared his throat to speak.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, I cannot express how moving it truly is to see you all here.”

  My father and grandmother, along with a large crowd from the neighbouring salon, had gravitated towards the respectful hush, but there were still a few guests missing. On cue, my second cousin Cora noisily tumbled into the room. Cora was a few years older than my brother and had been the golden child of the family (well mannered, perfect marks at school and a champion archer to boot) until she got to university and… well, things changed. She was dressed that night in what looked like a man’s suit, with her hair cut short and a monocle of all things in one eye. A gaggle of old ladies at the back of the room turned their ire upon her, but she laughed it off as Lord Edgington continued with his address.

  “I consider this gathering to be a rebirth. A chance to make amends for the time I have wasted and, though I may be in the twilight of my life, I will expend no more of my energy on fear and regrets.” He paused and took in the gallery of faces looking up at him. “I’d like my three children and their families to come to the front.”

  Mother, Father and Aunt Belinda moved through the crowd. Albert and I followed after and I spotted two of our cousins cutting a similar path. Fellowes now appeared with a small silver trolley with a magnum of champagne and eleven pre-filled glasses on.