Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery

by Benedict Brown

  His wonderful white moustache curled upwards. “Of course, dear boy. What exactly would you like me to refresh?”

  This was the thing I couldn’t quite put my finger on so I went with, “Well, why don’t you start from the beginning, and I’ll tell you if we get to any parts that you can skip?”

  I think he saw through my subterfuge, as he laughed before replying. “Very well. We’ll start with the ball, shall we?”

  “Or your birthday even?” I suggested as our feet crunched along the gravel path in front of Cranley’s west wing. “There’s no sense doing things by halves.”

  “That’s so true.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Rather foolishly on my part, at a meeting with my every living relative, many of whom would be happy for me to meet my maker, I mentioned the fact that I would be opening a bottle of 1872 Veuve Clicquot champagne. Perhaps even more significantly though, I revealed that I had a lot more living to do and the woman who, as it turns out, had murdered my wife was not too keen on this outcome. Old Clemmie even spent the night here to plan her attack – passing off her supposedly accidental extended visit as the folly of her faltering mind.”

  I was just about keeping up with him until this point, though I already had one question. “How can you be so sure that’s what happened?”

  “I can’t, but it’s what I’d have done if I were her. Planning is paramount!” He continued straight on with his summary as if I hadn’t interrupted. “With her groundwork laid, she waited for the night of the ball. She arrived with Cora and would have encouraged her granddaughter to attract her boyfriend’s attention while she had a nap behind the door in the petit salon, where you and, fortuitously your father, could attest to her being. If she’d merely returned to where she’d been sleeping, no one would have noticed her absence and she would have got away with her crime. I have a feeling that the temptation was too great though and, having spiked the champagne, she tiptoed off to the terrace to watch me die.”

  We had reached the steps up to the ballroom, and fell into silent thought for a moment, which I soon broke into. “One thing I never understood is why there weren’t any fingerprints on the bottle. We know that Clementine wasn’t wearing gloves as she wouldn’t have hurt her hands otherwise.”

  “She didn’t need to touch the bottle to put the poison in it, Fellowes had already removed the cork and so she simply poured the cyanide inside. Perhaps she thought that wearing gloves would have drawn attention to her, but a white-tie ball is one place she could have got away with it.”

  His voice rose theatrically as he made this supposition, but there were more facts to deliver and he didn’t get distracted for long. “I imagine that this was when she got the idea to incriminate your father. Maitland was killed merely to confuse the investigation. I fell for her trick and falsely assumed he had seen something when he hadn’t. With Clementine’s testimony Walter became a prime suspect, but your uncle’s death also forced me to pay more attention to George and the Adelaides. She did an awfully good job of muddying the waters and, I have to admit that I took far too long to consider that she was involved.”

  We had been rocketing along the path but Grandfather came to a stop all of a sudden and looked out across the great lawn towards the lake. “It was really rather ingenious what she did to Maitland. With the first killing, she’d been banking on the fact that no one would suspect an old woman. If she’d managed to kill us all but got caught, it was Cora who would have inherited everything anyway. With Maitland, though, she came up with a clever trick.”

  This was the part of the case where I’d really got lost and I was glad he was about explain it all. I just hoped I wouldn’t have to ask him to speak more slowly or repeat everything twice.

  “There were two crossbows in the armoury and she had all the time in the world to hide one under your parents’ bed while they were at breakfast, at least an hour before Maitland died. After that, all she needed was a quiet moment while your uncle was on his morning walk to set up in the armoury and TWANG! The bolt pierced poor Maitland’s heart and he died in my arms. In many families, such a crack shot would have narrowed down our field of suspects. Sadly, George and your father had grown up hunting, Fellowes is pretty handy with a pistol and I knew that Clemmie had done plenty of archery back when Cora was at school. In fact, the only person it would have ruled out was Maitland himself – who couldn’t hit a cow with a carbine at point blank range. Perhaps that’s why she chose him as her target, or perhaps she would have killed whoever walked into her sights.

  “Clementine closed the window to make it look as though your father had shot down from the floor above. It was simple enough for her to take your father’s cigar ash from the smoking room too and plant it in the armoury. And though only an incredibly stupid criminal would have been smoking as he carried out a murder, I’m sorry to tell you that I couldn’t rule out your father’s guilt for some time.”

  I suppose this meant my grandfather had lied to me, but I didn’t hold it against him. “That’s okay. I know you only kept quiet to save my feelings. He was a suspect like anyone else and, without you, he’d still be in a cell.”

  It was his turn for a question. “Did you spot the moment when Clementine gave Fellowes the poison in his drink after the ball?”

  “Oh… Um, not exactly, but then she’s an awfully clever old thing.”

  “Well, quite!” His smile grew and he humoured me by explaining. “She’d camouflaged the moment nicely; making a big song and dance of pouring out the whisky for everyone when Blunt called us in to the smoking room. It was only after I was certain that she was the killer that I reconsidered that moment and worked out what she’d done.”

  He turned then and we recommenced our gentle stroll across the grounds. I was in no hurry to leave.

