The Crime and the Crystal

by E. X. Ferrars

  “All the same, given the circumstances, you think I could have done it. And then, because Kay had found it out, I could have killed her. Don’t you see, I’m trying to think out why Jan’s frightened of me. Because if she did leave home of her own free will, and not because she’d a gun at her back, that must be why she left, mustn’t it? She thinks she’s got herself married to a murderer.”

  “I don’t believe it for a moment,” Andrew said.

  “It’s what the police believe. And they believe it’s why we got married so indecently soon after Luke’s death. They think it’s so that she hasn’t got to give evidence against me.”

  “Incidentally, why did you get married so quickly?” Andrew asked. “You might have been wiser to let it wait for a while.”

  “For the simple reason that we were in love with one another, though we only found it out after she’d got married.”

  “I think you’re getting confused, Tony,” Andrew said. “If she married you, believing you’d murdered Luke, then she isn’t frightened of murder as such, so she’s no reason to run away from you. And if she knows you didn’t murder him, then she’s no reason at all to be frightened of you.”

  They had been passing houses, most of them bungalows with roofs of corrugated iron and narrow verandahs built around them. They stood in biggish patches of land, some of them surrounded with what looked like market gardens, filled with straight rows of vegetables, or vines and olive trees. There were tall trees too, dotted here and there between them. Presently the road became a street with shops, still closed, on either side of it, and one or two inns, all still and silent, a school and a church. They drove on till the houses began to thin again, then Tony swung the car to the left up a stony drive and stopped in front of one of the iron-roofed bungalows.

  “The old man may not be up yet,” he said as he got out of the car, “and if he isn’t, I don’t know if we’ll be able to wake him. I told you he’s very deaf, didn’t I?”

  “But if Jan’s here, she’ll hear us,” Andrew said.

  “Yes—yes, of course.” But for the first time it sounded as if Tony really doubted that he would find her.

  The small house looked neglected and almost as if it might be empty. The paint on the door had been flaking away. There were weeds thrusting their way between the two or three steps that led up to it. A large cobweb had draped itself from one of the verandah supports to the roof. The garden looked as if it had not received any attention for a long time.

  Tony went up to the door and hammered on it with a rusty knocker.

  There was no reply, and after a moment he knocked again.

  This time there was a sound of footsteps inside—slow, slithering footsteps that sounded as if they were made by someone in loose slippers. But then these stopped and there was silence again. It seemed to Andrew that there must be someone inside who was waiting and listening.

  Tony knocked again, more violently.

  The slow tread inside came nearer, then the door was opened a few inches and an old, wrinkled face appeared in the opening. Then the door was flung wide and a voice that grated hoarsely ejaculated, “Would you believe it, Tony!”

  Andrew’s first impression of the man in the doorway was that he was very old. Too old to be the father of young women like Kay Lightfoot and Jan Gardiner. Then Andrew realized that the man after all was probably younger than he was himself. But his tall body was very emaciated, with the skin that covered it drawn tightly over the skeleton inside and deeply wrinkled over the strong bones of the face. It was tanned a yellowish brown in which the grey eyes looked very pale and a little cloudy. He had a hearing aid in one ear, with a flex dangling from it, leading to a battery in the pocket of the stained blue shirt he was wearing. He had on crumpled cotton shorts that hung low on his hips and checked felt slippers. His legs were very lean and hairy. The hair on them was grey, like the uncombed mop that stood up from his forehead.

  “Tony,” he said again. “Well, well, what d’you know?”

  As he said it, his hand went to the battery in his shirt pocket to switch it on.

  “Is Jan here?” Tony asked, raising his voice so that the deaf man could hear him.

  “No, why should she be?” the other man asked.

  “I don’t believe it,” Tony said. “I think she’s here.”

  “What’s the trouble? You two been falling out, or something?”

  “No,” Tony said with desperation in his voice. “No, I just think she’s here.”

