Murder at the Masquerade Ball

by Margaret Addison

  ‘I’m sure as how she’d like to see you, ma’am.’ Miss Crabbe’s words intruded into her mistress’ uncharitable thoughts.

  ‘I’m … I’m not feeling very well,’ replied Iris hurriedly. ‘I will not be receiving any visitors today. I … I have the most frightful headache.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying, ma’am,’ continued Miss Crabbe, ‘what you could do with is a nice bit of fresh air. It don’t do anyone no good to be cooped up indoors, and it’s that mild outside. I could suggest as how Mrs Burford could join you on the terrace for a nice cup of tea. It would make a bit of a change for you rather than being stuck in this here room.’

  ‘No,’ said Iris, slightly more sharply than she had intended. Even to her own ears her voice sounded unreasonably shrill.

  ‘As you like, ma’am.’

  Miss Crabbe made no pretence that she had not been offended. Instead she pursed her lips, turned her back on her mistress and strode to the other end of the room. Ostensibly her purpose was to examine the gowns that hung in the wardrobe to ascertain if any needed mending. A minute later and she had left the room very much in the same manner by which she had entered it.

  Iris stared at the closed door feeling wretched. She had only a moment to reflect how badly she had handled Miss Crabbe, however, for again a noise could be heard in the corridor outside. This time, there could be no mistaking a man’s tread, striding purposefully towards her domain.

  Before Iris had time to react, the door was thrown open and Raymond Franklin marched into the room. Although it was the first time he had laid eyes on his wife that day, he dispensed with any form of salutation. There was a scowl on his face which reflected his mood, and it was unfortunate for Iris that his temper was not improved on discovering her still in her nightclothes.

  ‘For goodness sake, Iris –’

  ‘I’m not feeling well,’ Iris said quickly. ‘If … if you don’t believe me, ask Crabbe.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing,’ her husband replied, with a look of disdain.

  ‘You know I suffer dreadfully with my nerves,’ continued Iris in a querulous voice.

  ‘Damn your nerves!’’ said Raymond, ‘They can go to the devil for all I care!’ He spoke harshly, though, in truth, more to himself than to his companion.

  Iris stared up at her husband, her bottom lip quivering. ‘You are being frightfully unfair.’ It was difficult to ascertain if the colour had left her face, for she was habitually very pale.

  Raymond went to stand before the hearth, seemingly with the intention of studying the oil painting that hung over the fireplace. The simple serenity of the pastoral scene was strangely at variance with the atmosphere in the room.

  ‘It has always struck me as remarkably odd,’ he said slowly, his voice unnaturally quiet after his outburst, ‘that all the while we were courting, not once did you allude to your nerves. Yet, as soon as we were married, you have done very little else.’

  Iris stared at her husband’s back. She imaged his face, twisted and contorted with rage. She shuddered, for it occurred to her then that, if a mirror had hung above the fireplace instead of a painting, she would surely have caught a glimpse of his reflection.

  ‘Look here, Iris, you can’t remain cooped up in this room pretending that I don’t exist,’ said Raymond, turning to address her in what he considered to be something akin to a reasonable voice. ‘There is talk in the society pages of an estrangement between us.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Why, if you believe my aunt, the scandal sheets write about little else.’

  ‘It … it is hardly my fault if I … I am ill.’

  ‘You are no such thing!’

  Raymond crossed the room and glared down at her. Iris flinched. ‘He hates me,’ she said to herself. ‘He … he wishes I was dead.’

  ‘Look here,’ Raymond said, eyeing her with a degree of contempt. ‘I daresay you hate me like poison, but it doesn’t do to give fuel to the scandalmongers, you know. We must be seen going about together. Now, I’ve just the thing.’ He withdrew from his pocket a small card, on which Iris glimpsed words written in black and gold ink in an elaborate hand. ‘I received this in this morning’s post,’ Raymond was saying. ‘It’s an invitation from the Earl and Countess of Belvedere to attend a masquerade ball. That sort of thing’s not really in my line but –’

  ‘I’ll not go,’ cried Iris. ‘You can’t make me.’

