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  The Crime and the Crystal

  The Crime and the Crystal

  E. X. Ferrars

  FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK

  All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.

  THE CRIME AND THE CRYSTAL

  A Felony & Mayhem mystery

  PRINTING HISTORY

  First UK edition (Collins): 1985

  First US edition (Doubleday): 1985

  Felony & Mayhem edition: 2021

  Copyright © 1985 by M. D. Brown

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-63194-252-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ferrars, E. X., author.

  Title: The crime and the crystal / E.X. Ferrars.

  Description: Felony & Mayhem edition. | New York : Felony & Mayhem Press, 2021. | “A Felony & Mayhem mystery”--Title page verso. | Summary: “Professor Basnett escapes to Adelaide for a warm Christmas holiday and ends up trying to clear his hosts of suspicion in a long-unsolved murder”-- Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021007330 | ISBN 9781631942525 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781631942532 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Basnett, Andrew (Fictitious character)--Fiction. | Retired teachers--England--Fiction. | Botanists--England--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6003.R458 C7 2021 | DDC 823/.914--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021007330

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  The Weird World of Wes Beattie

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  The icon above says you’re holding a book in the Felony & Mayhem “British” category. These books are set in or around the UK, and feature the highly literate, often witty prose that fans of British mystery demand. If you enjoy this book, you may well like other “British” titles from Felony & Mayhem Press.

  For information about British titles or to learn more about Felony & Mayhem Press, please visit us online at:

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  Blotto, Twinks and the

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  Blotto, Twinks and the

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  Death in the Garden

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  Fate Worse than Death

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  The Herring Seller’s Apprentice

  Ten Little Herrings

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  The Crime and the Crystal

  Chapter One

  The way was long, the wind was cold,

  The Minstrel was infirm and old…

  The way ahead was certainly going to be very long and the December evening was very cold, and although Andrew Basnett was not a minstrel, but a retired professor of botany from one of London University’s many colleges, the thought of the journey on which he was embarking made him feel very old and infirm indeed. Seventy-one, after all, was an advanced age at which to be setting out to go halfway round the world.

  He did not always feel that he was very old. Sometimes he felt hardly more than middle-aged. But the business of carrying a suitcase which had somehow become noticeably heavier than it would have felt a few years ago, and of making sure that he had not mislaid any of his hand luggage or the book that he meant to read on the plane, and of trying to convince himself that his ticket and his passport were safe in the pocket where they ought to be, was just the sort of thing that brought on the sense of helplessness that made him feel every one of his seventy-one years.

  Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

  Pibroch of Donuil,

  Wake thy wild voice anew,

  Summon Clan Conuil…

  For several days Andrew’s mind had been hopelessly under the spell of Walter Scott. Not that he admired Scott’s versification in the least. Some of the novels he could just take, but nearly all the verse, he thought, was regrettable. Yet it had a compulsive rhythm to it which, once it started in his brain, repeated itself over and over again until he grew really angry with himself for being unable to become absorbed in something more inspiring, a Shakespeare sonnet, perhaps, or some Milton or Donne.

  The trouble was that as a child he had relished Scott intensely. Also, up to the age of twelve or so he had had a habit of automatically memorizing everything he read that had a strong rhythm, particularly if it was related to blood, treachery and terror, and all that he had read thus had remained indelibly printed on his brain for life. His interest in violence had been strange, because he had been a fairly quiet child, not in the least addicted to quarrelling and fighting. But perhaps that had been the trouble. A more ferocious child might later have acquired a taste for more delicate lyrics and gentler fantasy.

  Nowadays, of course, when he became subject to the unceasing repetition of some verse, Andrew knew that there was a simple reason for it. It was merely that it helped to blot out something else that he did not want to think about. Something was upsetting him, or scaring him, or making demands on him that he did not know how to meet. And at the moment, as he sat in the departure lounge of Terminal Three at Heathrow, it was naturally the journey ahead of him that was intimidating him, driving him to quote stanza after stanza of Scott to himself.

  Come away, come away,

  Hark to the summons!

  Come in your war array,

  Gentles and commons…

  Leave untended the herd,

  The flock without shelter,

  Leave the corpse uninterred,

  The bride at the altar…

  What a deplorable character this Donuil Dhu must have been, he reflected, interfering in other people’s private lives to the extent suggested by those lines. Yet he had been muttering them to himself for days, sometimes actually aloud, because after all there was usually no one to overhear him now. Since the death of his wife, Nell, of cancer over ten years ago, he had got more and more into the habit of talking aloud to himself when he was alone in his flat, a pleasant flat in St. John’s Wood, which all of a sudden he now thought himself insane to be leaving, even for the two months that he had planned.