  “Now why should you have got that idea into your head?” The man, whom Andrew could not stop himself thinking of as aged, worn and tired, stood to one side so that Tony and Andrew could enter the house. “Who’s your friend?” he inquired.

  “I’m sorry—this is Professor Basnett,” Tony said. “I was a student of his in London. He’s on a visit to us in Betty Hill. Andrew, this is my father-in-law.”

  “My name’s Sam Ramsden.” The man thrust out a hand. “Glad to know you, Professor. I’ve heard Tony talk about you. Now what’s eating you, Tony? What’s happened?”

  “You mean you don’t know about what’s happened to Kay?” Tony demanded.

  “I don’t know a thing. How could I?”

  “But you were expecting me this morning. Me or someone. Perhaps the police.”

  “I don’t have much dealings with the police,” Sam Ramsden said. “I have a couple of grogs now and then with Bill Peters, our constable, but that’s all and I wouldn’t expect him to drop in on me at this hour of the morning.”

  “Then why didn’t you come straight to the door and open it when I knocked?” Tony asked. “You took a long time making up your mind whether or not to do it.”

  The same thought had occurred to Andrew. He remembered the sound of caution about the slippered feet inside the door before it was opened.

  “I came straight enough,” Sam Ramsden answered. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Took me by surprise. Wasn’t even sure I’d heard correctly.” He touched the battery in his shirt pocket. “I hadn’t got this switched on. Seemed unlikely it was visitors.”

  “It wasn’t to give Jan time to hide?”

  Her father gave a helpless shake of his head. “Why would she want to hide from you, even supposing she was here? You’ve got your wires crossed, Tony, that’s for sure. Now come in and I’ll get you some tea. And some bacon and eggs—how about that? Or a bit of steak. I’ve got a nice bit of steak somewhere. How would you feel about a nice bit of steak, Professor, with a fried egg on top of it?”

  Andrew had heard about this hearty form of Australian breakfast, though he had never had to face it.

  “Some tea would be fine,” he said, then remembered that he ought to raise his voice. But he knew that he need not raise it much. Years of lecturing had given him a voice that carried without his having to make much effort. “I’m not very hungry. Though if you happened to have some cheese—but please don’t go to any trouble.”

  “Bread and cheese? No trouble at all, though it’s not my idea of a breakfast. And what about you, Tony? Steak and an egg?”

  “No, thank you, just tea,” Tony answered. “I’m not hungry either. Dad, is it true you haven’t heard about Kay?”

  They had gone along a narrow passage into a disorderly kitchen. It looked as if it were where Tony’s father-in-law spent most of his time. Besides unwashed dishes in the sink, there were newspapers and a few books heaped on the table with an ashtray full of stubs among them, an easy chair with wooden arms and worn cushions in one corner and a television set facing it.

  Going to a refrigerator, Sam Ramsden opened it and started searching about in its jumbled contents.

  “Cheese,” he muttered. “Cheese—yes, here we are. Kay, you said. Something about Kay. What was that?”

  Tony was looking at him with a frown of uncertainty and some bewilderment on his face. It was plain that events were not turning out as he had expected. Then suddenly his gaze sharpened.

  “Taken up smoking ag
ain?” he asked. “I thought you’d given it up.”

  “So I have. Why d’you ask? Oh—” Sam Ramsden saw that Tony was looking at the stubs in the ashtray. “I see, no, those weren’t mine. Can’t afford to smoke these days. But a mate of mine was in here yesterday evening, chain-smoker, God knows where he gets the money for it. Myself, I’ve got so I don’t even like the smell of it any more, but I don’t interfere with other people’s pleasures.”

  “That mate wasn’t Jan?” Tony asked. “She’s getting on for a chain-smoker.”

  “Jan? I thought we were talking about Kay.” Sam Ramsden plugged in the electric kettle, made some room on the table by bundling books and newspapers onto a chair and brought mugs out of a cupboard.

  Tony’s face was very troubled as he looked at the older man. “You really don’t know what’s happened, Dad?”

  “I don’t know anything. Don’t tell me she’s left her husband or anything crazy like that. Denis is a good chap.”

