I was running through the suspects again in my head and probably didn’t tread as carefully as I should have. “But that means it could only have been Fellowes or Marmaduke Adelaide.”
She turned around in her chair to look straight at me. “Well, there you go then; it must be that horrible boy. He should never have been at the ball after what he did to you, and I’ve heard frightful stories about his family.”
I thought about this for a moment. Adelaide was a savage at school, but could he really have murdered someone in cold blood? “I’m not so sure, Mother. The way he was acting before he escaped this evening didn’t suggest that-”
In a single moment her whole demeanour changed. “Christopher, that’s enough!” She threw the brush down so that it skidded across the carpet and came to a rest under the window. “You’re not a detective and I’m sure this will all be resolved by the morning anyway.”
Her hollow voice shot over to where I sat at the end of the curtained bed. We looked at one another, neither of us quite sure what to say next. I thought of apologising and, knowing mother, I’m sure she did the same. In the end, neither of us could break the deadlock and I mumbled, “I should probably leave now,” and left the room.
The problem was that I didn’t want to go to bed and couldn’t fall asleep when I tried. I just lay there, going over the events of that night and trying to understand who could be behind my aunt’s horrendous fate. I was somehow colder under the scratchy woollen quilt than I had been outside, but I must have drifted off at some point as, several hours later, I woke up to find a figure sitting in the armchair by the door.
A patch of moonlight cast a silver halo around my grandfather and made his white whiskers shine. He didn’t say anything at first, and I could tell he was lost in his thoughts. I sat up in bed, but even then he didn’t react.
“Are you all right, Grandfather?”
He made a questioning hmmm sound as if he’d just noticed me there and then voiced aloud the notions that had been playing in his mind. “Blunt got the better of me this evening. I’m not too big a man to admit it. But this was just the opening gambit and tomorrow the real investigation will begin.”
Still groggy, with a heavy head and half-closed eyes, there wasn’t much I could say to this. Luckily, he stood up from his chair and pulled his shoulders back like a soldier being inspected by his commanding officer.
“I’ll need you up nice and early. We’ve work to do if we want to catch the killer before he strikes again.”
This woke me up. “Do you think that’s likely?”
“Oh, almost certainly. With so many people around at the time of the murder, there are bound to be loose ends that the culprit will need to tie up. Killing once is a test of character, but the second time comes more easily.” He put his hand on the door and, with an incongruous smile, said, “Sweet dreams, Christopher.”
And with that, he was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
After that unwelcome interruption, I had a restless night. My dreams were filled with giant ginger bullies and dying aunts. I imagined each one of the suspects confessing to their part in the crime, but, when I woke up, the details of each explanation were gone from my head.
I was feeling more positive than the night before though, if for no other reason than the thought of all the cakes left over for breakfast. When I got down to the dining room, the staff had laid out a truly sumptuous feast. There were custard tarts, fondant rings, Eccles cakes, Danish pastries and a huge assortment of petit fours which Cook had prepared especially and no one had touched. Sadly, there was a scrum of old family friends and distant relatives already helping themselves, so I joined the back of the queue and waited.
Fellowes was hard at work being rude to the family but the only other official suspect I caught sight of was Great-Aunt Clementine. She was singing Noel Coward’s ‘There’s Life in the Old Girl Yet’ to her captive audience. As a result, once the food had been taken, very few people stayed in the room to eat. On the bright side, I hoped that her caterwauling might make the scroungers and loiterers head home sooner.
Just when it was my turn to take my fill of the sweet selection, Grandfather appeared.
“No time for that, boy,” he informed me. “There’s work to be done.”
I almost cried, but put my plate down and hurried after him. Five seconds later, I changed my mind and pushed back through the crowd to claim a cream horn. Aunt Belinda was dead and she wasn’t going to get any deader because I’d had a spot of breakfast.
“Where are we going?” I asked as I licked granules of sugar from my fingers.
“We’ll interview Blunt’s prime suspect first, see what he knows. With a smooth fellow like George Trevelyan, it’s best to catch him when he hasn’t had time to prepare his answers.”
He was full of energy that morning and strode up the stairs to the wing of Cranley Hall where guests normally slept.
“I was up before the dawn.” He breathed in noisily, like he was recalling the fresh morning air. “I’ve spoken to the servants already. Every one of them has an alibi and the extra staff we’d hired to help with the preparations had all left before the ball began.”
Halfway along the upper corridor, he came to a stop and banged on the door. He didn’t wait for an answer but marched straight in.
“Morning, George!” he sang, on his way over to the window to throw back the curtains and let the pale sunshine into the room. “Sorry to wake you, old boy. I thought we had better have a chat before things get out of hand.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Our first suspect stayed hidden beneath his sheets, but it wasn’t hard to tell why. George was not alone.
Grandfather was a step ahead as usual. “Awfully sorry to interrupt, Margaret. But I think you had better get back to your own room, don’t you?”
