Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery

by Benedict Brown

  “You can lead the interview, Blunt, but Christopher and I will be in that room when you speak to my nephew. This is my house and I won’t have it any other way.”

  I expected a loud rebuttal but, instead, the middle-aged officer simply huffed, turned his back to us and got on with his work. While he spoke to our still nervous butler, I went to see my family. They were huddled together, far from where Aunt Belinda had collapsed.

  It was hard to tell what my mother was thinking. Rigid and barely moving, she sat in a chair between two gigantic vases of delphinium. Albert was the one who seemed most distressed, though not for the reasons one might have expected.

  “I don’t care if she’s my cousin! I just want a girlfriend.”

  Our father had apparently broken the news of exactly who Albert had been dancing with and my brother retreated into the corner to be alone.

  “How are you doing, old chap?” Father asked. He was awfully good at hiding his feelings and there’s nothing like tossing an ‘old chap’ into a greeting to make everything seem normal.

  “I’ve been working on the investigation with Grandfather. We’ve narrowed down the list of suspects.” I still wasn’t privy to the names of everyone on that list, but my family didn’t need to know that.

  My mother, who was staring into space and had not even blinked until now, heard what I said and came to life. “Well done, darling. I’m sure you’re a wonderful help to your grandfather. How do you think he’s coping?”

  Though she was putting a brave face on things, I could see in her eyes just how much sadness she was battling through. Those deep brown orbs glistened under the light of the chandeliers, as the reality of her sister’s death permeated her every thought.

  “I’m doing what I can.” Boys at Oakton Academy are taught from an early age that it’s essential not to discuss, show or, in fact, possess any emotions in public. “Grandfather is on the trail of the killer. There’s no doubt about it.”

  My father frowned, before declaring in a solemn voice, “It doesn’t bear thinking about what would have happened if Belinda hadn’t drunk before everyone else.”

  My mother did not like the way he’d expressed himself and directed a disapproving look in his direction. “Oh, so everything’s fine then? It’s only Belinda who died. As long as we’re all right, nothing else matters.”

  He swiftly crouched down to comfort her, though the gesture was born more of appeasement than apology. I thought about going back to see Grandfather, or up to my bed for that matter, but before I could decide what the best course of action was, I’d been cornered by the very last person I wanted to talk to.

  “Christopher, you’ve got to help me.” With his hair tussled and his tie askew, Marmalade had made it through the party and out the other side, but it was his face that had borne the brunt of the damage. His cheek was bleeding and there was a bruise beneath his right eye that mirrored my own. It was hard not to think that some justice had been served.

  “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been mugged by a gorilla.”

  His voice was deeper than normal, as if he had a point to prove. “I went into the garden and fell down in the dark. Never mind that, I need you to talk to your grandfather for me. I need you to tell him I was with you when that woman was murdered.”

  “Why should I do anything to help you? I didn’t even want you here tonight.” It probably wasn’t the moment to bring up such petty issues, but forgive me for still being upset about the black eye he’d given me.

  “Please, Chrissy. I know we’re not friends, but this is serious. They’ll think I’m the killer, I know they will. Did you hear that policeman? He’s a savage. As soon as he finds out who my father is and that I don’t have an alibi, I’ll be for it.” The plummy tone he normally spoke in had worn off and more popular expressions broke through.

  “Why would they think that, Adelaide? Where were you before she died?”

  He had no interest in explaining himself and checked that no one was listening before stepping in closer. “Just do what I told you.” His usual malevolence rung out once more. “Your grandfather can get me off the hook, I know he can. One word to the police and he’ll smooth it all over. Do it, or I’ll-”

  I wasn’t in the mood for another threat from him. “It’s too late for that. He already knows you weren’t in here before the toast. In fact, you’re one of the very few people who was absent at the time that the champagne was poisoned.”

  “Poison? I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  I paused to watch his reaction. I’m not one to take pleasure in the suffering of others, but, I have to say, he had it coming. “I’d run if I were you, Adelaide, before the police get wind of what you’ve done.”

  I could see that he wanted to even up my face with his fist, but there was no time for that. Taking a quick glance around the room, he looked to see which of the exits were unguarded, then casually strolled over to the French windows.

  With my typical Christopher-ish weakness, I felt a little sorry for him. The desire to help him almost overcame me, so I forced myself to shout, “Watch out, he’s making a break for it!” and Blunt caught sight of him just in time.

  All the police officers and even my Uncle Maitland ran to intercept him, but that just meant he was free to double back and run out to the corridor. Lithe and lanky Marmalade had been sprint champion at every school sports day since we’d started at Oakton and the comparatively round bobbies didn’t stand a chance.

  The last thing he shouted as he disappeared from the room was, “Thanks, Chrissy,” and Inspector Blunt looked mortified that he’d already lost a suspect.

  “Well, go after him then, you bunch of idlers,” he admonished the nearest officers before his words faded to silence.

