Delilah did not look convinced as we climbed into the Talbot. We got halfway out of the barn but the faithful retriever wouldn’t budge. Grandfather leaned over Todd to honk the horn and that clever dog pretended she hadn’t heard and stayed right where she was. In the end, he got out and carried Delilah to safety, for Todd to ease the car outside. Even then she insisted on following us right to the gatehouse, barking unhappily the whole way.
Sadly for me, my seat that day was even more cramped and bumpy than the Aston Martin’s had been. In fact, seat is rather an ostentatious term for what was essentially a compartment for me to fold my body into. The dickey seat placed me right in the back of the vehicle where the boot should have been. It was loud and cold and I got hit a number of times by stones flying up from under the tyres. At least I’d thought to grab some goggles this time though.
To begin with, Grandfather was full of the joys of spring, even if it did start raining as soon as we passed Woking. He was clearly enjoying the luxury of being driven around in such… well, luxury. I noticed however that his mood changed as we got closer to our destination. From my pauper’s throne, I could see that his face was like a barometer and grew increasingly dark and gloomy in direct proportion to our proximity to London. It rather reminded me of Sherlock Holmes in ‘The Adventure of the Copper Beeches’. While Holmes fears the degeneracy of the countryside, Superintendent Edgington apparently disapproved of the sins of the city.
It was all very green and pleasant as we drove past Hampton Court and around Richmond Park but then London snuck up on me without my expecting it. As soon as we crossed Putney Bridge, the grand edifices of the capital reared up in front of the car. For a Surrey boy, born and bred in the country, I can tell you it was a real thrill.
By the time we arrived in Knightsbridge, Grandfather looked like a haunted man. Were there ghosts around us that only he could see? Perhaps his decades on the force had left a permanent stain on every street in London. I could only imagine the horrors he’d encountered there over the years and would have to ask him what he had been thinking, just as soon as he looked a tad less… murderous.
We drove past the Natural History Museum and Harrods department store and soon pulled up in front of George’s building. Wasting no time, the engine had barely come to a stop when Grandfather pushed his door open and jumped from the vehicle. He paused on the pavement to look up at the terrace of white-fronted townhouses, before striding up the steps of the property to hammer on the front door.
“What’s your business here?” the porter answered in a brusque East London accent once the door had opened a fraction.
Lord Edgington’s eyes narrowed. “I’m here to see George Trevelyan.”
The bald, beige-faced man looked unintimidated by our arrival and sniffed long and loudly through the crack in the door. “Are you expected?”
In order to communicate quite how great an inconvenience this conversation was to a man of his eminence, Grandfather did not look at the porter as he replied, but stared along the busy residential street, as if he had far more significant issues to concern himself with.
“I telephoned an hour ago, but there was no answer.”
The porter popped his head back inside the building to consult… I have no idea what, before opening the door to let us pass.
“Apartment 1B,” he called after us. “And don’t go dirtying the walls. They’ve only recently been painted.”
We huffed our way past the officious chap and along his sparkling corridor. I was tempted to leave fingerprints on the glossy dado rail, but I’m not that cruel.
“George,” Grandfather boomed, after we found the right door. We didn’t have to wait to enter as it was slightly ajar. “Are you in here? Are you decent?”
“Yes, yes!” a voice called back from the end of the dark hall. “Quite decent by most people’s standards.” He let out a laugh, which more or less confirmed that my cousin was sozzled.
We followed the sound and came to a rather modern living room. It was all Mackintosh furniture and Liberty print fabrics. Well, it was modern compared to Cranley Hall where the most up-to-date feature was a Gainsborough landscape that a long dead ancestor had commissioned and which now hung in one of the pokier guest bathrooms.
“Grandfather, what a joy to have you here!” George intoned. “And you brought your lapdog Chrissy along with you. How wonderful.”
Do you remember what I said about my affection for the pariah of the family? Well, I’d changed my mind by this point.
He was sitting on a long white sofa which, judging by the blankets and pillows strewn across it, had doubled as his bed the previous night. It was only twelve noon but the smell of spirits was thick in the air and a couple of bottles lay toppled on the carpet at his feet. I had to wonder whether he’d started drinking early or finished late.
“George,” my grandfather replied in a murmur, but, before he could say anything more, our host recommenced his sunny performance.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Let me guess, you’re here to accuse me of matricide again. Or perhaps you’ve brought good news and Mother isn’t dead after all and it was all a hilarious trick.”
Sitting on the edge of the elongated pine coffee table, Grandfather cut straight to the point. “We know what you were doing with Maitland and young Adelaide on Saturday night before the toast. So, I’m going to ask you once more, what is your connection to Horatio Adelaide and for what reason did he send you to the ball?”
I believe the force of this opening roll of the dice must have struck George rather firmly between the eyes. His head wobbled on its perch for a moment before finding equilibrium, as though my grandfather’s words had sobered him up.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “I’m having a moment of déjà vu. Didn’t we already discuss this whole matter? I believe I already informed you that Horatio Adelaide and I play golf together, nothing more, nothing less. I’ve heard people say that he’s something of a rotter, but all I can tell you about him is that he’s got a fine handicap and puts me to shame with a one-wood.”
