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

unexpectedly and I think that his sudden absence had a similar impact upon me.

This was the man who, in his calm, serious manner had taught me how to play (or rather lose at) chess, find flint to make arrowheads and tell a cuckoo from a sparrowhawk. He’d been gone for so long that just the glimpse of his re-emergence was thrilling and unnerving in equal measure.

“Thank you for choosing me,” I said, not quite sure where the words had come from.

“You’re welcome. You know, having my own assistant reminds me of my days in Scotland Yard, I-” There was a clang then, as a pole rolled off a wooden platform. My grandfather flinched. “What in heaven’s name…?” He walked towards the house, where the workmen were assessing the fallout. Halfway across the garden, he called back to me. “We’ll have to continue this later, I’m afraid. But remember, this is just the first part of my plan. I haven’t even told you about the hot-air balloon yet.”

It made me happy to see his enthusiasm return but then his words sank in and I called after him. “What balloon, Grandfather? What are you talking about?”

“Motorbikes and racing cars too, of course, but before long we’ll be up above the clouds. You wait and see!”

I ground to a halt, unable to comprehend such dangers. Luckily, Delilah sensed my pain once more and proceeded to whimper affectionately. It was almost enough to soothe away the shock.

Chapter Four

Everything happened remarkably swiftly after that.

By the end of the day, my grandfather had hired all the contractors we would need to get Cranley spruced up in time for the ball. He had even extracted a commitment from the builders that we would see neither hide nor hair of them on the first of June.

I spent my time considering the ingredients for a successful party. My parents were forever swanning off to balls, dos and soirees, but I hadn’t been to many myself. The one thing I came up with for certain was dessert; so I made an alphabetical list of the different types of cake we would need. It started like this:

Apple turnovers.

Battenberg, Belgian buns, Black Forest gateau.

Carrot cake, Chocolate eclairs, chocolate profiteroles, chocolate pudding…

In fact, the entry for C went on for a page in itself.

I was never allowed to use the candlestick telephone in my own home so it was great fun to take charge of both the mouthpiece and receiver in the petit salon and connect with the operator. I needed contacts for caterers, florists and entertainers in the local area. Sadly, they didn’t have a number for any musicians and, as liberating as it was to be able to choose the band for the ball myself, the only one I knew was “Gilbert Gordon and his Cabaret Cohorts”. My brother had picked them for my last birthday and it looked as though they would have to be hired again.

“Yeah, I know a bloke who knows a bloke,” Fellowes informed me when I asked for advice. This is one of his standard answers. Another is, “I can get you a good price if ya like,” which I’m fairly sure means he’ll be receiving a cut himself. He’s a little like my father, but, instead of being a stockbroker who knows all the right people in the City, he has a network of dubious contacts in every field.

He left me with a sausage and mango roulade (much better than it sounds) and I left him with the task at hand. I hadn’t been able to get any more information from my grandfather about what the second stage of his plan might involve, nor how balloons and motorbikes came into it, but he had told me to spare no expense in organising the ball.

“You’re the expert of course,” I told the florist in our local village of St Mary-Under-Twine, “but I suspect we’ll need two, no, let’s say three thousand delphinium.”

I heard the old lady crash down in her seat and the telephone made a buzzing pop. “That’s an awful lot of delphinium. About a field’s worth, I’d say. Are you certain about this?”

I had a quick think to confirm it. “Well, it’s an awfully large space we’ll be decorating. One field of flowers for one big room; that’s the ticket. Throw in half a field of peony and a copse of lilac and I think we’re onto a winner.”

She swallowed hard. “And you’re sure you’re Master Cristopher, from the hall?”

“Yes, that’s right; Lord Edgington’s grandson. I bought some roses off you for Mothering Sunday. Perhaps you remember?”

She made a sort of warbling sound in confirmation and we concluded our deal. Party organisation is clearly one of my hidden gifts. Perhaps it would be the trade for me, once school and university were out of the way. Father said he wanted me to go into banking, but I’ve never too hot on numbers or mathematics, or any kind of counting, really.

I was just contemplating this conundrum when I heard voices in the corridor. I instinctively ducked beneath the table, as no one had expressly told me that I was allowed to use the telephone.

“You can moan all you like, Maitland, but I’m the one who’ll suffer.” I recognised my aunt’s voice as she berated her brother. “I’m the eldest and it will be my son who ends up destitute if Father starts giving George’s inheritance away willy-nilly.”

Uncle Maitland wasn’t the type to point out that his sister’s house was no cottage and that she’d already inherited her late husband’s impressive wealth. “Yes, Belinda, and that’s why I said we should do something about it. This ridiculous ball mustn’t go ahead. I for one won’t stand by while the old fool bankrupts us.”

I inched forward under the table to spy on them.

A devious look crossed my aunt’s face. “What do you suggest we do about it?”

It was hard to comprehend how my sweet, gentle mother could be related to either of her siblings. Uncle Maitland