Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery by Benedict Brown (simple ebook reader txt) 📕

George Trevelyan had lost his smug grin and ran over to see his mother. “She’s dying,” he screamed, his eyes searching the room for help.

He would find no solace and it was down to our grandfather to confirm the inevitable.

“She’s dead.”

Chapter Nine

I’ve read plenty of mystery stories. I devoured every Sherlock Holmes tale when I was first at boarding school and, were I more intelligent, insightful and brave, I’d like to think I’d make a first-rate detective. Dickens himself sets up many of his stories as puzzles to be solved, but nothing had prepared me for the moments after Aunt Belinda’s death.

Silence.

That was the first stage. Ten seconds of silence in a crowd of sixty people. No one moved, no one said a word, but it lasted an eternity and was only broken when George fell to his knees in front of his mother’s lifeless body.

I made the mistake of looking straight at the dead woman. It was a sight too ghastly to bear but I couldn’t turn away. Her eyes were wide open and I could see the fear she must have experienced in her last moments of consciousness. Her skin had turned an unnatural shade of blotchy red so that she looked like a ripening plum. I’d never loved my aunt, but still wished there was something I could do to save her from such a fate.

As most of the room remained in a state of shock, my grandfather burst into action. “Fellowes, remove every last drop of the champagne and place it under lock and key. Band leader, play something light but not too fast.”

Despite the unimpressed murmuring from the crowd, the band began to play a gentle lullaby and I could feel the soothing impact of the music wash over us.

“Everyone else, I’d recommend you also stop drinking, just to be on the safe side.” He raised his own flute to his nose then and sniffed the contents but did not reveal what he had discovered. “I have to assume that whatever killed Belinda was in the champagne alone, but we shouldn’t take any risks.”

He issued more orders, first for Todd to call the police and then to the rest of us to stay where we were in order to preserve any evidence. All of a sudden, as if aware of his own limitations, he froze in his tracks. For one sickening moment, I was worried that he would meet the same end as his daughter, but his hesitation passed and he climbed onto the stage.

He looked one last time over the faces of every guest, as if memorising their reactions. The crowd had become more agitated by now. Several elderly relatives had retreated to the chairs at the side of the room, which, unhappily, brought them closer to the body. My brother was the only person there who seemed less than distraught, as his beloved for the night was crying on his shoulder.

“The police will be here before long.” Grandfather’s voice had taken on an official tone and I could see the different forces at battle within him.

On the surface, he was calm and focussed, as he attempted to record the full range of evidence that the scene held. But there were moments when his distress broke free. A small jerk of the head in his daughter’s direction told me that he was struggling to process what had happened. A glance down at the floor suggested that there was sorrow welling up inside him, but he wouldn’t let it show.

He descended from the stage to speak to his footman and the band played on. “Halfpenny, when Todd and Fellowes return, the three of you will ensure that nobody leaves. Christopher, come with me.”

He’d marched halfway across the room before I came to life and followed him. The previously jubilant revellers parted as if he were Moses and they were the Red Sea. I noticed that Marmalade was missing, I hadn’t seen him since he’d arrived in fact and it would be the first thing I’d tell the police when they got there. If any savage soul was capable of killing a party or a person, it was him.

My grandfather was waiting for me in the corridor, his face harrowed and drawn. The public mask he had been wearing had slipped clean away.

“I’m going to be honest, Christopher,” he said once we were far enough from the ballroom not to be overheard. “I don’t know whether I have it in me to cope tonight. For all the differences there were between us, I loved Belinda and I can’t tell you whether I’ll be able to keep going for much longer.”

I realised then that any fear I had felt towards him had disappeared. I reached up to put my hand on his shoulder and, in a strange reversal of our normal roles, attempted to comfort him. “I can see that, Grandfather. But I know how strong you are.”

I thought he might need to nip into one of the salons for a minute alone or call on Fellowes to provide a dram of whisky. I doubt he knew himself what he really required but he showed no more signs of anguish. He nodded, pulled his shoulders back and continued down the corridor towards the drinks room.

I’ve never counted all the rooms in Cranley Hall but I can tell you that there is one for every occasion. The drinks room was a little way along from the grand salon and was primarily used by the staff for storing and preparing refreshments on occasions such as this one. As a result, it hadn’t been used in a very long time and I had never set foot in it, outside of the odd game of hide and seek.

“Wait.” Grandfather held his hand out to bar the door before I could step inside and trample any evidence. He removed a pair of white cotton gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. I had to wonder