  ‘Now, look here, you little fool,’ said Raymond, grabbing his wife roughly by the shoulders. ‘You’ll do as I say.’

  ‘Stop, you’re hurting me,’ cried Iris.

  ‘I’m doing nothing of the sort. Pull yourself together.’

  It was at that precise moment that Miss Crabbe chose to enter the room. The dress that had been draped over her arm fell and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. Without a word, Raymond let go of his wife and abruptly left the room. The lady’s maid looked after him open-mouthed and then stooped to retrieve the dress. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed her mistress rubbing her wrist. She picked up the dress and straightening saw Iris hastily pull down the cuff of her nightdress, but not before Miss Crabbe had glimpsed what her mistress had evidently been at some pains to conceal.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Do remind me, darling, why we ever agreed to host a masquerade ball,’ said Cedric, Earl of Belvedere, to his wife over luncheon. ‘I can’t for the life of me think what possessed us. Really, it is quite the most ridiculous of any of Lavinia’s ideas, and that is saying something!’

  Rose, the young woman whom he addressed, laughed and said: ‘Your sister can be awfully persuasive when she puts her mind to it.’

  ‘Never was there uttered a more true word,’ exclaimed her husband. The young earl paused for a moment to take a mouthful of cream of almond soup before continuing. ‘But, I say, I’m half inclined to tell her we’ve changed our minds.’ He sighed. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if the ball was to be held here at Sedgwick, but it’s quite another thing entirely for it to take place in town. And during the season too.’ He paused a moment to cast an affectionate look at his wife. ‘I don’t feel it is quite the thing at all, not with you in … in your present condition. Are you absolutely certain you’ll find it too vexing, darling?’

  Rose smiled and instinctively placed a protective hand on her swollen stomach. Absentmindedly she stroked the fabric of her dress, her hand moving in small, rhythmic circles. Now that the time was drawing near for the birth of her first child, she was almost inclined to agree with her husband. For to host a lavish event in the last month of her pregnancy did indeed seem rather rash. For one thing, she could hardly imagine herself standing at the top of the grand staircase for hours on end greeting guests as they arrived. Neither could she envisage herself keeping late hours.

  As she dwelt on the matter, her mind drifted back to the autumn of the previous year when Lavinia had first mooted the idea of hosting a masked ball at the Belvederes’ London home in Kingsley Square. Although aware at the time that she was pregnant, the birth of her first child had seemed to Rose to be far away, an event which would occur on some distant horizon. Indeed, she had even wondered how she might while away the days until the arrival. A masquerade ball had seemed to her then as suitable a frivolous diversion as any other, particularly as Lavinia had been adamant that it would be she, not Rose, who would be responsible for overseeing the necessary arrangements.

  Remembered fragments of her sister-in-law’s conversation came floating back to Rose now, as well as the excited tone in which the words had been uttered.

  ‘We shall have to hold it during the London season, of course,’ Lavinia had lamented, making a face, ‘or else no one who is anyone will be in town. If we hold it later in the year, everyone will have retired to their country estates.’ For a moment a contemplative look had marred the girl’s exquisite, aristocratic features. ‘I daresay the end of May is as good a time as any. The weather in London should be warm by then. We can open the windows out on to the terrac
e. I don’t think there is anything worse than a stuffy ballroom, do you?’ Not waiting for an answer, she had leaned forward and grabbed Rose’s hand. ‘Really, darling, you don’t know how lucky you are never to have been a debutante and made to do the season.’ Her forehead creased for a moment in thought. ‘I say, I wonder if you should be presented to Court following your marriage? Debutantes usually are, you know.’

  Rose had given her friend a sideways glance and said nothing, reminded, as always, that the two girls came from very different backgrounds. For, before her marriage to Cedric, Rose had worked in a rather unremarkable London dress shop, her family having come down in the world, a situation which had obliged her to go out to work. In the ordinary course, hers and Lady Lavinia Sedgwick’s paths would never have crossed. That they had done so had been due to a bet Lavinia had made with her brother that she could not earn her own living for six months. It had been purely by chance that Lavinia had chosen to work in the same shop in which Rose was herself employed. An unlikely friendship had quickly sprung up between the two girls and developed, to be finally cemented by Rose’s marriage to Cedric, Lavinia’s only sibling.

