Murder at the Masquerade Ball Read online

  MURDER

  AT THE

  MASQUERADE BALL

  by Margaret Addison

  A Rose Simpson Mystery

  Copyright

  Copyright 2019 Margaret Addison

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission from Margaret Addison except for the inclusion of quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Rose Simpson Mysteries (in order)

  Murder at Ashgrove House

  Murder at Dareswick Hall

  Murder at Sedgwick Court

  Murder at Renard’s

  Murder in the Servants’ Hall

  Murder on Bonfire Night

  Murder in the Folly

  Murder on Skiathos

  Murder at the Masquerade Ball

  www.margaretaddison.com

  MargaretAddisonAuthor

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter One

  ‘It really won’t do, Raymond,’ said Clarice Burford, by way of greeting, as she marched into the drawing room of Sycamore House, with as much assurance as if she had entered her own home, rather than that of her young relative. She seated her impressive form firmly in her preferred chair, a sturdy one of the straight-backed variety, folded her gloved hands neatly in her lap and, without preamble, launched into the matter that was preoccupying her mind.

  ‘People are beginning to talk.’

  Her nephew, a man of boyish good looks, which rather belied his thirty-one years, arrested in the act of perusing a book on Indian antiquities, merely looked up from the page he was reading. He cast the woman an affectionate, if slightly resigned glance. If he was surprised by the unceremonious manner of her entrance, he did not show it. Instead he maintained the rather glazed look of the scholar who had become so engrossed in his subject as to be barely conscious of his surroundings, or the people who inhabited them.

  ‘Raymond!’ boomed Mrs Burford, fixing her companion with an accusing eye.

  The young man started and thus abruptly aroused from contemplating the past and hurled rudely into facing the present, dropped his book, hauled himself to his feet and kissed the soft, wrinkled cheek that was offered him.

  ‘And very good to see you too, Aunt Clarrie,’ he said.

  ‘You won’t think that when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say,’ declared Mrs Burford, outwardly bristling, but inwardly mellowing a degree. ‘And don’t you ‘Aunt Clarrie’ me; you know I can’t abide the name. I was christened Clarice, as well you know.’

  ‘What have you done with Turner, Aunt Clarice?’ enquired Raymond Franklin, looking about him, keen to avert the reprimand he felt certain was coming. ‘Left him in the hall, no doubt? Ah, there you are,’ he exclaimed as the old butler appeared in the doorway looking rather sheepish.

  ‘I am very sorry, sir. My legs aren’t quite what they were.’

  ‘I shan’t hold it against you, Turner,’ Raymond replied good-humouredly. ‘When my aunt has got a bee in her bonnet, a herd of wild elephants couldn’t keep up with her.’

  ‘Raymond!’ exclaimed Clarice Burford again, though this time taking the precaution of lowering her voice a little. She waited for the butler to retreat before continuing. ‘Really, Raymond, you shouldn’t talk in such a familiar fashion to your servants. It shows a distinct lack of breeding and does little to earn their respect.’

  ‘How is one to address one’s inherited retainer? Damned if I know. The Larches never did run to a butler. Still, there is much to be said for having an elderly parlour maid and a doddering old cook.’

  ‘That will do, Raymond,’ replied his aunt tartly. ‘Really, you are being most infuriating this afternoon and it is particularly vexing as I wanted to speak to you on a matter of … of some delicacy.’

  ‘Oh?’ replied her nephew, his interest piqued in spite of himself, though he remained reluctant to abandon his show of flippancy. ‘I say, Aunt, have you come to touch me for some money? I admit my circumstances have improved significantly but –’

  ‘I have come to do no such thing,’ retorted his aunt, considerably offended. ‘Now, do be serious, Raymond.’ She leaned forward in her chair and indicated with an outstretched hand that her nephew should do likewise. ‘Now, I wish to speak to you about that secretary of yours.’

  ‘What, Miss Casters?’

  ‘Is that the young woman’s name? Well, it won’t do. It won’t do at all.’

  ‘I don’t know what you can mean, Aunt,’ replied Raymond, though a flush of colour had appeared in his cheeks.

  ‘I think you do. Now listen to me, Raymond,’ said Mrs Burford, speaking slowly and wagging her finger at him to give added emphasis to her words. ‘It doesn’t do for a man to have a pretty young secretary, not when he has a wife. And most particularly when that wife is as dull and plain as dishwater.’

  ‘I say, Aunt! I won’t have you speak of Iris like that.’ This time it was Raymond Franklin’s turn to appear outraged.

  ‘It’s no use you ‘Aunting’ me,’ said Mrs Burford, not at all perturbed by the reprimand. ‘I’m merely telling you how others see it.’ She sighed. ‘I’m not saying how it’s right, or how it’s kind. Of course,’ she added, ‘it doesn’t help matters if your photograph is constantly in the society pages sans wife.’