  Still struggling to work out whether I’d intentionally helped Marmalade escape, I spotted the wry expression on my grandfather’s face as his own nemesis suffered his first defeat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The natives – by which I mean the great and good of Surrey – were becoming restless. There was only so long that the police could keep everyone there before one of the distinguished guests threatened to write a highly critical letter to The Times or call up Inspector Blunt’s superiors for a serious discussion.

  Though he didn’t seem too worried about such an occurrence, it was becoming clear that dealing with the large group of still tipsy revellers was only making his task more difficult. As voices grew louder across the hall, the inspector decided he’d have to address the crowd.

  “From what I’ve ascertained-” he began, in his typically flat manner.

  “We can’t hear you, man!” a hidden heckler exclaimed. To be honest, it was probably my grandfather throwing his voice. “Get up on the stage, why don’t you?”

  With a tired groan, Blunt did as instructed and began his speech once more. “From what my officers have been able to ascertain, there were only a few people who were not present during the time at which the bottle of champagne could have been poisoned.” The noise from the audience rose again and he had to shout to be heard. “If your name isn’t called, you can provide your details to one of my officers and you will be free to go.”

  The chatter took on a more optimistic tone and Blunt looked at the notepad he was holding to read out the list.

  “Lord Edgington…” He announced this first name with great joy. “Maitland Cranley, George Trevelyan, Reginald Fellowes, Cora Villiers and Clementine Cranley. And if anyone knows of the whereabouts of one Marmaduke Adelaide, we’d be interested in talking to him and all.”

  “What about my son!” My belligerent grandmother bellowed from the back of the room. She sounded quite indignant that anyone would overlook a member of her family, even in such a salacious matter. “He left the room where we’d been talking and I didn’t see him again until the toast was made. You would b
e remiss in your duties not to include him.”

  “Well, thank you for noticing!” Not for the first time in his life, my father was unhappy to be in his mother’s thoughts.

  Replying with one of her classic eye rolls, she would not be swayed by her son’s disapproval. “I’m only telling the truth, Walter. We wouldn’t want you to be cleared of a murder without sufficient evidence. That would be like winning a race without breaking into a run.”

  The fact that this conversation had been conducted extremely loudly and in public led several members of the family to have a good chortle at my father’s expense. This was followed by a burst of muttered disapproval as sober heads reminded us that a woman was dead.

  Blunt sensed yet another opportunity to make a toff’s life difficult and pounced on the new revelation. “Is this true, Mr Prentiss?”

  My father replied with an embarrassed shrug. “Well… yes. But I only popped outside for a breath of fresh air. I can’t have been gone more than five minutes.”

  “Make sure he doesn’t leave, boys.” A wicked grin shaped Blunt’s face before he addressed the room one last time. “If you have no further information for me, then I will thank you for your assistance and say goodnight.”

  Ten or fifteen people requested their shawls, coats and purses from Alice, who was already on hand, but the vast majority stayed exactly where they were.

  Blunt looked confused and it would fall to my grandfather to explain the problem. “Most of them are spending the night here. If you wish to speak to your suspects alone, I recommend we retire to the smoking room while my staff see the other guests to their quarters.”

  Looking increasingly infuriated, Blunt stamped off the stage without another word and motioned to a few of his men to round up the persons of interest.

  “The smoking room is to the left!” my father shouted after him as the inspector turned right along the corridor and instantly had to double back. It was a small victory on Daddy’s part, but I could see he enjoyed it.

  Feeling a little guilty for leaving them at that moment, I waved sombrely to my mother and Albert, then scurried after my grandfather who was waiting for me by the door.

  “Quite revealing, don’t you think?” he said as I reached him. “The police appear to have eliminated any of the staff but Fellowes. Maybe Blunt is more useful than I’d given him credit.”

  “You knew about my father, didn’t you?” I hadn’t intended to sound so hostile, but his previous reticence to reveal the names on his list now made sense. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Instead of giving me a straight answer, he said, “Come along, Chrissy. There’s no time for sentimentality in this job,” and turned to leave.

  It had been a while since I’d caught sight of my great-aunt Clementine but I needn’t have worried about her. She had been roused from her nap and was already in the smoking room, singing an old song to her accompanying officer. Her voice was almost as bad as her memory and I was expecting Blunt to shut her up at any moment.

  “Come, holy night!

  Long is the day and ceaseless is the fight;

  Around us bid thy quiet shadows creep,

  And rock us in thy sombre arms to sleep!”

  She moved her arms gently through the air as she sang, her wide eyes fixed on nothing as was usually the case. She was dressed in a purple ball gown, which had been accessorised with a large pink polka-dot hat, several sparkly brooches and, at some point in the course of the evening, a delphinium corsage. When she had concluded Elgar’s tragic lament, she froze, apparently waiting for our applause.

  “Thank you, madam.” As it happened, Blunt was quite moved by the performance. “My mother used to sing that song, God rest her soul.”

  Clementine nodded humbly and took her place in one of the armchairs scattered around the heavily carpeted space. A fire roared in the grate, yet the scent of tobacco was overwhelming and infused every inch of the room.

