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

room. My father, who a moment before had been pulling at his collar and shifting in his seat, was suddenly at ease.

My grandfather was a true magician.

Our first course was wheeled into the room just then by Halfpenny, the head (and only) footman of Cranley Hall. He was a stooped old fellow who I always felt bad for when he had to carry something heavy. I barely noticed how awkwardly he hauled the tureen from the trolley, though, as I was distracted by the idea that my father was a brutal murderer who wished us all dead.

That still wasn’t enough to put me off my food and, when my bowl of Vichyssoise was served, I had to stop myself from plunging my face into it and lapping up the contents like a dog with poor table manners. Even though Cook had substituted the potatoes in the recipe for cauliflower and, for some unfathomable reason, added sheep’s trotters, it hit the spot nicely.

My mother and brother were engaged in a debate upon how distantly related two people had to be before it was acceptable to consider marriage.

“In the past, cousins used to marry all the time.” He emitted one of his most expressive sighs. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t continue that tradition.”

Mother took his hand across the long dining table which was shrouded in a chintzy white cloth. “We’ve been through this, Albert. People did all sorts of things in the past that today would be frowned upon.”

Once I’d drained the contents of my bowl and my hunger was a little less agonising, I was free to examine the man who had sired me. I’d always considered my father a stuffy, old-fashioned sort of fellow. Despite choosing a wife who was interested in the most modern of social causes – suffrage, helping the poor, rights for dogs and the like – his worldview was firmly rooted in the Victorian age.

For Walter Prentiss, it was as if the twentieth century was yet to arrive. He could normally be found in a black double-breasted frock coat that ran down to his knees, though could just about be persuaded to pass it up in favour of a linen lounge suit at the height of summer. He positively despised modern fashions in fact and I distinctly remember him criticising his father-in-law for dressing like a dandy.

I never blamed my father for his aloof manner, of course. As William Wordsworth said, ‘The Child is father of the Man,’ and I’d add that the parents of the child are therefore the grandfather of the man (which is not so catchy but hopefully the meaning is clear.) I doubt my paternal grandparents came within arm’s length of poor little Walter, so it’s hardly surprising that he struggled to communicate much to his sons beyond the importance of punctuality and clean fingernails.

And though he was no different from many fathers, this coldness suddenly spoke volumes to me. Could his upbringing have imparted a viciousness within him that would make slaughtering his family a simple task? Or perhaps he had been driven to despair by his poor investments and, in his detached, rational way, sought out a desperate solution to dire financial straits.

I wasn’t the only one quietly examining him either. My grandfather was still at it, even as he engaged in conversation.

“Such a relief when spring arrives in earnest, don’t you think, Walter?” There was more weight in the question than he’d have us believe.

My father squirmed under the pressure of the old man’s gaze. I could only imagine what he’d be like if this was a serious interview. Before he could answer, one of the police constables marched past the open door and he practically jumped out of his seat.

“Oh yes,” he attempted. “A lovely time of year… what with the weather and the little birds singing and… um… flowers and such.”

“Flowers?” Grandfather was quick to pounce on this, his voice hardening just a touch.

“Yes, you know, daffodils and crocuses or should that be croci? I’m never sure with that sort of thing. But they’re awfully pretty at this time of year, wouldn’t you say?”

The old man showed no emotion as he ignored the question and replied, “Daffodils are poisonous for human consumption, Walter. They’ll give you the most dreadful digestive problems, though are not generally fatal.”

My brother dropped his spoon into his empty bowl and, once the clatter had died out, no one made a sound.

Grandfather’s gaze shifted off around the wood-panelled room and he finally took pity on his son-in-law. “But such flowers are long gone by now. It’s practically summer already, you can feel it in the air.”

“Yes…” My father swallowed noisily. “Practically summer.”

“We should go down to Brighton for the weekend soon,” my mother intervened, as if the dead bodies of her two siblings hadn’t just been taken away in an ambulance. She was awfully good at smoothing things over, but this was a step too far, even for her.

My grandfather let out a frosty laugh as Halfpenny arrived with the second course. The meal continued in silence with only the odd comment on the food and I was glad when it was over and I could beat a hasty retreat.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Something approaching normality had returned to Cranley Hall. Though there were still police officers poking about the place, and the ballroom was closed off to everyone, a hush had fallen over the house that I hadn’t experienced there for some time.

My mother was eager to get back to our house at Kilston Down, but Grandfather convinced her to stay another day and seemed quite distraught at the idea of her leaving. It was hard to say if this was for her sake or his, but she reluctantly agreed. Albert was in no hurry to go back to university, so sat in the grand salon moping to himself and polishing off Cranley’s stock of ginger wine.

With the police trampling about the place and the staff still busy cleaning up after the ball, I