  ‘Iris has been a little unwell recently,’ Raymond said defensively. ‘She suffers awfully with her nerves, you know. It’s a family affliction.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ replied his aunt, ‘but it does not do to be seen going here and there with your pretty young secretary while your wife is laid up ill in her bed.’

  ‘Good heavens, Aunt! Miss Casters accompanies me on visits to libraries and museums, not to parties and balls,’ replied Raymond exasperated. He sat forward in his chair and took his aunt’s hand. ‘Now old thing, you know full well I have assigned myself the task of cataloguing the Smithingham Collection. Iris was awfully keen that I should. I can’t tell you how much it has weighed on her mind ever since she inherited it from her uncle. Why, it could be regarded as one of the finest and most celebrated collections of antiquities in Europe if it were properly catalogued. You wouldn’t believe what absolute gems I have discovered stuffed in between sheets of old newspaper and wadding.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ said Clarice Burford again, this time accompanying her words with a huff, ‘but why y
ou couldn’t have one of those frightfully eager young men from the university assist you, I don’t know. You know the sort? Ink-stained fingers from all their scribbling and spectacles held together with pieces of Scotch tape. Why, your Uncle Ernie had a very fine fellow do for him. He wrote in a most meticulous hand, if I remember rightly.’

  It was perhaps unfortunate that it happened to be at that particular moment that a soft tap was heard on the door. Raymond said, almost without thinking: ‘Come in.’

  A moment later and the object of their discussion entered the room. As was her way, Mrs Burford studied the young woman both comprehensively and deliberately. Indeed, Raymond was of the opinion that she made quite a show of retrieving her pince-nez from her handbag and putting it up to her eyes for apparently no other purpose than that she might examine Hilary Casters, who visibly reddened under such intense scrutiny.

  It was immediately apparent, even to the most casual observer, that Mrs Burford’s impression of the young woman was decidedly mixed. It is true that Miss Casters wore a most respectable, and quite unremarkable, blue serge suit and that her manner was suitably deferential as befitted a person of her station. This, however, did nothing to dispel Mrs Burford’s fears. For the girl was most decidedly pretty. Her complexion, whether due to nature or art, was clear and dewy, while her hair was the colour of spun gold. Not that Clarice Burford had ever seen spun gold, of course, but Miss Casters’ hair was the very shade she imagined it to be.

  On discovering her employer had a visitor, Miss Casters muttered a brief apology and tactfully withdrew. The damage, however, had been done, a fact Raymond Franklin realised only too well as soon as his aunt turned to regard him, the pince-nez dangling ominously from her hand on a length of black ribbon.

  ‘Do I take it that young woman was Miss Casters?’ said Mrs Burford, a cold note in her voice. She did not wait for her nephew to answer, but carried on. ‘The situation is even worse than I imagined. That is to say, she is far prettier than I was led to believe. Well, there is only one thing to be done. You must give the young woman her marching orders immediately.’

  Hilary Casters had quite exceptional hearing and chanced to catch this last remark as she closed the door behind her. Spiteful old witch, she thought to herself and made a face. If the old biddy had her way she’d be scouring the columns of ‘situations vacant’ before the day was out, and good jobs were particularly hard to come by these days.

  With this unpleasant thought in her mind, the young woman elected to go for a walk in the grounds to cool her temper instead of returning to the study to continue compiling the inventory of artefacts. Had she but waited a minute she would have heard Raymond Franklin say firmly:

  ‘I shall do no such thing, Aunt.’

  The young man strolled over to the French windows and looked out. He caught a glimpse of his secretary striding purposefully towards the rose garden. His back was to his relative and though Mrs Burford could not see his face, she could well imagine the stalwart set of his features.

  ‘My dear boy,’ she said, ‘do be reasonable. You have not been married two years and already there is talk of an estrangement.’

  ‘What absolute rot!’ Raymond said. He did not turn to face her; his focus instead remaining on the gardens. ‘For goodness sake, Aunt, we live in the same house!’

  ‘Yes, dear, but you know how servants gossip, and you are so rarely seen out together. Why, there is even talk that Iris has become something of a recluse.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘And the few times she has been seen out in company,’ continued his aunt doggedly, ‘the poor girl has looked so decidedly miserable that her friends worry about her. To say nothing of the penny press who are having an absolute field day. If only your nose was not perpetually stuck in your wretched periodicals at the exclusion of all else.’ She sighed. ‘You wouldn’t believe the inches of columns that the scandal sheets have devoted to the subject. Even Miss Bennett alluded to it when I last called on her and you know that nothing interests her usually but the various imagined ailments of her cats.’

  ‘Miss Bennett can go to the devil!’ said her nephew.

  ‘Raymond, you are being frightfully unkind. You know how very fond of you Miss Bennett is. We all care for you deeply.’ She stifled something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. ‘I have always regarded you as if you were my own son, dear Ernie and I never having been blessed with children of our own. I promised your dear mother, my sister, on her deathbed that I would –’

  ‘Quite,’ said Raymond quickly, hastily forsaking his position by the window and resuming his seat. ‘And a jolly good job you did of it too, old dear.’

