Authors: Carola Dunn
Rattle His Bones (17 page)
Daisy went on into the private studies, which were not much more than a wide passage cluttered with desks, bookcases, cabinets, and chairs. Along one side, doors at intervals led into the General Library, the various galleries, and the work room which connected with the Geological Library. Most of the light came from skylights, but opposite each door was a window, looking out on the Spirit Building and the Imperial College of Science.
The Fossil Mammal Curator boasted a window to himself in a private cubicle of sorts, walled with bookshelves. He was seated at his desk, studying a large-scale drawing of a quadrupedal skeleton, with the animal's outline sketched in, and enlarged views of individual bones.
“I don't want to interrupt, Mr. Witt,” said Daisy untruthfully.
He looked up and smiled. “That's all right, Miss Dalrymple. Just yet another early horse.”
“Tell me about it. I expect motor vehicles will entirely supersede horses one day, but meanwhile, people are interested in them.”
Witt was good at tailoring his exposition to his audience. He gave Daisy just the sort of detail she wanted, and she took reams of notes.
“I can let you have a series of drawings, from Eohippus to the modern horse,” he offered. “I'd appreciate it if you would trace them and return them, but it's not the end of the world if your editor should lose them. Do you ride?”
“I used to. I grew up in Gloucestershire.”
“Fairacres,” said Witt, to her surprise. “I knew your brother slightly. I ⦠ah ⦠Fletcher seems a good sort of chap.”
Resignedly, Daisy realized that if Mummery knew of her engagement, doubtless so did everyone else. “He is,” she said firmly, “and a good detective as well.”
“He came round to my flat last night, looking for the stolen jewels. I imagine he sees some connection between the theft and Pettigrew's murder?”
“He doesn't discuss all his reasoning with me,” Daisy hedged.
Witt's sardonic look told her he recognized prevarication when he heard it. “He didn't find the loot, of course, though
I'm aware that won't have convinced him of my innocence. I can't quite work out how the jewels were stolen, but I know I'm one of just half a dozen people who could have killed Pettigrew. Only why should I?”
I'm aware that won't have convinced him of my innocence. I can't quite work out how the jewels were stolen, but I know I'm one of just half a dozen people who could have killed Pettigrew. Only why should I?”
“The police don't have to prove motive, though it's helpful in court.”
“They don't?” Witt shrugged. “Well, the man was a pain in the neck, but I didn't have to see much of him.”
“Even over the flints?”
“Ah, is that where Fletcher's looking? Pettigrew was making a pest of himself about the flints, admittedly. However, I claim no expertise on the subject. I always referred Pettigrew to ffinch-Brown. He bore the brunt. And he was around when Pettigrew died.”
“Do you think he was worried about Pettigrew's challenge? That business of detecting a newly chipped flint?”
Witt grinned. “Much as I'd like to divert suspicion by throwing it on ffinch-Brown, who is also a pain in the neck, I have to say I believe him perfectly competent to distinguish anything Pettigrew could produce.”
Which was as prevaricating as anything Daisy had said. Witt was quite clever enough to realize his encomium did not rule out ffinch-Brown's worrying, however competent he was. So was he actually attempting in an oblique way to throw suspicion on the anthropologist?
Spotting an invitation to circular reasoning before she was entangled, Daisy decided Witt's statement was really pretty useless.
“The stuff you've been doing for Mr. ffinch-Brown must have given you a lot of extra work,” she said, poising her pencil above her notebook as if returning to business. “Do you and your colleagues often work late?”
“Only when we're planning a murder,” Witt quipped.
Daisy frowned at him. “Sorry! It dependsâwhich is not a useful answer but true. One doesn't get into palæontology unless one is keen. One doesn't get on in the museum hierarchy unless one is keen enough to put in extra hours. Many are not, so there are Assistants and Attendants who will never rise above those Civil Service grades.”
“Thus Curators are by definition extra keen and ready to stay late?”
“More or less. Sometimes one finds oneself at the end of the day deeply involved in something particularly fascinating which one does not care to leave. Occasionally there is work which simply must be completed on time. Human time, that is, as opposed to geological time.”