  “No. If you really don’t know, then—well, she’s dead.”

  It was not perhaps the best way of breaking bad news to a parent, though Andrew was inclined to believe that when bad news had to be broken, and he had been on the receiving end of it several times in his life, there was a certain virtue in making the blow come hard and quickly. The apprehension that could build up inside you while tactful words were being sought with which to soften the pain of the blow could be as hurtful as the shock of being told the stark truth all at once.

  Sam Ramsden, who had been at the cupboard from which he had taken the mugs and was just taking a bag of sugar out of it, became quite still. His back was to Tony and Andrew, and neither of them could see his face. But after a moment he turned. There had been no change of expression on it.

  “Dead?” he said. “How did that happen? Car accident?” There was not even a tremor in his hoarse voice.

  Tony threw himself down in a chair, leant his elbows on the table and took his face in his hands.

  “Look, if I’ve got things wrong, I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought for sure you knew Kay was killed, murdered, yesterday afternoon. We’d had our Christmas dinner with her and Denis—Jan, Andrew and I and a few other people—and after it all we went down to the beach for a swim except for Kay and Jan, who stayed behind to clear up, and we didn’t get back to the house till early evening. But when we did we found Kay…”

  He paused, giving his father-in-law a look of acute distress. The older man had just poured some boiling water into the teapot. The hand that held the kettle was quite steady.

  “She was in the lounge,” Tony went on, “and she was dead. Her head had been battered in with that lump of crystal I gave her and Denis. There was a lot of blood. It was—horrible. And Jan was gone.”

  “What d’you mean, gone?” Sam Ramsden said. He drew a chair up to the table and gestured to Andrew to do the same. “Where did she go?”

  “That’s what I came here to find out,” Tony answered. “I thought she must have come here.”

  The other man gave a slow shake of his head. “Why’d she do that?”

  “She’s always come to you when she’s been in trouble.”

  “No, it was Kay she always went to. I couldn’t manage her myself, but she’d do anything Kay told her. Great friends they were, specially as kids. Jan always trailed around after Kay, not a bit jealous because everyone said Kay was the pretty one. She was that, but she never had any sense. I knew she’d get into bad trouble sooner or later. And now it’s happened. Can’t say I exactly expected it, the way you’ve described it. I used to think she’d make trouble for other people, leading them on, then letting them down. She was fond of doing that, and one day, I thought, she’d go too far with the wrong chap and have to pay for it. It’s what she did with young Wilding, you know. I suppose he isn’t under suspicion, by any chance. They were all set to get married when she went off and married Denis.”

  “To go by what Wilding told me,” Andrew said, “he’s engaged to another woman and very happy about it. If he wanted revenge on your daughter, he’s chosen a strange time for it.”

  “So he’s engaged, is he?” Sam Ramsden looked as interested in this piece of information as he had in the story of Kay’s death. No sign of grief had appeared on his craggy face. “And they’ve no idea who killed the girl? They don’t know anything?”

  Tony suddenly pounded the table with his fist. “But where’s Jan?” he shouted. “If she didn’t come here, where did she go? She went off in her bathers, leaving her clothes behind, and she went home and took the Volvo and disappeared. If she didn’t come to you, then someone must have made her do that because she saw him murder Kay. And she’s probably dead herself by now, with her body dumped somewhere in the bush.”

  “It’s all right, darling, I’m here,” a soft, rather high-pitched voice said from the doorway. “You needn’t worry about me.”

  Jan was standing there. At some time she had picked up the red and white cotton dress in which Andrew had seen her first and she had her fair hair tied back in a ponytail with a scarlet ribbon. Her small, pointed face was very pale and her huge eyes had smears of exhaustion under them. She had a half-smoked cigarette in one hand.

  “Thanks, Dad, it was a good try,” she said, coming forward, “but he’d have found me sooner or later. He’d only got to go round to the back to find the Volvo.” She put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. Her touch made him go rigid. There was as much anger as relief on his face. “I’m sorry, Tony,” she went on. “I’d have let you know later today where I was if you’d stayed at home. I never thought of you thinking I was dead, or that you’d drive up here right away.”