  What was this urge, he w
ondered, that from time to time drove one out from one’s comfortable home, where one enjoyed all the pleasures of privacy, of being able to lay one’s hand immediately on anything that one wanted, of having the books round one that one was likely to want to read, of being able to reach most of one’s friends, when privacy became boring or depressing, simply by lifting the telephone? The thought of travel, considered several months ahead, might seem immensely attractive, but when the time of departure came near Andrew nearly always found himself wishing desperately that he had not been such a fool as to commit himself to it.

  However, when the crowd in the departure lounge began to move, surging slowly into the belly of a great jumbo jet, his spirits began to rise. He had always found waiting difficult. It was not exactly that he was an impatient man, but he was inclined to believe, if he was compelled against his will to do nothing for a time, that someone was maliciously and deliberately inflicting delay on him. Yet whenever he was setting out on a journey he always arrived far earlier than was necessary, thus wilfully imposing on himself that irritating waiting. This evening he had arrived at Heathrow more than an hour before the time for checking in and so was feeling moderately tired even before the journey started.

  But action was a restorative. As he made his way to the seat that had been assigned to him a flicker of excitement banished unwanted verses from his mind and left him wondering how soon he would be able to get a drink.

  He had not very long to wait, for once the plane had penetrated the cloud cover and it was permitted to undo seat belts, a trolley came round from which Andrew obtained the whisky which his system was craving. Then there came a meal of sorts, and after that a film was shown on a screen at the front of the cabin. But as he had not accepted the earphones that had been offered to him, the faces that he saw were merely strangely mouthing things, almost funny, like characters in an old silent comedy, though he deduced from the number of guns that appeared, the use of which seemed to dispose effectively of a fair number of people, and the cars that crashed into each other, that it was probably a very bloodthirsty thriller that he was watching.

  He had intended to start reading as soon as the meal was over, yet he found that he could not stop watching the incomprehensible film and by the time it ended he was too tired to begin on his book. He knew that he would not sleep. He never could sleep on a plane. But he could not do anything else either because he always found himself so abominably uncomfortable. Though he was a spare man who did not find it difficult to adjust himself to the narrowness of the seats, he was tall and had long legs and there was never anywhere to put them.

  All the same, as the hours slowly passed, as daylight succeeded darkness, then darkness came again, he dozed occasionally, rousing himself at intervals to eat some of the incredibly dreadful food with which he was presented. Breakfast was the worst, if it really was breakfast. He had lost count of time. Was it night or day? Was this breakfast or a peculiar kind of supper? He was not at all sure and he was not sure either what day of the week it was. He knew that the journey took approximately twenty-four hours, yet according to the calendar it took two days, which was really very confusing.

  The breakfast that he found so abominable consisted of an omelette made unmistakably of powdered egg, a sausage encased in a tough jacket of plastic, and a roll that had seen better days. During the war and the years of austerity that had followed it Andrew had often enough been grateful for omelettes made of powdered egg, but it had not occurred to him for a long time now that he would ever have to face such a thing again. To be offered it on this flight, which after all was fairly expensive, struck him as positively an insult. He left the meal nearly untouched, only drinking the cup of pallid coffee that went with it.

  After that he started hankering for whisky again, but a puritanical sense that if this was really breakfast there would be a certain impropriety in following it immediately with alcohol checked his impulse to go and see if he could get some at the bar. His digestion assured him that the time was about nine o’clock in the evening, but there was daylight outside the windows again and he was afraid that the meal really had been breakfast.

  A long time ago, as it now seemed, the plane had landed at Muskat and then at Singapore, and now it was on the last stage of its journey. Only a little while after the breakfast had been cleared away the sign commanding the fastening of seat belts was illuminated and soon afterwards the plane bumped on the ground and taxied to a standstill. Andrew stood up, yawning, stretching the joints that had stiffened during the night or day or whatever it had been, plucked his hand luggage and overcoat from the locker over his head and joined the throng making its way towards the exit.

  Once in the airport he found that he was required to put his hand luggage on a bench and to stand a little way back from it while a large and beautiful Alsatian was led up to sniff it. Andrew’s first thought was that the dog had been trained to sniff for high explosive and that if this were so, standing back about six feet from the bench would not be much protection. But then his mind, addled though it was by fatigue, cleared somewhat and he realized that what the dog was sniffing for was drugs. Cannabis or perhaps even heroin. He looked at the handsome animal with sympathy. He had read somewhere that the dogs that were trained to perform this service often became addicts themselves and did not take long to die.

