Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery Read online

  “You like birds, don’t you, Christopher?” he finally enquired, his gaze twitching over in my direction, like he’d only just realised I was there.

  “No, sir,” I floundered. “Well, yes. But it’s not as if I imagine they’re my friends or…” I was never the most confident person and right then I was a jittering bag of nerves. “I actually think they’d make rather good friends, but I know that’s not possible.” This is exactly the kind of thing my father always told me off for saying. I braced myself for a withering look from my grandfather, but his moustache twitched upwards a fraction.

  “I think you’re onto something there. Birds are sensible creatures. They’re focussed, hardworking, loyal to their own.” He stroked the hair on his chin contemplatively. “Yes, if I was to choose an animal to make friends with, I could imagine a lot worse than a bird.”

  As if she’d been listening, his lolloping golden retriever, Delilah, nearly fell over herself as she bundled out from behind a row of chairs. She settled at his feet and I realised it was my turn to speak.

  I couldn’t think what else to say, so I went with, “Woodpecker.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Master and dog looked at me in bemusement.

  “The lesser spotted woodpecker.” His brows met at diagonals and I thought I might crumble out of existence. “That’s my favourite bird. I think they look rather comical and I like their name.”

  He grunted his acknowledgement in a similar fashion to the way my teachers dismissed me at school. I decided it was better not to say anything more and waited for the old man to speak.

  “Well, I just wanted to say…” He sighed then, as if communicating such information was simply too much effort. “… that I’ve spotted you dashing about in the gardens and I’m glad you’ve had the run of the place during the weekends. It’s nice to see someone making the most of Cranley for once and you seem like a thoroughly…” He paused to find the right words. “You seem like a boy who knows how to enjoy himself.”

  I dared a glance in his direction. He peered through the window, out towards the grotto with its terrifying sculpture of Prometheus having his liver eaten by an eagle – a sight I’d had nightmares about since I was four.

  Though he’d never been in the army himself, my grandfather had a military air about him. He was as straight as a set square, and his clothes were always impeccable. Every cuff and collar was neatly pressed and his buttons, cufflinks and watch chain looked as though they’d been arranged to the eighth of an inch by a mathematician or master painter. I always picture him in dove-grey formal attire as that is what he wore most often and, on that particular day, the shiny fabric of his morning coat sparkled a little in the afternoon sun.

  “Grandfather, is that why you chose me?” I asked, then immediately regretted saying anything and went back to my shaking. I won’t lie, I was just as terrified of Lord Edgington as I was of poor old Prometheus’s punishment in the underworld.

  He looked at me as if he couldn’t quite recall who I was. “Oh… No, not at all.” He fell silent for a moment and there was no way I’d have found the courage to ask him again, so it was a good thing he coughed up the answer on his own. “I chose you because I knew how much it would annoy the others.”

  He looked me dead in the eyes and I felt like a mouse staring up at a hawk. His pale, whiskered face retained its typically stern expression. Then, for the first time I could remember, I heard my grandfather laugh. It was a staccato burst of sound which reared up out of nowhere. For some reason, when he fell quiet again, I was even more scared of the formidable ex-policeman.

  Without warning, he put one foot in front of the other and set off for a turn about the ballroom. I assumed that he wanted me to follow, so I scampered along to keep up.

  “I have a lot of plans, Chrissy,” he announced, and I was too polite to point out that I hate it when people call me that.

  I hadn’t been inside the ballroom in years and the furniture was covered over with heavy, burgundy blankets. The opulence of the gold and pastel stuccoed walls was in evidence though, and a scene of devils and angels in battle floated above us on the ceiling.

  Coming to a stop at the far end of the long, rectangular space, he cast his fierce gaze across the room. “I want to bring Cranley Hall back to its best before I die. I want music and laughter, discussion and joy.” I could tell from the way his eyes etched out a pattern in front of him that he was seeing the place as it had once been. “But that’s just the beginning. There’s a litany of things I want to do and I need a companion for all of them.”

  His gaze burned through me once more and I was a gibbering wreck.

  “Wouldn’t… Wouldn’t you be better off with one of the others? My cousin Eleanor can juggle and Big Francis can do a stunning impression of Aunt Belinda. They’d be much more fun. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do which-”

  “Stop it, boy!” he roared, and I almost jumped out of the window to escape. “You’re blathering. I can’t stand blatherers.”

  I smoothed my hair down with the palm of my hand and he waited for me to compose myself. “Sorry, Grandfather.”

  “And don’t say sorry, either. It’s a terrible habit.”

  I thought about apologising again but caught myself just in time.

  His silver-grey hair seemed to wave at me in the breeze of the open window before he spoke again. “I chose you, not Eleanor nor Francis, but the boy who’s been running around my gardens for the last six months with a pair of binoculars and a smile on his face.” He put one hand on my shoulder and his confidence surged through me. “There’s no doubt about it, Christopher. You and I are going to take on the world.”

