Murder at the Spring Ball: A 1920s Mystery Benedict Brown (good books to read in english .TXT) 📖

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 commotion 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