  “It’s bizarre when you think about it,” I reflected. “I suppose she was desperate after her plan to murder the family failed. If she hadn’t tried to cover it up, we… or, rather, you might never have caught her.”

  He walked a little more briskly, as if encouraged by my words. “It’s often the way with criminals; given enough time they incriminate themselves. But desperate is the right word for that wretched woman. She didn’t give a damn what happened to her. She was driven by revenge, even after all these years.”

  The conversation died out then. I considered that this would be the moment to reveal my whole-hearted adoration of our housemaid, but another more pressing issue came to mind.

  “I’m very sorry about Grandmother,” I told him in little more than an awkward mumble. “I was only young when she died but I have the most wonderfully happy memories of her.”

  We’d arrived at Todd’s garage and he stopped before entering. “Thank you, my boy. My Katherine was a truly good person – about as far from my despicable sister-in-law as you can get.” He regarded me with great warmth and put one hand on my shoulder. “She would have been immensely proud to see you growing into such a fine young man.”

  I probably blushed like a red apple then, as I’m not entirely accustomed to compliments from members of my family. I didn’t manage to get a response out, in fact, before Grandfather said, “Actually, you wait there one moment,” and disappeared into the barn.

  I stayed where I was until Todd threw the double doors open for my grandfather to come roaring out astride his Matchless Model H motorbike. Its sidecar was a pale grey to match the long leather coat he’d put on and Delilah was already inside.

  “Fancy a lift to school?” He threw a helmet in my direction. I’ve never been very good at catching things and it slipped through my hands and fell to the ground.

  Apprehensive, but encouraged by his warm words, I cautiously climbed into the sidecar. Delilah looked a little put out that I was taking up her spot, but she soon settled down on my lap, her long tail wagging.

  Grandfather put his gloves and helmet on, and wrapped his fingers aro
und the handlebars “Despite the circumstances,” he began, with a melancholy air, “it’s been a pleasure working with you, my boy. And I don’t want it to end here.”

  He started the motor and we rolled along the gravel path. I clung onto the frame of the sidecar, in case he drove anywhere near as fast as on our first excursion together.

  “I told you before, Chrissy. There are so many adventures I still wish to have and I’d like you there alongside me.” He looked at me then, expecting a response. Even though we were only going five miles an hour, I wished he’d keep his eyes on the road. “What do you say? Are you game?”

  I was obviously flattered and couldn’t think what else to say, so nodded profusely.

  He bellowed out a laugh as we pulled onto the main drive. “Fantastic! I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

  My helmet restricted the view, but I could tell that he was grinning. He looked back at the road and I felt rather wonderful about the world. Despite far too many dead relatives and one diabolical old lady, life was just grand.

  “I’ve always wanted to have a go on one of these things,” Grandfather said and I suddenly didn’t feel so positive.

  “You mean you’ve never ridden a motorbike before?”

  “No, but I’ll soon learn!” He revved the engine and sped away up the drive with a mischievous look on his face.

  “Wait, Grandfather. I think I’d rather walk.” We pulled onto the road and he immediately accelerated. “Grandfather, let me out!”

  The End (For Now…)

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  About this Book

  This book is special to me for a number of reasons. I wrote it for my father, Kevin, who is surely responsible for getting me into crime fiction in the first place. Dad died in 2014 having already suffered with Alzheimer’s for fifteen years. He had long since lost the ability to read, but carried a book with him wherever he went and talked about them as special treasures he had to keep safe.

  As Mr Kevin Brown died aged seventy-four, I thought it was rather fitting to start this book on Lord Edgington’s seventy-fifth birthday. It almost felt like I was writing a fantastical sequel to Dad’s life. Except for the silvery hair and love of nice suits, my father was nothing like Lord Edgington. He was born in an absolutely miniscule house in South London, close to where my family still live. His parents were Alice, who had come over from Ireland to find a job as a domestic worker, and Harry, an engineer who, by all accounts, was extremely Victorian in his parenting. Despite having a father who communicated no affection to him, my dad was the kindest, most affectionate man I’ve ever met. I once went into our local bank and the manager introduced me around to all the staff as ‘Kevin was simply the nicest customer we have.’ When Dad died, there was standing room only at the funeral and people we hadn’t seen for thirty years turned up. My mother made everyone laugh with the eulogy, my brother made everyone cry, and there was even some dancing – but that’s another story.

  My father was, and still is, very much loved, so this is for you Dad. I hope you get a kick out of having your very own country house mystery.

  The stories which we tell in my family – from both the Welsh and Irish/English sides – influence everything about my writing. Dad’s mum made notoriously inedible meals (in my mother’s words, “she could even overcook salad”) and so her influence is there in both the young maid, Alice, and the eccentric cook. I’m glad to say that my family are nothing like the Cranleys. On the plus side, we rarely plot against one another, though, less positively, we also lack their sprawling estate and car collection.

  Cranley Hall is based on a number of houses my history teacher mother dragged my brothers and I too when we were kids. If you’d like to see a similar Neo-Palladian estate, take a look at Chiswick House in the west of London or Woburn Abbey in Bedfordshire. The house on the front cover is Wollaton Hall in Nottinghamshire, which is a truly stunning Elizabethan property (and has doubled for Wayne Manor in the Batman films). It doesn’t quite fit the architectural style of Cranley Hall, but it’s difficult to find images which you can legally use for book covers and my wife Marion has worked wonders to make it look just perfect.