Margaret Hillington-Smythe, my cousin on my father’s side – so thankfully no relation of George’s – scrambled to pull on a dressing gown and bundled up her clothes. Barefoot, the poor girl picked her way across the room, then paused by the door. She looked like she had something to say, but changed her mind and ran out.
George himself was unrepentant. “Good morning, dear Grandfather. And what a beautiful morning it is.” He pushed himself up to sitting then leaned across to his bedside table to extract a long, thin cigarette from a golden case. “I didn’t get much sleep thanks to your friends from the force, but I’m always up for a chinwag.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of an interrogation, but your choice of word sounds a little friendlier.” Our grandfather pulled a chair to the end of the bed and so I copied him and we both sat down. “Perhaps you could start by telling us where you were last night before your mother died.”
My cousin took a long drag on the cigarette. He held the smoke down while staring at Grandfather, then released it in small puffs like a train. “I don’t see that there’s a great deal of sense in me answering your questions. You’ve surely all decided that I’m the one to blame.”
I’d been relishing the thought of seeing the famous Superintendent Edgington in action and he didn’t disappoint. His voice immediately soared and he struck a self-righteous note. “Do you really think so little of me that I would condemn a man with no evidence?”
George fired back an answer without fear. “That’s what you do in this family. Guilty until proven innocent will be the inscription on my tombstone.”
Grandfather crossed his legs and softened his tone. “You know, I’ve never thought badly of you, George. As far as I’m concerned, you can drink what you like and spend time with whomever you wish to. As long as you remain on the right side of the law, you won’t hear me say a word against you. But your mother is dead and I need to find out why.”
He took another puff. “And what’s little Chrissy doing here?”
“He’s my assistant.”
It was funny to hear grandfather say this out loud. Technically, I was his assistant for the ball. My role in the investigation had never been discussed. It made me a little nervous as I found myself pondering the fates of the partners he’d had when he was in the police.
Grandfather returned to his original question. “So, where were you?”
“Oh, all right then.” He whistled through his teeth before continuing. “I’ll tell you exactly where I was. I was with Marmaduke Adelaide and he was with me. Ask him and he’ll confirm it.”
“You know full well we can’t. He ran away last night and no one’s found any trace of him. Besides, you didn’t answer my question. Where exactly were you?” Grandfather had perfected a sharp yet focussed tone of voice and I could tell he was happy to fall back into his old role.
“We were out on the terrace, getting some air.”
“Did you see my father?” I asked, as this was still the factor I was most concerned about.
A look of confusion crossed my cousin’s face. “No, I didn’t. Perhaps he’s the one you should be talking to.”
The old detective would not be dissuaded from his mission. “Tell me about your mother.”
George smiled. “Well, she wasn’t on the terrace. She was busy drinking herself to death.” A sad, cold laugh came out of him. It made me wonder how he could be so cruel and casual at such a moment.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Grandfather was losing his patience. “Can you think of any reason why someone wanted her dead?”
“Hmmm… money, I imagine. But surely it wasn’t just her they were trying to get rid of. And that’s another reason I couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder. The whole Cranley line would be extinct if Mother hadn’t been our canary down the mine.”
“Except you.” A childlike joy danced across my grandfather’s face right then.
“I’m sorry?”
I’d like to have stood up and given my grandfather the round of applause he deserved. Instead, I stayed silent and waited for him to tear George’s argument to pieces.
“You spilt your drink and went to get another before your mother collapsed. You made quite the fuss about it in fact, as though you wanted everyone to see exactly how you ended up without any champagne.”
George pulled a pair of glasses on to get a better perspective on the old man who was putting him through the mill. They had thick lenses which made him look rather a swot. It was no surprise, therefore, that I’d never seen him wear them before.
“So let me get this clear. You’re suggesting I attempted to kill our whole family so that I would be the heir to Cranley Hall?” He came to a stop and did a careful impersonation of someone deep in thought. “Wouldn’t it be rather obvious that I was behind the poisoning if I was the only one to survive?”
“I’m sure you’d have come up with some clever explanation, but the plan didn’t work, so we’ll never know.” Grandfather gave an absentminded shrug of his shoulders and looked down at his hands. “Is that why you invited young Adelaide to the ball? To provide you with an alibi? Only he got panicked and ran off, and now you’re in a spot of bother of your own.”
Our grandfather had gone from defending George’s innocence to laying the case out for his guilt and it was very difficult to know which he believed the more likely scenario.
My cousin could see that his unflustered response was not having its desired effect, so he tried a different tack. “Really? I’m your eldest grandson; I would hope you could think better of me than that.”
“It’s not personal. I’m just doing my job. And if you look at it from my position, it is rather suspicious. We know you didn’t get on with your mother and that you run up debts everywhere you go. I hear it won’t be long before the bailiffs come calling. It would hardly be a surprise if you resorted to drastic measures in order to climb out of the hole you’ve found yourself in.”