  Chapter Three

  The following day was a Saturday, but I woke to the sound of workmen hammering away in the distance. I’d always thought of Cranley as the seat of luxury and, compared to our own humble manor house on the other side of the Surrey Downs, my grandfather’s home was a palace. I’d spent every holiday of my childhood there and still hadn’t run out of rooms to explore.

  Built in a rather too flamboyant style by my great-great (plus several more greats) grandmother, it was bedecked with fine Romanesque carvings, more Doric columns than the whole of Greece has to offer and countless de-armed statues. Subsequent generations had built on to the original structure so that the hall had ended up as a big square with two rectangular wings extending off it. It was big enough to house a small army, but, instead, accommodated one old man, his grandson at the weekend and a team of full-time servants.

  The value of the paintings in the eastern gallery alone would have been enough to pay off Britain’s war debt. And yet, after the builders arrived, I began to understand what Grandfather had been talking about. The childish lens I had viewed my ancestral home through fell away and I could finally see just how shabby the place was.

  It had aged over the last decade at a similar pace to its owner. As his wiry hair had changed colour, the plaster and brickwork had dulled and begun to flake. There were draughts to block in every window, (especially in my icehouse of a room) and leaks and drips wherever my eyes now landed. The gold leaf that adorned the woodwork required more than just a lick of paint, and even my illustrious forebears in their immense frames looked down at us through cracked visages.

  There was also the feeling that Cranley Hall had been passed by in the technological rush of the twentieth century. Though some rooms had electric lighting and there were several telephones scattered about, the east wing hadn’t been touched in years and I still had to find my way back to bed every evening by candlelight.

  So, I was quite excited by the thought of workmen tackling the old place. I bounded downstairs to find out what passed for breakfast that day, only to discover that the kitchen was empty. Even Delilah was missing from her basket. I was planning to make the most of this freedom to whip up something edible, when I caught wind of a comm
otion outside.

  “Not like that, man,” I heard a familiar voice declare through the open window. “You’re here to fix the place, not destroy it further.”

  I went to see what the fuss was about, only to encounter every last member of staff. From Fellowes and Cook to the Irish maids and gardeners, they all stood gawping as my grandfather directed a group of workers who were installing scaffolding on the façade of the building.

  It was not the commencement of the renovations that had attracted the crowd, so much as the sight of a seventy-five-year-old man, who hadn’t left his bedroom in ten years, jumping about in a frenzy. Not unlike the golden retriever who accompanied him, my grandfather was a whirlwind of sprightly energy as he barked orders at the labourers. It was hard to say if he was a help or a hindrance, but I felt a flush of joy to see him back to his old self. I could still remember a time, before my grandmother had abruptly dropped dead, when he’d not only looked people in the eyes, but even smiled on occasion.

  My parents had heard the hullabaloo and come to bear witness for themselves.

  “What on Earth is going on?” Father squinted to make sense of the scene.

  “That’s it, gentlemen. You’re doing a fine job!” Grandfather brushed imaginary dust from his hands as if he was the one doing the heavy lifting of metal tubes, brackets and wooden planks.

  My mother stood aghast. “Daddy, you mustn’t strain yourself.”

  My brother said nothing, as he hadn’t appeared. I am not a clairvoyant but I can say with great certainty that he was either in bed dreaming of Evangeline De Vere, or he was in bed crying into his pillow (over Evangeline De Vere).

  “Good morning, children,” my grandfather practically sang as he caught sight of us and made his way over. “And what a spectacular morning it is. There is nothing quite so beautiful as an English garden in the springtime.”

  “Absolutely.” My father was swept along on a wave of the old man’s positivity.

  My mother, not so much. “I think you should be sitting down.”

  Her father’s quick eyes clicked onto her and his tone became more serious. “Well, I’m afraid to say, you’re wrong. In fact, I’ve done enough sitting down to last a lifetime. I might decide never to sit down again.” Cold determination flashed through his voice, but he followed his words up with a jubilant burst of laughter.

  Like Mr Scrooge at the end of ‘A Christmas Carol’ he was “so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions” that he could barely stand still before us.

  “I just want to make sure you’re all right,” my mother added by way of an explanation.

  With a cheerful look, he attempted to set his daughter’s mind at ease. “You need not worry, my dear child. I haven’t felt this alive since…” The energy which coursed through him seemed to ebb and flow and I could understand why my mother was so concerned. “Well, I’m sure you know when.”

  I was lucky to have been born into a remarkable family, and Mother was the best of us. She was an artist, a poet and a champion for under-supported causes – like universal suffrage, hospitals and child welfare. But what I loved about her most was the well of compassion she could draw upon for all those around her. She regarded her father then as if he was one of her own children.

  “You mustn’t take too much upon yourself.”

  “You’re right, Violet. You’re absolutely right.” The old man was a decent actor, but I could tell what was coming next. “I thought you were due to head home early this morning. With all this work going on, there isn’t much to keep you here.”