  There are two songs included in the book which I did not write. ‘Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow Wow’ was written in 1892 by English songwriter Joseph Tabrar and there is even a Toulouse-Lautrec painting of a famous singer performing it. And ‘Come, Gentle Night!’ was a poem written by Clifton Bingham, which the popular English composer Edward Elgar set to music in 1901.

  I chose the name Cranley as it’s a place which existed once but no longer does, so I thought it fitted rather nicely. The village now known as Cranleigh in Surrey changed the spelling of its name in the 1860s to avoid confusion with the nearby town of Crawley. I think it’s a funny story and so I brought Cranley back to life in approximately the same place. In my book, Cranley Hall and the village of St Mary-Under-Twine are located in the, also fictional, Hundred of Edgington. Starting in the middle ages, a ‘hundred’ was a division of a larger area, like a borough or district today. I recently discovered that my home town of Wallington once had its own hundred which covered a large swathe of Surrey and South London, so I borrowed the largely forgotten term to give The Marquess of Edgington an ancestral estate. History is a fascinating thing and I’ve enjoyed combining different elements to create the book you’ve just read.

  The “Murder at the Spring Ball” Cocktail

  If anyone would like to make the ‘Hanky-Panky’ cocktail, which that versatile chap Todd mixes for Marmaduke, the recipe is:

  1 1/2oz (45 ml) dry gin

  1 1/2oz (45ml) sweet vermouth

  2 dashes Fernet-Branca

  A dash of fresh orange juice

  And orange peel to garnish

  The cocktail was created by Ada ‘Coley’ Coleman, the first female head bartender at the Savoy Hotel in London’s famous American Bar. During her twenty-two-year tenure from 1903 to 1925, she served countless famous figures including Mark Twain, Marlene Dietrich, Charlie Chaplin and the Prince of Wales, and estimated that she had served one hundred thousand customers and poured one million drinks by the time she retired.

  The Hanky-Panky itself was created for the actor Charles Hawtrey. When Coleman whipped him up the drink one night, he described it as “the real hanky-panky” and the name stuck.

  A word of warning, if you go to the Savoy and order the vintage Hanky-Panky, it costs an eye-watering £120 ($165). Ouch!

  Acknowledgements

  It turns out that writing and researching a historical novel takes rather a lot of effort. So many people have helped me get the tone, plot and language right for this book and I’ve spent months with my head in an old dictionary or searching through etymological websites. So a big thank you to Douglas Harper who started etymonline.com and Jonathon Green for creating greensdictofslang.com. Both are invaluable and truly fascinating resources and I love learning about language and its mysterious roots and routes.

  Thank you as always to my wife and daughter for inspiring me and giving me a reason to write, to my family for reading my books and my crack team of experts – the Hoggs and the Martins (fiction), Paul Bickley (policing), Karen Baugh Menuhin (marketing) and Mar Pérez (forensic pathology) for knowing lots of stuff when I don’t. Thanks to my fellow writers who are always there for me, especially Pete, Suzanne, Rose and my friend Lucy Middlemass, who taught me so much over many years.

  Thank you, many times over to all the readers in my ARC team who have sought out every last anachronistic word and typo that I missed. I really couldn’t do it without you. I hope you’ll stick with me, Izzy and Lord Edgington to see
what happens next…

  Rebecca Brooks, James Woodworth, Ferne Miller, John Vaudrey, Craig Jones, Melinda Kimlinger, Deborah McNeill, Emma James, Mindy Denkin, Namoi Lamont, Katharine Reibig, Linsey Neale, Sarah Brown, Karen Davis, Taylor Rain, Brenda, Christine Folks McGraw, Terri Roller, Margaret Liddle, Esther Lamin, Tracy Humphries, Lori Willis, Anja Peerdeman, Liz Batton, Allie Copland, Kate Newnham, Marion Davis, Adelia Hammond, Tiana Hammond, Tina Laws, Sarah Turner, Linda Brain, Stephanie Keller, Linda Locke, Kathryn Davenport, Another Kat, Barb Hackel, Sandra Hoff, Karen M, Mary Nickell, Vanessa Rivington, Darlene Riggs and my mum, Laraine.

  If you’re looking for a modern murder mystery series with just as many off-the-wall characters but a little more edge, try “The Izzy Palmer Mysteries” for your next whodunit fix.

  “A CORPSE CALLED BOB” (BOOK ONE)

  Izzy just found her horrible boss murdered in his office and all her dreams are about to come true! Miss Marple meets Bridget Jones in a fast and funny new detective series with a hilarious cast of characters and a wicked resolution you’ll never see coming. Read now to discover why one Amazon reviewer called it, “Sheer murder mystery bliss.”

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  About Me

  Writing has always been my passion. It was my favourite half-an-hour a week at primary school, and I started on my first, truly abysmal book as a teenager. So it wasn’t a difficult decision to study literature at university which led to a masters in Creative Writing.