'We Know You're Busy Writing...' by Edmund Crispin

Author:Edmund Crispin [Crispin, Edmund]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2023-07-31T17:00:00+00:00

The Mischief Done

‘People are superstitious about diamonds,’ said Detective-Inspector Humbleby. ‘They believe all sorts of extraordinary things. And of course diamonds do give us a lot of trouble at the Yard, one way and another.’

‘“O Diamond! Diamond!”’ his host said.

‘Is that a quotation? No, no, don’t bother, leave it. Among the many delusions people have about diamonds—’

‘“O Diamond! Diamond! Thou little knowest the mischief done!”’ Out of the depths of the armchair in his rooms in St Christopher’s, Gervase Fen, University Professor of English Language and Literature, reached across with the decanter to pour more sherry into his guest’s glass. ‘Allegedly said by Isaac Newton,’ he explained. ‘His dog Diamond knocked over a candle and incinerated “the almost finished labours of some years”.’

‘Mathematicians oughtn’t to keep dogs,’ said Humbleby. ‘And historians oughtn’t to lend their manuscripts to John Stuart Mill.’ He presumably meant Carlyle, part of whose French Revolution was used as kindling by Mill’s housemaid. ‘Rubies are more valuable than diamonds,’ Humbleby obstinately went on. ‘And contrary to popular supposition, diamonds are very brittle. You can lose hundreds of pounds by just dropping one on a carpet.’

‘Humbleby, what is all this about?’

And Humbleby, deflated, sighed. ‘I’ve been made a fool of,’ he said. ‘Somebody went and stole an enormous great valuable diamond literally from under my nose, when I was supposed to be helping to protect it.’

‘That’s bad.’

‘Not that the owner’s lost it, mind.’

‘That’s good.’

‘He’s just hidden it somewhere, or rather, his brother has. The whole thing’s an insurance fraud,’ said Humbleby aggrievedly. ‘We know it’s that, but unfortunately we can’t begin to prove it … I don’t enjoy being made a fool of.’

‘No one does.’

‘I should like somehow to get a bit of my own back.’

‘Naturally, naturally.’

‘So can you help me, do you think?’

‘I very much doubt it,’ said Fen. ‘But tell me what happened, and I’ll try.’

‘The diamond’s owner,’ said Humbleby, ‘was – and if I’m right about the business, still effectually is – a Soho jeweller called Asa Braham. Years ago he had a robbery, a genuine one, and I was put in charge of the investigation, and it went on for rather a long time, so I got to know Asa quite well. He’s a wiry little man with frizzy black hair, fiftyish, very lively, very active; a charmer, and sharp-witted with it. I never exactly trusted him, but I did get to like him – and that was why I stupidly allowed myself to get involved in this business of the Reine des Odalisques.’

‘Who on earth is she?’

‘That’s what the diamond’s called. Its first owner, who christened it, was a Frenchman – apparently,’ said Humbleby waspishly, ‘a man of very little judgment, taste or even ordinary good sense. Anyway, it was from him that Asa Braham bought the thing, about six weeks ago now, for well over £100,000.’

‘Good grief!’

‘Yes, it was a lot, but although it was only mined quite recently it’s become one of the famous diamonds. And Asa wanted it like mad, though he couldn’t really afford it.

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