  He was already steering them back inside as he finished speaking and my mother had to shout to me over her shoulder. “Keep an eye on your grandfather, Christopher. Make sure he doesn’t do anything we wouldn’t approve of.”

  There was no time to point out that, at my age, I generally liked it when people did things which my parents didn’t approve of. They had disappeared from sight and Lord Edgington was once more dusting his hands off as he turned back to me.

  “This is just the first stage, Chrissy. I have so many ideas for what comes next.” Well-hidden behind his impressive whiskers, his mouth betrayed no signs of happiness, but his eyes were wide. “When I was a child, this estate was the jewel of the county. My family were famous for the balls they hosted and we will be once more.”

  I had to ask myself what possible role I could have in any of this. Luckily, he read my mind.

  “I’ll be overseeing the restoration of course. If I close my eyes, I can see exactly how this place was fifty years ago and how it will be again very soon.” He came to a halt and I could tell that he was away with his memories until something pulled him back to the present day. “What I need from you is to organise the party itself. You’ll have to think about what food we provide and what sort of entertainment there will be.”

  “Can I choose the music?” My voice went up sharply as I gave away how excited this made me. As the elder child, my brother had always been the one to decide which concerts our family attended, which records we listened to on Father’s gramophone and even which band played at my sixteenth birthday party.

  “That’s right.” The ends of his ice-white moustache jerked up a little. “What sort of music do young people listen to these days? In my day it was all Wagner. I used to go crazy for the chap and my parents couldn’t stand him, I…” He stopped speaking then. I think my eyes might have glazed over – as is the right of any adolescent when an older relative starts reminiscing about their youth.

  “I suppose you’ll want some sort of band.” He pronounced the final word in a long, disdainful manner as if it were a terrible insult. “But I’m warning you now, I won’t tolerate too much shimmying and shaking. I like to think I have a modern view of the world, but there’s progress and there’s outright bedlam…”

  He could see that I’d faded out of the conversation again and stopped himself to affirm, “Yes, you can choose the music.”

  It was my turn to clap my hands together. “Thank you, grandfather. I won’t disappoint you.”

  “Make sure that you don’t.” Lord Edgington was a pacer and, now that my initial duties were established, he set off in the direction of the Italian gardens to consider what else needed to be done. “We’ll have to make up a list of who to invite of course. I doubt many of my old friends are alive these days but perhaps we’ll be lucky.”

  I felt I should be taking notes as he hurried off in front of me. “Will all the family be there?”

  I managed to catch up and he reflected for a moment before answering. “Of course they will. Still, I wish your great-aunt Clementine would stay at home. The woman could sleep for England and she’s barely got a wit left in her head.”

  A thought occurred to me then which made me panic. “Grandfather, if it’s not too impertinent to ask, when exactly were you thinking that we might-”

  “Really, Christopher.” He came to a stop in front of the large, oval reflecting pool. “You’ll never get anywhere in this world by mumbling.” He sounded like my father.

  I fought my nerves to get the question out. “When will the ball be taking place?”

  “The first weekend in June, of course. When else would we have a spring ball?”

  “But that’s-”

  “Three weeks, yes.” He sounded like he relished the challenge. “Plenty of time to get this place looking… what’s that word you young people like?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. “Nice?”

  “Spiffing; that’s the one.” I believe there was an actual smile on his face right then.

  Personally, I don’t think there’s anything more embarrassing than when adults attempt to sound like they’re still young. I was busy trying not to hyperventilate though and didn’t have time to worry about such a minor detail.

  “Three weeks?” I managed to exhale.

 
My eccentric forebear threw his hands in the air like an over-dramatic continental type. “Exactly. And what an adventure it will be.”

  I steadied myself by sitting on a bench only for Delilah to immediately launch herself onto my lap. She gazed at me with a look of great sorrow and I knew that she understood exactly how I felt. I might possibly, conceivably (but probably not) have told my grandfather how insane his plan sounded but then his arms dropped to his waist and his good cheer dissipated.

  “I don’t understand what I was thinking, locking myself away all this time.” He stood with his back to me. I didn’t have to see his face to know that there was a reserve of sadness running through him. “After Katy died and then the war took its toll, I just…”

  Delilah jumped off me to comfort her master and I decided to do the same. Well, not the rubbing myself against his ankles part, but by finding a way to hearten him.

  “Three weeks will be just the right amount of time to get ready for the ball.” I’m a terribly unconvincing liar and my voice came out in a crackle. “Cranley Hall will be beautiful and it will be a day that none of us will forget.”

  He pursed his lips together, and kept his eyes on the enormous stone edifice before us. The eastern façade of the hall looked like Zeus had kicked it from the top of Mount Olympus to land in a pretty garden in the south of England.

  He responded with a soothing lie of his own. “That’s right, Christopher. It will be child’s play. We must simply put our heads down and seize the moment.”

  It was around then that I realised just how much I’d missed him. I was only six when he’d retreated from the world. I’d already lost my grandmother unexpectedly and I think that his sudden absence had a similar impact upon me.