Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery

by Benedict Brown

  I admit that I did not possess the swiftest mind in Great Britain. I imagine there was a good hour-long lag for most of the conclusions I formed on the case. My grandfather was the genius and I was the fool who accompanied him, but it was at this moment that I realised what the old man was doing; what he had been doing ever since his birthday. He was trying to teach me. Everything he’d done was designed to lead me to the facts which sprung out at him like a frog from a pond.

  “Fellowes!” I replied, once I’d had a good think about it. “If George and Maitland were behind the killings, why would they have poisoned Fellowes?”

  Lord Edgington clapped his hands together with unrestrained joy.

  “Precisely, my boy! Precisely!”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Grandfather was at his sparkling best and we talked until the early hours of the morning. he was full of stories from his career and opened my eyes to the endless possibilities in a seemingly simple murder. He told me of cut-and-dried cases where the perpetrator was apparent from the very first moment, yet the guilty party turned out to be someone else entirely.

  He talked of the criminals he had known. Some were savage, but plenty were smart. Despite the worlds between them, he came to consider them as acquaintances, or even colleagues. They worked in overlapping circles; different departments in the same organisation.

  And yet, for all his spark and candour, when I went up to bed that night, I realised that he had held a lot back from me. He wouldn’t tell me why he trusted Fellowes so implicitly, or share with me his own theories on Belinda and Maitland’s murders. Whether he was training me to be his assistant or not, I found it quite perplexing that every time we found a new piece of evidence on one of our suspects, he would make it sound as though the conclusions I had drawn were preposterous.

  Fellowes had lied about who he met when he left the drinks room, and yet Grandfather had made me feel like a fool for believing he was involved. Cora was in the right place at the right time for both murders and her family held a longstanding grudge against us, but he trusted every word she said. George was not the misunderstood innocent that Grandfather had taken him for, but I was rushing to judgement by condemning him as our likely culprit.

  If this was my training, I think I needed a little more clarification on some of the lessons.

  The next day was dark and grim. After a week of sunshine, it came as a shock to feel the cold air rush at me when I threw my windows open in search of warmth. The clouds over Cranley were dark blue with rain and a light drizzle had already coated the gardens with a layer of gloss.

  In my thickest woollen jersey and slacks, I went down to breakfast, still unable to shake the chill of my room. Albert looked even more distraught than normal, but would soon be heading back to university to find a new ex-girlfriend. He sat at the end of the breakfast table, staring at Cook’s selection of strangely coloured food and feeling hard done by.

  “I suppose you’ve been palling around with Grandfather again,” he said with a huff. “Has he changed his will in your favour yet?”

  I have to say, I find my brother’s bad moods rather amusing. “Yes, that’s right. I’m going to inherit the lot. And I’m under strict instructions not to share a penny with you. Grandfather says you’d only have it fished back off you by a bunch of silly girls.”

  His outraged face was as fine a composition as any portrait in the National Gallery. His mouth hung at a lopsided angle, his lip was raised and I swear that he stopped breathing altogether for a few seconds.

  “Mother!” he finally wailed as my parents appeared in the doorway. “It’s simply not fair. Why should Christopher get to inherit everything? I’m far more charming than he is; everyone says so. I know what it takes to be a gentleman while he spends his day picking worms up in the gardens and bothering birds with them. It’s simply not fair!”

  For a grown man of twenty-one, Albert could sound an awful lot like a child of two.

  Though father looked put out by our argument, my mother failed to suppress a smile. “Really, Albert. Chrissy’s just pulling your leg. I know for a fact that my father would never do anything so rash or unthinking as changing his will to leave the rest of us penniless.”

  I felt a tad guilty so reassured my brother that our mother was speaking nothing but sense. “Mater is right, old bean. All Grandfather and I talk about is dead bodies and criminals. I don’t think he’s particularly concerned about the family fortune and, if I’m honest, neither am I.”

  This went some way to quelling his jealousy, but he still didn’t look happy. “Well, I have to say, I feel left out. How do you know that I’d be no help in solving crimes?”

  I was fairly certain that corpses were the last thing my preening, perfumed brother would be interested in.

  “Come along then,” I told him. “Why don’t you tell us who you think the killer is?”

  He looked rather shaken then. “Oh… I… Well, I couldn’t possibly say without having a good think on things but… Well, I don’t see why no one is considering batty old Clementine.”

  My parents both erupted with delight. I managed to control myself and would have laid out exactly what was wrong with the supposition that our octogenarian great-aunt was guilty of a double killing, when my grandfather arrived to do it for me.

  “Are you sure about that, Albert?” He swooped into the room like an elderly vampire. Dressed from collar to soles in his traditional dove-grey morning suit, he came to a stop a mere foot away from my gloomy sibling. “Do you really think that a woman of eighty-something has been zipping about the place like a firework, dispatching our relatives with the ease of the grim reaper?”

  Albert emitted an awkward giggle and cleared his throat before speaking. “Um… no, of course not. It was just a silly joke of mine. You know how I love to tease.”