Daisy laughed. “I'm glad we don't have to live by geological time. Imagine saying, âI think I'll just wait for the ice age to finish before I take the dog for his walk.' So the dedicated scientists of the Geology Department frequently stay after hours.” She wrote it down in her notebook.
“I shan't quarrel if you put that in your article,” Witt said with a smile. “Dr. Smith Woodward expects a great deal of his people. Individual circumstances vary, of course. For instance, I quite often have evening engagements. Steadman has a rotten home life, so he frequently works lateâthere's always something interesting to do here, but also he accepts quite a few invitations to give outside talks. The public like dinosaurs. On the other hand, Ruddlestone has a family clamouring for his presence, so he rarely does overtime.”
“Mr. Ruddlestone has a large family?”
“Lord, yes. I couldn't tell you how many children. He hardly ever stays. It was rotten luck he happened to be here on the very evening that Pettigrew ⦠Unless ⦠No, it couldn't have been Ruddlestone! Forget I said that. It wasn't so late when it happened, anyway, was it?”
“No,” Daisy agreed.
“Just late enough for most people to have left, so as to make Fletcher's task easier,” Witt said wryly. “Oh dear, we don't seem to be able to stay away from the subject, do we? What else can I tell you about my work?”
Glancing through her notes, Daisy said, “The information about the horses will do, I think, thanks.”
“Right-ho. Let me just get you those drawings. Here we are.”
“Spiffing. Thanks!”
“I'll be happy to answer any further questions, Miss Dalrymple, and if you have none, no doubt your fiancé will have plenty!”
He unlocked the nearest door for her, and she stepped into the cephalopod gallery. Passing through, she made one or two notes, rather half-heartedly. She still could not work up any enthusiasm for primitive squids and octopi.
Half way down was the arch to the dinosaur gallery. If Mummery was the murderer, he must have gone that way to the General Library.
Daisy went through. The Megalosaurus skull was to her left. She pictured the children gathered around it, with little Katy heading for the far entrance and Mrs. Ditchley suddenly noticing her departure. The children would surely have glanced towards their sister, momentarily distracted from the monster. But that moment had coincided with the murder, so the murderer could not have taken advantage of it, unless he was a sprinter, and Mummery hadn't got the figure of a sprinter.
At best it would have been risky to cross the gallery with a family there, at worst downright foolhardy. Or would it? Mummery might well have reached the side arch when Mrs. Ditchley was joining Daisy and the children were clustered
just inside the far arch, their attention fixed by the unseen drama beyond.
just inside the far arch, their attention fixed by the unseen drama beyond.
Alec had undoubtedly worked it out ages ago, Daisy thought with a sigh. Mummery was still on the list, or his house would not have been searched last night.
She turned right. Several spectators had gathered at the rope barrier around Mr. Steadman's new exhibit. Within the barrier, a trestle table had been set up and the workmen had been replaced by a white-coated technical assistant. Steadman and O'Brien leant over the table. Behind them, framed by the towering ladders, the pedestal topped by its iron frame rose like an incomprehensible modern sculpture. Sergeant Atkins was keeping an eye on the spectators.
“The pedestal is rather high, isn't it?” Daisy said to him.
“Kids,” he responded succinctly. “Give 'em half a chance and they pinch the tail bones off them little ones. I can't be everywhere. There you go, miss.” He moved aside one of the posts holding the rope. Stopping someone who made to follow her, he uttered one word in an impressive tone: “Press!”
On the table Daisy saw several sheets of paper with drawings of bones, spread out around a large, shallow, wooden tray. The tray held the bones themselves, neatly arranged to depict a creature which looked rather like a wallaby. Daisy couldn't help wondering how many people would ever know the difference if it really was a wallaby skeleton. Like the plaster of Paris Diplodocus with the wrong feet, beauty was in the eye of the beholder.
Steadman was telling O'Brien how a jumble of bones was transformed into a diagram of a plausible skeleton of a hitherto unknown animal. Daisy started taking notes, glad that he was talking to a layman.