  The complete list of suspects was there. At the front of the room, Cora and my father were puffing on two gigantic cigars in a cloud of their own making. Daddy always hated being far back in the theatre and no doubt wanted a good view. Uncle Maitland was pacing up and down in front of the fireplace and poor, orphaned George inevitably looked distraught. He had draped himself across a bookshelf and chewed his nails nervously as we waited.

  Fellowes poured whisky from a decanter and, when he served Clementine, she thought it would be rather funny to return the favour. Still in the over-the-top, theatrical style of her previous performance, the old lady made a big show of splashing out the single malt into a tumbler for the butler.

  “You know,” she began, in her high, quivering voice, “when I was a girl, we ladies were never allowed in smoking rooms and now here I am serving the gentlemen drinks! What thrills!”

  She launched into another song as she poured her granddaughter Cora a drink of her own. Fellowes looked unsure how to react, but decided to humour the mad old thing and stood back against the bookshelf with the discretion required of his position. Once Clementine had finished her task, and her song, the inspector began.

  “There’s a killer in this room.” His opening line was appropriately direct. “Someone you all know planned and carried out a murder. I want you to think about this simple fact and remember that keeping secrets won’t do you nothing but harm.”

  I was one of the few people present who could not actually have killed my aunt. This felt jolly good to know, but Inspector Blunt’s demand still had its desired effect. I looked about at the figures who’d been a fixture in my life for so long and processed the fact that one of them had not only murdered Belinda, they’d almost wiped out my whole family.

  Blunt continued to address us in a truly bizarre manner. Presumably attempting to sound like a member of the upper classes, he added extra Hs to the beginning of words. “If hany of you know hanything, you must tell me now. Whatever you were up to between eight fifty and nine ho’clock this evening, give hor take a few minutes, I need to know about it. Whatever you’re keeping to yourself, don’t.”

  I took in the reactions of those around me as he spoke. Chic, modern Cora peered through her monocle at the inspector. She was obviously nervous and hugged her glass close to her body, but barely took a sip. Clementine was peering out of the window and humming once more, Uncle Maitland’s round, ruddy face looked as vexed as it ever did and I couldn’t bring myself to look at Father just then as I was still trying to ignore the reality that he was a suspect.

  The inspector swept his searchlight eyes from one side of the room to the other. “This is not my first time investigating a case like this. And it doesn’t matter if it’s a car stolen in Hounslow or a man stabbed to death on the steps of Westminster Cathedral, people like you always make the same mistakes. So, whatever you think you’ve got to lose by telling me the truth, it can’t be worse than being arrested for murder.”

  Standing beside me at the back of the room, the most experienced officer there nodded his approval at his old rival’s message. My grandfather was a fair man, even when faced with unpleasant people.

  “So,” Blunt continued, “what have you got for me? Hanyone want to admit to seeing hanything suspicious? Hanyone want to cough up to the crime?” He waited for a response and, when nothing came, he abandoned his posh tone altogether and addressed his subordinates. “Nah, didn’t think so. Right, separate ‘em all up into rooms of their own and don’t let any of ‘em say a word to one another. It’s like I said, boys, it’s going to be a very long night.”

  As the constables dispersed, he pointed to my grandfather then with malicious glee. “And start with that one!”

  Lord Edgington was incensed and shot his response across the room. “You can’t do this, I told you what will happen if you shut me out of the investigation.”

  Blunt just ignored him. “And make sure that there’s no phone in the room y
ou lock him in.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The police carted their suspects off to separate cells along the corridor. I noticed they shut Grandfather up in what amounted to a cupboard used for storing silverware, while I was left out entirely.

  It had gone eleven by this time. I could tell that Blunt would make them wait before starting the interviews and, as most people had retired for the evening, I decided to do the same.

  My parents have a suite beside my own and so I called in to see my mother before bed. I very much hoped that, wherever the staff had stuck Albert, he was far away from our cousin Margaret Hillington-Smythe.

  “Aren’t you worried about Father?” I asked as I watched my mother’s pearl-handled brush fall through her long, brown hair for the fifth, tenth, one hundredth time. I’ve always found watching her at such tasks to be most soothing, but even this was no balm after that night’s cavalcade of disasters.

  She stopped the movement to answer me. “No, Christopher. Of course I’m not worried about him. There is no way on this green and pleasant Earth that your father could be mixed up in my sister’s murder.” Her soft voice peaked then. “And besides, do we even know it was intentional? Could it not simply be that the champagne was fifty years old and had turned to acid?”

  I considered this for a moment, but it didn’t seem possible. “Grandfather doesn’t think so. He said there are very few poisons that could have killed her like that and cyanide is the most likely.”

  My mother shivered a little then. Cyanide was a poison you heard about in penny dreadfuls and ghastly newspaper stories. It was not the kind of thing we dealt with at Cranley Hall.

  She looked at my reflection in the mirror on her dressing table. “Your father had nothing to do with it and nor did mine.” I felt she was saying this for her own reassurance. “I really can’t imagine that anyone from the family would want to hurt poor Belinda.”