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

Though he didn’t seem too worried about such an occurrence, it was becoming clear that dealing with the large group of still tipsy revellers was only making his task more difficult. As voices grew louder across the hall, the inspector decided he’d have to address the crowd.

“From what I’ve ascertained-” he began, in his typically flat manner.

“We can’t hear you, man!” a hidden heckler exclaimed. To be honest, it was probably my grandfather throwing his voice. “Get up on the stage, why don’t you?”

With a tired groan, Blunt did as instructed and began his speech once more. “From what my officers have been able to ascertain, there were only a few people who were not present during the time at which the bottle of champagne could have been poisoned.” The noise from the audience rose again and he had to shout to be heard. “If your name isn’t called, you can provide your details to one of my officers and you will be free to go.”

The chatter took on a more optimistic tone and Blunt looked at the notepad he was holding to read out the list.

“Lord Edgington…” He announced this first name with great joy. “Maitland Cranley, George Trevelyan, Reginald Fellowes, Cora Villiers and Clementine Cranley. And if anyone knows of the whereabouts of one Marmaduke Adelaide, we’d be interested in talking to him and all.”

“What about my son!” My belligerent grandmother bellowed from the back of the room. She sounded quite indignant that anyone would overlook a member of her family, even in such a salacious matter. “He left the room where we’d been talking and I didn’t see him again until the toast was made. You would be remiss in your duties not to include him.”

“Well, thank you for noticing!” Not for the first time in his life, my father was unhappy to be in his mother’s thoughts.

Replying with one of her classic eye rolls, she would not be swayed by her son’s disapproval. “I’m only telling the truth, Walter. We wouldn’t want you to be cleared of a murder without sufficient evidence. That would be like winning a race without breaking into a run.”

The fact that this conversation had been conducted extremely loudly and in public led several members of the family to have a good chortle at my father’s expense. This was followed by a burst of muttered disapproval as sober heads reminded us that a woman was dead.

Blunt sensed yet another opportunity to make a toff’s life difficult and pounced on the new revelation. “Is this true, Mr Prentiss?”

My father replied with an embarrassed shrug. “Well… yes. But I only popped outside for a breath of fresh air. I can’t have been gone more than five minutes.”

“Make sure he doesn’t leave, boys.” A wicked grin shaped Blunt’s face before he addressed the room one last time. “If you have no further information for me, then I will thank you for your assistance and say goodnight.”

Ten or fifteen people requested their shawls, coats and purses from Alice, who was already on hand, but the vast majority stayed exactly where they were.

Blunt looked confused and it would fall to my grandfather to explain the problem. “Most of them are spending the night here. If you wish to speak to your suspects alone, I recommend we retire to the smoking room while my staff see the other guests to their quarters.”

Looking increasingly infuriated, Blunt stamped off the stage without another word and motioned to a few of his men to round up the persons of interest.

“The smoking room is to the left!” my father shouted after him as the inspector turned right along the corridor and instantly had to double back. It was a small victory on Daddy’s part, but I could see he enjoyed it.

Feeling a little guilty for leaving them at that moment, I waved sombrely to my mother and Albert, then scurried after my grandfather who was waiting for me by the door.

“Quite revealing, don’t you think?” he said as I reached him. “The police appear to have eliminated any of the staff but Fellowes. Maybe Blunt is more useful than I’d given him credit.”

“You knew about my father, didn’t you?” I hadn’t intended to sound so hostile, but his previous reticence to reveal the names on his list now made sense. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Instead of giving me a straight answer, he said, “Come along, Chrissy. There’s no time for sentimentality in this job,” and turned to leave.

It had been a while since I’d caught sight of my great-aunt Clementine but I needn’t have worried about her. She had been roused from her nap and was already in the smoking room, singing an old song to her accompanying officer. Her voice was almost as bad as her memory and I was expecting Blunt to shut her up at any moment.

“Come, holy night!

Long is the day and ceaseless is the fight;

Around us bid thy quiet shadows creep,

And rock us in thy sombre arms to sleep!”

She moved her arms gently through the air as she sang, her wide eyes fixed on nothing as was usually the case. She was dressed in a purple ball gown, which had been accessorised with a large pink polka-dot hat, several sparkly brooches and, at some point in the course of the evening, a delphinium corsage. When she had concluded Elgar’s tragic lament, she froze, apparently waiting for our applause.

“Thank you, madam.” As it happened, Blunt was quite moved by the performance. “My mother used to sing that song, God rest her soul.”

Clementine nodded humbly and took her place in one of the armchairs scattered around the heavily carpeted space. A fire roared in the grate, yet the scent of tobacco was overwhelming and infused every inch of the room.

The complete list of suspects was there. At the front of the room, Cora and my father were puffing on two gigantic cigars in a cloud of their own making.