  ‘Did I?’ said Clarice Burford, visibly brightening. ‘Well, at least I don’t believe anyone can say I didn’t give it my best shot. Now, where was I? I have quite lost my train of thought. Ah, yes. Marrying for money.’ Inwardly, Raymond winced. ‘I daresay there are many people in my position who would consider it a significant achievement if their ward married an heiress,’ continued his relative. ‘But I, however, am not one of them. Indeed, I would go so far as to say I don’t hold with it. Not that I am saying you married for money, dear. Far from it. Antique artefacts are quite another thing entirely.’ She gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘But I always set my heart on your marrying for love. Your dear uncle and I have been so blessed in our marriage –’

  ‘Really, Aunt, how you do talk. There is absolutely nothing the matter with Iris and me. Iris is feeling a little run down, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, if you say so, dear.’

  ‘I do,’ said Raymond firmly, eager for the visit to come to an end given the disagreeable course the conversation was taking. With this in mind, he feigned a prior engagement which necessitated that he bid his aunt a hasty farewell, but not before promising her that he would call on her at The Larches before the week was out. Instead of summoning Turner, he accompanied his relative to the entrance hall in order to speed her departure. Once there, he permitted himself to be warmly embraced while the footman retrieved his aunt’s coat.

  Clarice Burford having, in her view, discharged what she considered to be a most distasteful, but necessary, duty and having been sufficiently mollified for her efforts, was now all smiles. Had she seen the expression on her nephew’s face as he kissed her goodbye, however, she might not have been so easy in her mind.

  Iris Franklin uttered a fretful little sigh and pulled her pink satin dressing gown more tightly about her delicate form. She was stretched out full-length on the damask-covered chaise longue in her boudoir, a thick woollen blanket draped over her legs. On first impression she gave every appearance of being listless and bored. A more astute observer, however, might have queried the validity of this act of weary indifference. For on closer inspection, the young woman’s nonchalant air was veering on the side of forced and artificial. The skin that stretched over her delicate cheekbones was taut and the eyes, which had a tendency to regard the world through lowered lashes, were wary. Even the hand which rested on the blanket was softly clenched. Indeed, it was almost as if Iris Franklin was holding herself in a state of readiness, but for what exactly, it was hard to tell.

  Suddenly, as if on cue, there was a noise in the corridor outside. Iris sat bolt upright, her ears trained to identify any further sound. After a moment or two she distinguished the rustle of stiff silk and a woman’s tread. She breathed a sigh of relief and hastily resumed her habitual languid pose. Her eyes, though, remained furtive and watchful, her focus concentrated on the door.

  A moment later and a middle-aged woman dressed in a plain frock of black silk came bustling into the room with hardly a glance in the occupant’s direction. From her position on the chaise longue Iris bristled with indignation at the slight, but she uttered no word of admonishment. Instead she stared glowering at the woman’s back, quickly averting her gaze when her lady’s maid finally saw fit to turn around and acknowledge her presence.

  ‘Crabbe, did … did I hear a car?’ I
ris enquired rather tentatively.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied her servant, somewhat brusquely. ‘It’s Mrs Burford who’s come to call on the master.’ She gave her mistress a sideward glance before adding: ‘In an awful hurry to see him, she was. She left poor Mr Turner standing at the door.’

  ‘Oh?’ was all Iris said. She bit her bottom lip and stared at the floor. She wouldn’t give Crabbe the satisfaction of knowing that she was intrigued, almost tempted to ask exactly what her maid meant. She wondered if Crabbe knew the nature of Clarice Burford’s business. She couldn’t possibly ask her. It wouldn’t do to appear too inquisitive or unsettled by this latest development. As it was, she could well imagine the gossip in the servants’ hall. ‘You should have seen the mistress’ face when I told her as how Mrs Burford had called,’ Crabbe would say, her hands on her hips, ‘and her still in her nightclothes in the middle of the afternoon. Idle and slovenly, that’s what I call it!’

  How Iris hated the woman with her ignorant manners, inverted snobbery and barely concealed looks of reproach. She wasn’t a bit like her dear Beth, who would never have spoken to her so freely, nor ignored her so completely when she entered the room. Really, it had been awfully selfish of Beth to leave her like that to get married. She sighed. If only Raymond had not taken it upon himself to arrange the girl’s replacement. She, Iris, was ideally qualified, and really quite capable of interviewing candidates for the position. She’d never have chosen Crabbe in a hundred years. She had known, as soon as she had laid eyes on the woman, how disagreeable and tiresome she would be. And the awful thing was, she, Iris, would never be rid of the woman. For she couldn’t imagine anyone ever wanting to marry her, not with her dull brain and her spiteful old tongue.