He let out a short, high laugh, like the first whistling note escaping from a kettle.
“You’re smarter than this, boy.” Grandfather was not amused. “You know what your golfing chum was willing to do to Maitland when he wouldn’t pay up. What do you think will happen when you’re no longer useful to him?”
It seemed as though the message was finally penetrating George’s thick skull. He licked his lips from side to side reflexively before responding.
“I appreciate your concern, I really do. But you needn’t worry. I have an understanding with Horatio and I won’t get myself into the position that Maitland was in.”
“As uttered every gambler in history,” our grandfather snapped and George peered down at the inch of gin which remained in the bottle on the floor.
Feeling that I might have something to contribute for once, I started in on a question of my own. “Why did Maitland owe so much money? His family are well off, they have a lovely house and servants and all that sort of thing. How did he become involved with Adelaide in the first place?”
George took five seconds to decide whether he wanted to cooperate, sighed and gave in. “They have a nice house for the moment, but they won’t for much longer if Adelaide has his way.” He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “You know, people think I’m such a cad for going to the horses once in a while, or dropping a few hundred pounds at a Saint James’s club, but nobody worries about the Maitlands and Walters of this world. No one criticises the bankers and brokers who gamble with the wealth and welfare of the people whose lives depend upon them.”
I followed up my question with another. “So Maitland invested poorly then?”
“Ask your father. He might be scraping through this mess, but I can’t imagine he’s doing a great deal better himself.”
<
br /> I thought about where my father was just then – locked in a cell or enduring another of Inspector Blunt’s interrogations – and my skin prickled.
My Grandfather took over. “Young Adelaide said that Maitland had owed his father money for years. How could it have gone on for so long without any of us knowing about it?”
My cousin released another cold burst of laughter. “I thought you would have worked that out by now. After all, you know the kind of business that Horatio Adelaide is involved in.” He paused to allow our grandfather a moment to consider this.
“Maitland was investing Adelaide’s money? Making his ill-gotten gains look respectable through the markets?”
George gleefully extended one finger towards us. “Right first time, Grandfather. And that was fine when times were good, but when the war hit and the stock exchange was closed, Adelaide made a loss which he was not willing to bear. Maitland spent the last decade trying to recoup the money and Horatio finally ran out of patience.”
The atmosphere in the room had changed. I was suddenly nervous listening to George’s story. There was darkness to everything he said, like he couldn’t care less what had happened to our uncle and perhaps even his own mother. This was all just business to him, and I was determined to take him up on it.
“So Horatio Adelaide had you poison the champagne and, when that didn’t go as planned, you murdered Maitland with the crossbow.” I admit that I should have waited for Grandfather to draw his own conclusions. In my defence, I was caught up in the moment and, as George kept shuffling in his seat like he couldn’t wait to get away, it seemed like a sensible suggestion to make.
“Ha! No, of course not.” Turning to address the old man, George’s whole demeanour brightened. “You’d better watch this one, Grandfather. He’s been reading too many racy stories and thinks the worst of everyone.”
“Actually, I’m rather partial to Charles Dickens!” I replied in a haughty tone which did nothing for my standing in the discussion.
“Chrissy, dear boy. I didn’t kill anyone.” The temptation had got too much for him and he lunged for the nearest bottle, uncorked the stopper and poured the last traces of clear spirit down his throat. “Horatio sent me to warn Maitland that if he didn’t make up the money that Adelaide had lost, he’d be taking the family home.”
Grandfather held his gaze on his eldest grandson for five ticks of the carriage clock. “Are you absolutely sure of this, George? You honestly believe that the Adelaides played no part in the murders?”
When my cousin replied, the arrogance had drained from his voice. “Well, as far as I know. Horatio’s no fool, after all. His business would only suffer if he started killing off members of the ruling class willy-nilly.”
I was trying to judge for myself whether he was speaking the truth, but it was so hard to say for certain. Still, there was one chink in his argument that I had spotted. “What about Marmaduke? Why did you beat him black and blue?”
He straightened up then and, like my geography master when explaining the effects of erosion on British coasts or listing the different types of soil, he raised his hand and counted off the fingers.
“For three clear reasons actually. First, I knew it would strike fear into wimpy old Maitland – though, I admit, I got a little carried away with the gangster role I was playing. Second, I know that Horatio has little patience with his son, and was only going to be grateful that I’d given Marmaduke a thrashing.” He paused then and turned his head to one side, his eyes on me alone. “And third, I’d heard the little blighter boasting that he’d given my favourite cousin a black eye at school and I didn’t like it one bit.”
I wanted to believe him, I really did, but there was something holding me back.
“Well, that was admirable behaviour, no doubt,” Grandfather replied with a sarcastic note in his voice. “But you should have told me all of this yesterday. Why string it out for so long?”
