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

for six then and I struggled to respond. “How the devil did you know what I was thinking?”

Delilah let out an equally impressed bark as if demanding an explanation herself.

Grandfather replied with nonchalant breeziness to his voice. “I saw your eyes skimming across the portraits of our ancestors on the walls. You paused over certain paintings – the old lady beside the kitchen, of course, the hunter with his gun and brace of rabbits. I can only imagine you’ve reduced your suspect list to a mere five names, but I’m afraid you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

I could not hold back my admiration for this impressive feat, and it poured out of me. “Did you learn how to do that in your time at Scotland Yard?”

We’d been practically running along the endless corridor. It was easy to forget that my grandfather was halfway through his eighth decade on the planet, and he paused for a moment to catch his breath and regain his strength.

“Not at all. I learnt it from Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’. It’s no exact science; nothing more than a parlour trick, really. It seldom leads to solid evidence, but it’s handy for impressing people.” He didn’t smile or change his expression, but I could tell he was happy that the technique had worked on me.

When we got outside, the only car to have arrived was the local bobbies’ and they seemed content to wait for the head man to appear before getting mixed up in something they couldn’t handle.

“Are you going to tell me the names of the other suspects?” I wrapped my arms around myself as springtime in England isn’t all sunshine and flowers. It can get quite nippy at night. “Please, feel free to amaze me once more.”

I got the impression that, for all his surface calm, my grandfather was struggling to maintain his composure. He’d fallen back into familiar behaviour from his days in the Metropolitan Police. He was investigating now and the light-hearted back and forth we’d engaged in was all part of that. And yet, I felt sure he was reliving the scene in the ballroom; his own daughter coughing through her last breaths and the fear-stricken faces of every onlooker.

He winced and had to pause before continuing. “You may have seen me,” he said when this shudder had passed. “As I came into the room, I scanned those around me. I made a note of each person there, not because I suspected foul play, but as that’s what I have done for most of my life. It helps in a number of ways, both professionally and socially. This evening though, it enabled me to keep a record of who was present at that key moment. When I took to the stage for my toast and again after Belinda had died, I performed a similar task.”

“You know exactly who was in the room and when? That’s remarkable.”

He once more attempted to play down his achievements. “No, not at all. It is just another trick. Like the game children play at parties with a tray and a selection of objects. I keep an image in my mind of before and after, then compare the differences. I assure you that anyone can do it.”

“So who did you notice was missing when you entered the ballroom?”

“I would have expected you to work it out.” His eyes were fixed on the gate at the far end of the drive. “It was a man so many love to hate.”

The only name that came to mind was Fellowes, but then we already knew where he was. I waited for Grandfather to elucidate.

“Why, George, of course.”

My playboy cousin, who had made such an entrance to the ball, had apparently slipped back out without me noticing.

“He was there for the toast, though,” I pointed out. “He came up to the stage with everyone else. He was there when his mother died.”

“That’s true, but, when I mounted the stage, I can assure you there was no sign of him. He slipped in from the corridor after Fellowes arrived with his trolley. He could quite easily have gone to the drinks room and spiked the champagne. The police will be all over him, considering what he stands to gain if I had gone the way of his mother.”

George Trevelyan was the second in line to the Cranley family inheritance, this much I already knew. It was an open secret that Grandfather had ripped up tradition and planned for his elder daughter Belinda to inherit the bulk of his wealth. This meant that the estate would go to George now that his mother was out of the way.

Perhaps I was too innocent, but all this talk of murder in the family had set me on edge. A pair of headlights shone through the gate and the guard on duty opened it to admit a black Triumph two-seater. I was glad of the distraction and Grandfather walked across the drive to welcome our new arrival.

I was rather disappointed when the man who stepped out of the vehicle looked just about as far from my image of a crack detective as you could get. He was short, shabbily dressed and had stains down his blue, woollen pullover.

“Edgington,” he said in a grunt, and I didn’t need to hear anything more to know that the two men did not get along.

“Blunt!” It took me a moment to realise that this was not an observation my grandfather was making, but the policeman’s name,. “It’s been a long time.”

They did not shake hands but stood glaring at one another. The sight of a subordinate showing such open hostility to the legendary superintendent surprised me. My mother had only ever told me tales of her father’s bravery and prowess. I had never imagined that he’d have enemies within the police.

“Christopher, this is Sergeant Isambard Blunt of Scotland Yard. Blunt, this is my grandson who will be assisting me with the investigation.”

The officer made a loud