  If her companion was aware of Rose’s reflective mood, she gave no sign of it. Instead, Lavinia continued giving voice to her train of thought, her conversation still focused on Queen Charlotte’s Ball. ‘Learning to curtsey at the Vacani School of Dancing … Some girls found it awfully difficult, you know. But fortunately it seemed to come naturally to me.’ She paused in what she was saying to give an elaborate demonstration, which involved curtseying low with her weight on her right foot, her left foot positioned just behind to maintain her balance. She swooped to the floor in one elegant, graceful movement, her head inclined. Next moment and she had risen smoothly, her back straight, a fixed smile on her beautiful face.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Rose, ‘I should never be able to do that in a month of Sundays. I’m certain, if I tried, I should fall flat on my face and disgrace myself terribly in front of Their Majesties.’

  ‘Well, I’ve rather been born to it,’ said Lavinia, gratified by her friend’s impressed reaction. ‘It begins in childhood walking around the room balancing a book on one’s head in front of an officious governess. But, I say, Rose, I can’t tell you how dull and tedious it is to be stuck in a long line of Rolls-Royces and Bentleys, edging your way forward at a painfully slow pace down Pall Mall. More often than not it’s bitterly cold in March, which is when one is presented at Court. You are simply freezing to death, shivering in a silk satin gown, or some such thing, which is absolutely useless for keeping oneself warm. And all the while there are simply crowds of spectators made up of the hoi-polloi with nothing better to do than gawp at you and pick fault. I can’t tell you how rude and ill-mannered some of them are, pushing forward and jostling each other, trying to put their faces up to the car windows in order to scrutinise you and pass comment on your appearance.’ Lavinia made a face. ‘Why, if the windows were open, I wouldn’t have put it past one or two of them to have stuck their grubby little hands inside to feel the fabric of my dress or, worse still, to pull an ostrich feather out of my hair, and then where would one be with only two feathers instead of three?’

  Rose turned away to conceal a smile, wondering what Lavinia’s response would be if she were to confess that one year she, herself, had been one of the hoi-polloi, as Lavinia so kindly referred to them, persuaded by her fellow shop assistants, Sylvia and Mary, to join the throng of interested spectators who had dutifully gathered to witness the procession of debutantes. It was true that she had held back while Sylvia and Mary had fought their way forward to peer in at the car windows and stare at the debutantes’ pale gowns and regulation headdresses of white ostrich feathers and veils. But, like them, she had caught the same whiff of excitement, aware that she was catching a fleeting glimpse into another world. It was a world that was quite foreign to her, made up as it was of fairy tale princesses on their way to a royal ball.

  ‘I can’t tell you how tiresome it is,’ Lavinia was saying, with something of a heartfelt sigh, ‘to find oneself paraded out season after season. I mean, one is made to feel a bit like last night’s leftovers. The pitying looks are the worst. I know what they’re all thinking, the other debutantes, particularly the very young ones. And their chaperones are even more catty and spiteful.’ She attempted to impersonate them, her voice becoming shrill and ridiculously affected. “She may be the daughter of an earl, but she’s failed to secure herself a proposal in goodness knows how many seasons.’ And with that, they huddle together so that they may murmur without being overheard.’ As if to illustrate a gaggle of whispering chaperones, she lowered her voice. ‘‘Of course, it’s hardly surprising,’’ she said, in the same exaggerated tone, “One hears such frightful stories and even if only a fraction of what they say is true … And, of course, she goes about with rather a fast set, you know. One can’t help but feel sorry for her, poor thing. The chances of her finding a suitable husband are quite diminishing by the hour. Oh well, she’ll just have to resign herself to a life of spinsterhood.’’

  With that Lavinia threw up her hands and flung herself unceremoniously into a chair, whereupon she closed her eyes as if in awful resignation of her fate.