George stood and wandered over to the window. He pulled a slim box from his pocket and lit a cigarette before answering. “Because, in case you haven’t worked it out yet…” He made us wait, sucking the smoke into his lungs and then letting it back out again in a single, perfect ring. “…I don’t always do what’s in my best interest.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The journey home was a depressing one. The rain fell like a blanket over the car and it was all right for Grandfather and Todd under the drophead roof, but I got positively drenched in the back, all squashed up in my dickey seat.
I wasn’t the only one feeling blue either. Grandfather had left George’s flat in a foul mood. It was hard to say what was going on in his brilliant brain, but something had upset him. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d gone too softly on George. He may have come up with a good story to spin us, but could we rule him out of the enquiries so quickly? He was a charmer and, as my mother always said, charmers weren’t to be trusted.
Crossing the river and entering Surrey made me feel slightly more positive but it did nothing to brighten up the clouds above me and I shivered all the way home under a waxed leather tarpaulin. I half wished Delilah had come with us as, even if she’d have taken up the remaining inches of space, she’d have kept me nice and warm.
Back at Cranley, Grandfather launched himself from the Talbot without another word. Perhaps he’d forgotten I was even there, as we hadn’t spoken since leaving London. Todd drove me round to the garage and I noticed that Cora’s car was parked beside the house. I remained in the back seat, pondering the conundrum we were faced with, as the chauffeur wiped the raindrops off the bonnet.
“Todd, you’ve waited on Grandfather from time to time over the years,” I said when my thoughts had got me nowhere. “Do you think he’s…” I struggled to choose the right words. “Well, do you think he’s all there?”
Todd dropped the soapy sponge into its bucket and laughed at me. “Yes, Master Christopher. I think of all the people I’ve had the honour of meeting in my life, Lord Edgington stands as the brightest and best. Even when he was shut up in his rooms, he spent every day consuming literature, scientific journals and world news. I wouldn’t worry too much about him on that score.”
I pulled the tarpaulin off me and wished I hadn’t as it burst the humid bubble I’d been trapped within.
“Thank you,” was all I could think to say.
He picked up a chamois leather and looked at me like he was expecting something more.
“Would you mind jumping out?” he asked, when I failed to catch his meaning. “Only I need to close up the boot and give it a polish.”
I didn’t feel like returning to my room, and it was too wet to go back to the woods, so I went for a turn around the house to think. I find that walking often helps clear my mind and stimulate the senses. An old house like Cranley Hall comes in handy for such pastimes when the weather is bad too. I went all the way from the kitchen to the far end of the east wing as I considered the facts of the case.
There were so many questions left unanswered; who was the murderer? for one! And before I could answer that whopper, I’d have to fill in some holes first. The issue my grandfather kept returning to was why the killer would have only poisoned Fellowes but not killed him. The obvious reason was a lack of time or opportunity. Perhaps he’d run out of cyanide, after dumping so much of the stuff in the champagne. Or perhaps it was due to the fact that, whilst people don’t seem too fond of the Cranley family, the kind-hearted murderer was unwilling to knock off an innocent butler.
Of course, Fellowes was a puzzle in himself. He was an ex-convict whose murky past Grandfather had kept hidden, even after Inspector Blunt revealed his criminal record. And I couldn’t see that Fellowes saving the old man’s life twenty years earlier was enough to prove he hadn’t played a part in the poisoning. It was all a bit too convenient; leaving the drinks room like that for the killer to lace the champagne.
Had I just solved the murders where the great Lord Edgington had failed to? It seemed awfully likely, but I couldn’t present the case to him until I had more evidence. I sat down in the petit salon to think things through, then had to get straight back up again a moment later as I knew what was required.
“Yes!” I said out loud as I strode down the corridor in the west wing. And, as such positive affirmation motivates me, I said it a few times more. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Master Christopher, are you all right?” It was lovely Alice. She’d stepped out of the silver room to see what the fuss was about.
I was so sure of myself right then, that I might well have asked that beautiful specimen to marry me. Perhaps luckily, I went with a far subtler, “Indeed. And all the better for seeing you.”
“Oh, Master Christopher, you do like to tease.” She shook her head and returned to her duties, apparently oblivious to the romantic overture I’d made.
I carried on towards the servants’ quarters, but instead of taking the narrow stairs down to them, I went to the kitchen and out through the tradesman’s entrance to skirt around the side of the building. I felt just like Richard Hannay in ‘The Thirty-Nine Steps’, I was a spy on a mission; a wronged man searching for answers.
I didn’t have to creep too far to reach the tiny window of our butler’s quarters, from where I could listen in on his conversation with his lover. To be honest, I had to wait quite some time to get to anything juicy. They talked about the rain, Cook’s complex culinary abilities, whether Fellowes’s tummy was on the mend or not and, in great and lengthy detail, what he would eat once he was back to one hundred per cent.
Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery Page 18