  Grandfather’s beetling brows drew together. “Though, of course, it isn’t out of the realm of possibility. And it’s certainly true that old Clemmie’s apparent decrepitude would be the perfect cover for her crimes. Not to mention the fact that, by wiping out our side of the family, she would have ensured that Cranley Hall would go to her own granddaughter. As it should have anyway, had my brother not died before he could inherit it.”

  Albert was greatly confused by all of this. He laughed once more, then grew serious, then raised one finger before putting it back down again. With no obvious rejoinder in mind, he went for a nice, nonspecific, “Well, quite!”

  Grandfather fixed him with a penetrative stare and Albert positively quaked. The old man finally took pity on him and his thunderous laughter shook the room.

  “You love to mock, Daddy,” my mother commented as she sat down beside me at the table. “Don’t be so cruel.”

  Grandfather puffed up his chest rather proudly. “If any of you know anything about me, it’s that I never rule out a possibility until all evidence suggests otherwise. As long as old Clemmie is capable of putting one foot in front of another, she’s a potential murderer in my book and Albert really wasn’t being as silly as you might think.”

  “Very droll,” my father added, and then his face fell as two policemen marched into the room. Inspector Blunt pootled along some distance behind.

  “Walter Prentiss?” he demanded, as though he didn’t know the answer already.

  My father could only muster a nod as Mother rushed around the table to place her hand on his shoulder.

  A smile spread across Blunt’s face, but even as he delivered his big line, it was his old rival who he directed his glare at. “Walter Prentiss, you’re under arrest for the murders of Belinda Trevelyan and Maitland Cranley.”

  My mother was the first to react. “But I was with my husband when Maitland was killed. We were upstairs together.”

  “How very convenient!” The inspector was sneering by now.

  “This is preposterous.” I have no
doubt that Grandfather could have called upon any number of fine arguments to weaken the officer’s case, but he was soon overruled.

  Blunt raised one hand to silence him. “Save it for the trial. I’m not interested in what you have to say. We have evidence that your son-in-law shot your son through the heart with a crossbow and nothing you can say will change that.”

  “Oh yes?” My father replied, his voice coated with all the pomposity that a City gent should be able to call upon on at such a moment. “And what evidence is that?”

  Blunt’s needling look grew more aggressive as he pointed to a subordinate who reached into the burlap sack he was carrying.

  “We found the bleedin’ crossbow in your bleedin’ bedroom!”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Now, no one worry. I swear this is a good thing.”

  The police had carried my father off in one of their cars like a common criminal. I suppose that, as far as they were concerned, that’s exactly what he was. Albert, my mother and I were in a state of pure shock and could barely squeak out a word after they’d gone.

  Grandfather, though, was far from silent. “Without meaning to, the police have provided us with a key piece of evidence. They’ve shown their hand and it will help us find the killer all the sooner.”

  I don’t think any of us had the strength to believe him just then, but I had to try.

  “You do mean it, Grandfather? You do believe that he’s innocent?”

  He strode over to me and bent low so that our eyes were level. “Of course I do, Christopher. I have never considered your father to be a likely culprit. I promise you that.”

  It was hard to believe him. “But that’s what you said about George and Fellowes and Cora too. If we dismiss anyone else, your dog will be the only suspect left.”

  He didn’t answer immediately, but dropped into a chair and chewed his lip to think over my words. “If it looked that way, it was only part of the investigation. Our friend Inspector Blunt marches about the place, barking at every suspect he comes across, but that is not my style.”

  I knew he was lying. He wouldn’t have been a good detective if he hadn’t at least considered my father’s guilt.

  “In the armoury!” I burst out with. “I saw you checking the angle that would have been needed to fire the crossbow at Uncle Maitland. When you were finished, you glanced up at the ceiling for a fraction of a second. You were considering whether he could have shot down from the upper floor.”

  I could see that he was taken aback by my deduction and didn’t try to deny it. “I’ve told you many times that, until a suspect can be ruled out entirely, they must remain a suspect, even if they’re a member of the family. That doesn’t mean I believe Walter is capable of murdering two people in cold blood.”

  His ferocious response faded out and a hush seized the breakfast room once more. My mother poured herself a glass of water, took a long, desperate drink and dried her mouth.

  “None of this matters, as I was with Walter when my brother was killed.” She sat up straighter in her chair and raised her chin to restore a little of her usual decorum.

  Grandfather sat down across the table from his daughter and reached his hand out towards her. “You were together in the same room, your eyes on him the whole time?”

  “I…” she began, but there was already doubt in her voice and my heart sank. “I was in the bathroom which adjoins our sitting room. But… there’s no way he would have taken the risk of shooting from there, not with me so close by. And, besides, it’s far too long a shot for Walter. He’s an average hunter but no great marksman.”

  “The perfect angle to take it from though,” my grandfather put in. “The police have got that much right.” He whistled absentmindedly before realising that we were staring at him in horror and he rushed to clarify. “I’m sorry, that isn’t to say that he’s guilty. I’m merely explaining why Blunt would arrest him.”