  ‘I bet they say no such thing,’ retorted Rose, laughing, in spite of herself.

  ‘Well,’ said Lavinia, opening her eyes, somewhat mollified, ‘it has been an age since I came out, but it’s hardly my fault, is it, if I’ve not secured a husband? Not that I should like you to think that I haven’t received any number of proposals, because I have, but I shouldn’t want to marry just anyone.’ She wrinkled up her nose, as was her habit, and continued, a note of contempt in her voice. ‘I can’t tell you how boring some of the escorts are. Really, they have nothing to say for themselves; you wouldn’t believe how tongue-tied some of them are. You’d think they’d never set eyes on a girl before, let alone talked to one. And then, of course, there are those who simply make your skin crawl even if they are frightfully rich.’

  ‘Well, I daresay you could snare a fine enough husband if you put your mind to it,’ said Rose, with a smile.

  ‘Well, of course I could. That goes without saying. I’m only telling you what they’ll all be thinking.’

  ‘If I were you,’ said Rose firmly, rather tiring of the conversation, ‘I should count yourself lucky and spare a thought for the girls who will never be lucky enough to go to Queen Charlotte’s Ball.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ replied Lavinia, sounding a trifle contrite.

  ‘If you hate the season as much as you claim,’ observed her brother, raising his head from The Times and venturing into the conversation for the first time, ‘it rather begs the question why you have decided that it would be a splendid idea if we were to host a ball.’

  ‘Oh, but our ball will be entirely different,’ said Lavinia, with renewed enthusiasm. ‘It won’t be at all like the usual round of cocktail and luncheon parties, or those awful tea parties and dinners, where one sees all the same old faces.’

  ‘Surely those same old faces will be attending our masquerade ball?’ Cedric pointed out.

  ‘Well they will,’ admitted his sister, ‘but there will be others too, and anyway, you will not be able to tell one person from another because of the masks, which will make it all frightfully thrilling, don’t you think? And, of course, if one wears a mask, one can simply become someone else entirely. Really, it will be awfully exhilarating.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed her brother. ‘What about the chaperones? They are certain to have something to say about that.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that all the chaperones will care about is being able to sit around in clusters at the edge of the ballroom pretending to take an interest in each other’s charges. I can’t tell you how often I have heard them complain how tiring it is bringing girls out.’ Lavinia smiled brightly. ‘Besides, our masquerade ball will give them something quite different to talk about instead of my imminent spin
sterhood. Rather than being obliged to praise the other chaperones’ daughters and granddaughters they will be able to comment on the multitude of costumes and masks on display.’

  Cedric, who was secretly of the opinion that the chaperones would have a great deal to say if they found themselves in a position where they were unable to identify the young men who were dancing with their charges, was tempted to argue the point. On reflection, however, he thought better of it. Instead, he caught his wife’s eye and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Will the chaperones also be required to dress in masks and costumes?’ Rose enquired.

  ‘Not they!’ Lavinia retorted. ‘Though I daresay they’ll choose to dress in something gaudy; they usually do. I’ve always thought it rather ghastly. They wear the most brightly-coloured and vivid gowns that you can imagine while the poor girls they’re bringing out are obliged to wear white or pastel-coloured frocks. Now, what was I saying?’

  It was only now, with the benefit of hindsight, that Rose realised she had given little thought to how she might feel physically as the ball drew near. When Lavinia had first put forward the suggestion, Rose had listened with only half an ear, not giving the matter her full consideration, believing it was just another one of Lavinia’s far-fetched notions that would never materialise into anything tangible. It was true that she had nodded encouragingly and murmured appropriate responses to Lavinia’s excited observations and exclamations, but her mind had been elsewhere. Certainly she had given no thought to the practicalities associated with the late stages of pregnancy. It had not occurred to her then that, if she stood for too long, her ankles would become swollen and that, though her mind would still be active and willing, her body would dawdle slowly behind, her balance impaired by the heavy weight that she carried. Indeed, now that reality dawned, it was tempting to concur with Cedric that they should dispense with the idea of holding a ball.