His voice broke as he appealed to our sympathy. “But we’re family. Even if you think I’m guilty, doesn’t some part of you want to protect me?”
The Most Honourable Marquess of Edgington (to give my grandfather his full title) answered straight back. “I don’t know if you’re guilty, but I do know you’re a fool. You’ve jumped into bed with the wrong people and I’m not talking about Margaret Hillington-Smythe. If you owe Horatio Adelaide money, there’s not much I can do for you. Of course, if you don’t tell me the truth, there’s nothing I can do for you at all.”
The mere mention of Marmalade’s father was enough to strike fear into my cousin. Though there were countless rumours at school about where Mr Adelaide got his money I had no idea which of them were true.
Perhaps afraid of what the old man might turn up next, George swung his legs out of bed and pulled his white dinner jacket on. “You don’t know anything about me.”
I’ve no idea why I tend to feel sympathy for the wrong people, but for all his faults, I’d always liked my eldest cousin and couldn’t stand seeing him reduced to such a state.
“Listen to Grandfather, George,” I attempted. “He’s good with this sort of thing.”
His startled eyes fixed upon me. “Don’t get involved in matters which you haven’t the first clue about, Chrissy. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of this whole sordid business.”
He was fully dressed by now and halfway to the door. I thought that the interview was over but Grandfather shot to his feet to block our suspect’s path. “You may not see it, George, but I’m trying to help you.” His words were one long plea. “I could be the difference between you living a long, happy life on the estate you deserve to inherit and swinging from the neck at Pentonville Prison. So what’s it to be?”
George’s only response was a disgruntled snarl as he stepped around the old policeman and out of the room.
Chapter Sixteen
“He was lying,” I said once we were alone.
Grandfather was still staring at the door, but there was no chance George was coming back.
“They all lie, it’s what people do. What I don’t know is exactly what he was lying about.”
Not for the first time, I felt like everyone in Cranley knew more of what was going on than I did. “Grandfather, how exactly did the Adelaides become so rich?”
He looked around the bedroom then. It was white and nondescript, just like ten other guest rooms in Cranley. With this inspection complete, he turned to me and said, “Come along, Christopher, there’s something I need to confirm. I’ll tell you all about Horatio Adelaide on the way.”
Not feeling I had much say in the decision, I got up to accompany him and he started his tale. “When I first knew Marmaduke’s father, he was a lackey for the Foley gang. Back then, the Foleys were one of London’s most vicious crime families and Horatio did whatever he could for them. I arrested him myself a number of times, but he’d always find a way to wriggle free. He’s that kind of person, an opportunist who lands on his feet. But a few years later, when the Foleys were eliminated by their rivals, Horatio Adelaide was in the right place to inherit their empire.”
We’d made it back downstairs and turned towards the ballroom.
“So he’s a criminal?” I prompted.
Grandfather’s moustache wriggled a little before he replied. “Yes and no. You see, there were three things which Horatio wanted. He wanted to stay alive – so he knew it wasn’t a good idea to remain in the business which had got the Foleys killed. He wanted to maintain his newly found wealth – easier said than done in that world – and, perhaps more than anything, he craved respectability. He had no interest in being Harry Adelaide of Hackney so he changed his name, changed his business and cut ties with some of the more colourful characters he’d previously worked with.”
My Grandfather often spoke as though the message of
what he was saying was incredibly simple. Maybe I was a dunce, but I couldn’t always grasp it.
“So… he’s not a criminal?”
That drew a laugh from the old boy. “Just listen and I’ll get there. Nothing Adelaide has ever been involved in is strictly legitimate, but he runs a fine line between legal and otherwise. He made his money in black market goods and counterfeiting but soon moved on to bigger things. He had a network already in place and simply changed the merchandise. With wealth came the opportunity to make a name for himself – or rather buy one. He purchased an estate in Hampshire, became the Baron of somewhere or other and sent his children to good schools.
“But, most importantly, this success led to more opportunities. He had plenty of money at a time when a lot of old English families were running out. So he’d give them loans at exorbitant rates and, when they couldn’t pay him back, he’d take their houses instead.”
“What does he want with a load of crumbling piles?” I asked, not fully comprehending the point at hand once more.
“He doesn’t care about the houses, he wants to sell the land on for a profit.”
I’d been doing a very simple jigsaw in my head and the pieces finally fitted together. “So you think that George has borrowed money from Horatio Adelaide and, if he doesn’t pay it back, they’ll repossess the Trevelyan estate?”
“There you go, I knew you were smarter than everyone says.” It was hard not to take this as an insult.
“So does that make it more or less likely that George is the one who put poison in the champagne? And if it wasn’t him, what was he really doing before the toast?”
He came to a stop outside the petit salon. “Christopher, you have just succinctly summed up the two doubts I am currently most eager to resolve. You are shaping up to be a most capable assistant.”
This compensated a touch for his previous comment, and a grin stretched out across my lips.
Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery Page 9