  It was at this moment that Albert decided to abandon all hope and crashed his head down onto the table melodramatically. It was lucky he’d finished his breakfast, or he would have landed right in the black pudding.

  “What hope have I got of finding a fiancée now?” he asked through the tablecloth. “Son of a criminal isn’t the type of chap women look for in a husband.”

  Grandfather let out an entirely inappropriate laugh. “You’d be surprised, Albert. I can tell you, you’d be surprised.” He became aware of my mother’s disapproving gaze and looked a little guilty once more.

  “You said that, by arresting Walter, the police had shown their hand.” She gripped her hands together tightly as if in prayer. “In what way exactly?”

  The old man cleared his throat. “The crossbow! If I ever doubted Walter, the police finding the weapon in his bedroom proves that he didn’t do it.” He looked at me as he said this. “No one would be fool enough to leave such a vital piece of evidence in a place where it could be linked to them.”

  “But how does that help us clear Father’s name?” Albert’s question was one long whine. “How can we catch the real killer?”

  “Because whoever shot Maitland must have gone upstairs to hide the weapon at some point. There was only a short period between the murder and everyone leaving. We’ll ask the staff and find out who was there.”

  “That’s brilliant,” my brother proclaimed, finding a jolt of positivity.

  “Unless of course Walter wanted us to think that he was too clever to leave the weapon right there and, in actual fact-” Grandfather was thinking out loud again and failed to consider how his words would be received.

  My mother let out a downhearted sigh and Albert’s head crashed once more against the breakfast table.

  “I’m sure that’s not the case.” He wriggled his moustache from side to side and rose to standing. “Come along, Christopher. We’ve work to do.”

  Delilah had been keeping my feet warm under the table and now surged out from behind the long white cloth after her master. Not seeing much other option, I ran to catch up.

  “Grandfather, wait,” I puffed. “Where are we going now?”

  “Don’t you know?” he asked in typically enigmatic fashion, as he stopped to turn his lighthouse-beam gaze upon me.

  “No, of course I don’t.” I was already out of breath. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

  He started walking again at a slightly more reasonable pace. “Well, where do you suggest we should go? Who do your instincts tell you we should be talking to next?”

  I had a good think about it. “Clem- Fello- Cor-” I began, hoping to see some reaction on his face to tell me I was on the right path, before settling on, “George?”

  “Very good. We’ll pass through the kitchen on the way to see whether the staff saw anyone upstairs yesterday, though I very much doubt it. I really only mentioned the idea to make your mother feel better about your father’s arrest. Then, after that, we’re heading to London.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Grandfather was most insightful in his prediction. None of the maids had seen anything unusual the previous morning. George had been up there of course, as his room was a little way along from my parents’, but he’d been downstairs immediately after Maitland was shot and we still couldn’t say for certain where the crossbow had been fired from. It felt to me as though we’d wandered into yet another cul-de-sac.

  On the bright side, we came across Todd reading one of his adventure novels in the kitchen. We gave him his commission for the day and he escorted us to the garage.

  “Marvellous!” Grandfather yelled as soon as the barn doors were open and he was able to survey his impressive collection. “Of course, I read so much about them in pamphlets and magazines before I purchased each one that I feel I know them all intimately.”

  “Should I crank up the Silver Ghost, Milord?”

  Like a child o
n Christmas morning, my grandfather’s gaze was darting around the wonders he beheld. Swaying slightly from one foot to the other, he held one hand up in his chauffeur’s direction.

  “Not so fast, young man. This is a moment to savour.” He walked up to the Rolls and gave the ‘flying lady’ bonnet ornament an affectionate pat on the head, before continuing on down the alley in the middle of the barn. His eyes grew wider as he approached his red Alfa Romeo Targa Florio.

  Todd whispered to me in a reverent tone. “I heard that the Aga Khan drove an Alfa RLS and said it was ‘one of the most excellent cars’ he’d ever driven.”

  I made an impressed cooing sound, though I couldn’t quite remember who the Aga Khan was.

  As the sporty model wasn’t what he was looking for, my Grandfather moved on. He passed a comparatively sensible black Mercedes and a stunning white Talbot-Darracq drophead coupé then paused to consider a Matchless motorcycle and sidecar. I have to say, I was relieved when he kept walking. But it was when he ran his fingers along the bonnet of the next car that he really came to life.

  Looking back at us over his shoulder, he yelled, “Crossley Bugatti! This is the one.”

  Todd was quick to point out a flaw in his plan. “It only has two seats, Milord. May I suggest the Talbot?”

  Grandfather did not look happy but whipped his hand through the air in reluctant acceptance and Todd got to work preparing our chariot. Delilah was very excited by the noise of the engine roaring into life and ran around in circles with her tail wagging.

  “I’m sorry, old girl,” her master said, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to stay at home today. London is no place for a creature like you.”

  Delilah must have understood each and every word he said as she immediately lay down on the ground in the middle of the barn and looked glum.

  “Well, don’t be like that. It’s not my fault that the English capital isn’t fit for a dog. Take my word for it; you’ll be much happier here.”