  Today the dog showed no interest in Andrew’s luggage or in that of anyone who followed him and he was allowed to pick up his bag, go through passport control, collect his suitcase beyond it, and then be mercifully waved through Customs without having to open anything. With relief that the journey was over, he stepped out of the air-conditioned shade of the airport into Adelaide’s heat and golden glare of sunshine.

  “Andrew!”

  He had been expecting it, yet had had an unreasonable fear that something would go wrong with the arrangements that had been made for meeting him. He had had an uncomfortable feeling that he would have to find a taxi for himself, if such a thing should actually be available at the airport, and have himself driven to the address that he had noted down, perhaps only to find that there was no one at home and that he would have to plant himself, exhausted, in the doorway and wait there for he did not know how long.

  Absurd, because Tony Gardiner was not a man to let anyone down, especially since it had been his own idea that he should meet Andrew’s plane, though it was due to arrive at what, according to the Australian clock, was an appallingly early hour.

  Tony, whom Andrew had not seen for four years, was thirty-five now, though he had always looked younger than he was because of the way that his fair, curly hair sprang up from his forehead, the candour of his clear blue eyes, the friendly curve of his mouth and the healthy tan of his skin. He was about six foot tall, wide-shouldered and strongly built. This morning he was wearing shorts, a dark blue, open-necked shirt and sandals on his bare feet. Emerging from the crowd of people who were waiting behind a barrier to meet friends and relations, he gripped Andrew’s hand and shook it vigorously. Then, while Andrew was still blinking in the sunlight, Tony picked up his luggage with the effortlessness of youth and suggested to Andrew that he should take off his overcoat, which he had just put on because that was the easiest way of carrying it, assuring him that he would soon find the morning intolerably hot.

  Leading the way to his car, Tony went on, “What sort of journey did you have? Everything all right?”

  “Well, it was pretty horrible, of course,” Andrew replied, “but there’s something to be said for getting it over quickly instead of breaking it, and then sleeping it off as soon as you can.”

  They got into the car.

  “That’s right,” Tony said. “You can sleep now as long as you like. Jan’s sorry she isn’t here to meet you, but she’s had to go to work.”

  Jan was the wife whom Tony had acquired a few months ago. Andrew had never met her and knew very little about her. Four years ago, when on retiring he had made his first trip round the world, breaking the jo
urney often to lecture in New Zealand, Australia and India, Tony had still been unmarried. He had also been living in Canberra, where he had not yet begun to specialize in marine carbohydrates, as he did at present, having only recently moved to Adelaide to a job in the Institute of Marine Biology in the suburb of Betty Hill.

  His friendship with Andrew was of long standing. It had begun about twelve years before, when Tony had spent three years in England, working for a Ph.D. in the department of which Andrew had been professor. In his occasional letters since that time he had always pressed him to make a second visit to Australia, not to lecture but simply as a guest who would be welcomed by old friends and would avoid the dreariness of an English winter. At first Andrew had not considered the suggestion seriously, but then an unexpected legacy had made him suddenly feel far richer than usual and had made him decide to accept the invitation. And at last, with the journey behind him, he was beginning to feel very glad that he had done so.

  “Of course, I never believed you’d really come,” Tony said. “We’ve been talking about it for so long, haven’t we? Even a week ago Jan and I said you might call it off at the last minute.”

  “No, there was no risk of that,” Andrew said. “I’ve been saying to myself it’s now or never, and I certainly didn’t want it to be never. But I knew that by next year I might not feel up to tackling a long journey. I’m more likely to spend my holiday in Torquay than in Australia.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Tony said. “You don’t look any older than when I saw you last.”

  “I’d like to think that’s true, though I doubt it. Old age has been creeping up on me. One creaks at the joints. Yet, oddly enough, I rather like it. Now tell me about Jan. I’m looking forward very much to meeting her. What’s this job she’s got?”

  “She works in a kind of craft shop in the city,” Tony answered. “A place where they sell pottery and handmade jewellery and so on. You’ll see her this evening unless you’d like to go to bed and stay there. But my advice to you is, have a good rest this morning—I’ll have to leave you to yourself and go off to work too presently—then if I were you I’d get up and have tea with us in the evening. Otherwise you may not sleep well tonight and it may take you days to adjust to the difference in time.”