  “And brought the police with him, that’s what he’ll have done.” Sam Ramsden turned on Tony. “Didn’t you think of that? You don’t suppose they let you come here without putting a tail on you. They’ll be knocking at the door any time now. Jan, go back into the attic. I’ll drive the Volvo out into the bush and leave it somewhere. That’s what I was going to do when you and your friend arrived, Tony. That’s why I was up so early. We can think what we’ll do about it later.”

  “It’s no good,” Jan said. “If the police have followed him, they’ll find me anyway. Tony—”

  He interrupted her by springing to his feet, taking her in his arms and crushing her against him.

  “And I thought you were dead!” he exploded. “How could you do it to me, Jan? If you were frightened, why didn’t you come to me? I was down there on the beach. You know I’d have looked after you.”

  She withdrew from his embrace with a certain stiffness.

  “I lost my head,” she said, but so calmly that it sounded as if it were not a thing that she was in the habit of doing. “I was scared, I only wanted to get away.”

  “But what did you see? Who was it?” He had let her go reluctantly.

  She went to the cupboard, took another mug from it and poured out tea for them all.

  “I didn’t see anything, but I didn’t think anyone would believe that,” she said. “But it’s the truth, I don’t know anything about it. That’s partly why I was so scared. I thought that man Ross would be certain it was me. He’s never given up the idea that I killed Luke, or at least that I know who did it, and he kind of hates me because he can’t prove it. So if he had a chance to prove I killed Kay, that’s what he’d do, even if he didn’t really believe it. He’d have thought of it as getting me for Luke’s murder.”

  “But what happened?” Tony asked. “You must have seen something. What was it?”

  She shook her head. “Really, I didn’t see anything till I found Kay’s body. I must have been in the bedroom, changing, when it happened. She and I had cleared up in the dining room and she’d filled the dishwasher and set it going. And it’s a pretty noisy one and she’d left the kitchen door open and I think that may have been why I didn’t hear anyone come in. And I didn’t hurry, because after that great dinner we’d had I didn’t feel much like swimming. But then I cha
nged and went to the door and called out to her, but she didn’t answer, so then I thought she’d got tired of waiting for me and had gone down to the beach without me. It was just chance that I didn’t go straight down myself without looking for her. But something made me take a look in the lounge and there she was, lying on the hearthrug with her head…” Suddenly the unnaturally calm voice began to shake. “With her head—oh God! You saw it, Tony, you must have seen it. And that crystal lying beside her, all smeared with blood. The thing looked as if it was bleeding itself. I think I screamed then, and then I ran out to the toilet and was sick, and then—well, I told you, I lost my head. I thought there I was alone in the house with her and Ross would say I’d done it, and all I could think of was getting away.”

  “But why should anyone think you’d done it?” Tony asked. “You’d nothing against Kay. Everyone knew what good friends you were.”

  “A man like Ross wouldn’t have listened to what you said about that. He’d have dug up something. Or that’s what I thought then. I know I was a fool, I ought to have gone down to the beach and told you what had happened, but what I did was run home as fast as I could. I didn’t even wait to change out of my bathers. I only thought of that when I got home. I changed into a dress then in a hurry and put a few things in a bag and drove up here. And I told Dad the whole story and he said the best thing would be for me to hide till we knew if the police were coming after me, then think it over quietly and decide what I ought to do.”

  It was easy to understand now why Sam Ramsden had been so strangely unmoved by the news of his daughter’s murder. He had known almost as much about it as Tony and Andrew. Indeed, perhaps even more, if Jan had spoken more freely to him than she had to Tony.

  Andrew had drunk his tea and had found that it relieved his tiredness wonderfully.

  “Jan, do you remember what you did with the towel you took to your sister’s house in the morning?” he asked. “A bright green towel.”

  She was leaning against the cupboard now, nursing her mug in both hands.