He explained how ribs and vertebrae formed logical patterns. “Once we have a good notion of how the parts join, we
have to work by comparison and analogy,” he went on. “The Saltopus is in some ways similar to a kangaroo in form. We assume it sat on its haunches, with its forefeet in the air, and leapt along using both feet together to propel it. Hence the name.”
have to work by comparison and analogy,” he went on. “The Saltopus is in some ways similar to a kangaroo in form. We assume it sat on its haunches, with its forefeet in the air, and leapt along using both feet together to propel it. Hence the name.”
“Huh?” said O'Brien.
“Sorry! From the Latin for âjumping foot.'”
“Like octopus,” said Daisy.
“Say, that's right!”
“And platypus?” said Daisy less certainly.
“Flat foot,” Steadman kindly confirmed.
“Oh yes,
plat
is the French for flat.” However ignorant of Latin and science, she did know her French. “And
sauter
is to jump.”
plat
is the French for flat.” However ignorant of Latin and science, she did know her French. “And
sauter
is to jump.”
“Jumping foot.” Steadman returned to business. “That's why we chose this particular mounting position. However, we can't be sure. Actually, it might have run on the tips of its toes, for all we know.”
He was painfully honest about his beloved dinosaurs. Whether his honesty applied equally to the collections of the other museum departmentsâMineralogy, to be specificâwas another matter.
Daisy listened for a while longer, as Steadman moved on to mounting techniques. With a delicate touch, he started to hook two bits of spine together, but it was obviously going to be a very long process, even for so comparatively small an animal. She decided she had all the material she could use, though she would come back later to inspect his progress.
What she really wanted was to chat with him, to find out what he had to say about murder and theft. No hope of that while the Saltopus was under construction before a fascinated audience.
Not counting ffinch-Brown, who was beyond her reach,
the only murder suspect she had not spoken to this morning was Ruddlestone. Not that she had had any more conversation with Rudolf Maximilian than with Steadman, and he had probably left the museum by now. Blast! She should have sought him out earlier.
the only murder suspect she had not spoken to this morning was Ruddlestone. Not that she had had any more conversation with Rudolf Maximilian than with Steadman, and he had probably left the museum by now. Blast! She should have sought him out earlier.
Finding an excuse to approach Ruddlestone was not easy, as Daisy had already interviewed him for her second article. Then she recalled what she had overheard him telling Tom Tring about the Special Palæontological Collections. She had not asked him about them before, and the historical aspect might make an interesting digression. No need to give away how she had learnt about them.
She went to the Special Collections gallery first, to refine her questions. To get there she had to go out into the reptile gallery. By the Pareiasaurus, two men with cameras were arguing with Harry Boston, the reptile commissionaire, about removing the cover to take pictures.
The real Press, Daisy concluded, forerunners of tomorrow's plague of locusts. She turned the other way.
In the end gallery she found one of Ruddlestone's assistants, whom she had met before. Harbottle, a weedy, bespectacled young man, was going through the displays and drawers of specimens and checking them off against a list in faded ink bound in a large volume.
“Making sure the jewel thief hasn't helped himself?” Daisy queried.
Harbottle grinned. “Not likely! No, Mr. Ruddlestone found some discrepancies and decided it was time to revise the catalogue.”
Surely if Ruddlestone was a thief and murderer, he wouldn't be worrying about the inaccuracy of an ancient catalogue at this moment! “Do you know where he is? I have a couple of questions.”
“I'm afraid he's busy in the work room, Miss Dalrymple, with a gentleman who brought some fossils he wants to sell us. Can I help?”
“I don't want to tear you away from your work.”
“I'll be glad of a change. This is going to be a long job at best, and the police searchers moved things about rather, which doesn't make it any easier. I say, you found Pettigrew's body, didn't you?
And
you were there when the jewels turned up missing. What luck!”
And
you were there when the jewels turned up missing. What luck!”
“Luck!” Daisy echoed quizzically, eyebrows raised.
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