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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: Rattle His Bones
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Daisy was going to argue that he should talk to the children
anyway. It had dawned on her that she had really only asked the two eldest what they had seen. At least, only they answered, and she was not sure the younger ones were even attending to her questions. They might not have been attending to the toothy Megalosaurus either, so they could have noticed something Arthur and Jennifer missed.
But she doubted they would speak freely to a policeman, especially little Katy, whereas if Daisy just dropped in to ask after … .
“Daisy?” Alec said in his patient voice, dark eyebrows raised. “Are you going to emerge from your trance? What about Miss Fellowes and Mr. Chardford?”
“I've never heard of … Oh, the young couple? I didn't exchange a single word with them. I'd say they were far too wrapped up in each other to care about anything else. Come in,” she called as someone knocked on the door.
Mrs. Potter entered, panting, with cups and teaspoons rattling on a precariously balanced tray. Piper jumped up and took it from her to set it on the desk.
“Ta, ducks. I shoulda put the teapot in the middle. It's a mite early for elevenses, miss, but I thought you'd want a cuppa while the gentlemen are here. We're clean out of biscuits,” she said reproachfully.
“Oh dear, I ate the last of them yesterday evening when I was waiting for my egg to boil. I'll buy some more today, promise.”
“I could pop round the shops.”
“That's all right,” said Daisy, who had no intention of paying for the char's time while she “popped”—and gossiped. “We'll manage without, and you can have bread and jam with your elevenses. I'll buy something extra special to make up.”
“Don't you go wasting your pennies on fancy biscuits, miss,” Mrs. Potter advised. “Nothing but a boiled egg to your
supper? Well I never!” She fixed Alec with an accusing glare and marched out.
“I'll take you out to dinner tonight, Daisy,” said Alec, looking abashed.
“That will be spiffing, darling, but don't worry, I'm not starving. I was just too tired last night to cook. Lucy and I don't live entirely on eggs, cheese, and sardines since I started writing for the Americans.”
“I don't want to keep you from your typewriter longer than I need. Let's get on with business.”
“The Grand Duke Rudolf Maximilian of Transcarpathia,” anounced Piper grandly, as Daisy poured tea.
Handing cups, she told them all about the gaudy but threadbare young exile and his grandfather's jewel. “He's pompous but rather pathetic, in a way. Pettigrew was really foul to him. I don't know if he (Rudolf) properly understands that he (Pettigrew) doesn't … didn't have the authority to turn over the ruby. He (Rudolf) honestly seems to believe he's entitled to it.”
“So he could suppose a new Keeper of Mineralogy might be more accommodating,” Alec mused. “Motive, opportunity … as yet we don't know enough about means. That's a big help, Daisy. We might easily not have tumbled to your Grand Duke's connection. Who's next, Ernie?”
“Sergeant Wilfred Atkins, Chief, the dinosaur gallery commissionaire.”
“Is he a sergeant, too?” Daisy asked.
“D. C. Ross said lots of the commissionaires are ex-army, miss, and most of 'em sergeants. But all the commissionaires in the east wing ground floor give each other alibis, Chief.”
“Any comment, Daisy?”
“The only one I talked to much was Sergeant Hamm, in fossil mammals. In between quoting and misquoting the
Bible, he told me Pettigrew was perfectly beastly to Reg Underwood, who lost a leg in the War.”
“We don't know much about the means yet, but I wouldn't say this was a one-legged man's crime. Pettigrew was pretty hefty, Tom says.”
“Yes, but all the commissionaires were sympathetic to Underwood and loathed Ol' Stony, as they called Pettigrew. Isn't it possible they might provide alibis for each other?”
“Possible,” Alec agreed with a sigh. “We'll have to bear it in mind, and also for the two assistants who claim to have been together. Do you know them?”
“What are their names?”
Piper provided the names, and Daisy shook her head.
“I was introduced to them in passing, that's all. I don't know of any particular motive, beyond the general one applying to all the fossil people, that is.”
“Which is?” Alec asked, sitting up.
Daisy explained about the overwhelming scorn the Mineralogy Keeper poured on fusty old bones of no practical or pecuniary value, and those who studied them. “It's hard to see it as a reason for murder,” she said, “though I know it doesn't take much when tempers flare.”
“I wish you had understood what Pettigrew said! If it was extraordinarily insulting, it might have led to unpremeditated murder. We don't know what he was doing in the reptile gallery, whether he met his murderer by chance, or had a rendezvous, which could mean premeditated murder. Great Scott, we don't even know what the murder weapon was!”
“Dr. Renfrew'll know by now, Chief,” Piper said. “D'you want me to telephone?”
“No, Ernie, I'm just letting off steam. Let's get through this list first. Did any of the museum staff have more particular reason to hate Pettigrew, Daisy?”
“Next on the list's not museum staff, Chief. Leastways, not that museum. A Mr. ffinch-Brown with two small
f'
s.”
“The British Museum anthropologist,” Alec recalled.
“He has quite a temper,” said Daisy, “and he and Pettigrew were mixed up in a dispute over flint tools. Also, he feels that the Mineralogy Department's cut gems belong in his custody.”
“Ah!”
Daisy and Piper looked at each other and grinned.
“What … ?”
“You sounded just like Mr. Tring, darling. The oracular ‘ah.' I don't think I can tell you any more about ffinch-Brown. Who's next, Mr. Piper?”
“Mr. Mummery, Curator of Fossil Reptiles.”
“He has an explosive temper, too. If he had a specific, personal reason to hate Pettigrew, I don't know of it. On the other hand, Pettigrew was killed in
his
gallery.”
“Point noted. Ernie?”
“Mr. Witt, Chief, Curator of Fossil Mammals.”
“Good-looking,” said Daisy, “youngish, smart dresser, public-school, charming, helpful …”
Alec's brows met in a straight line above his grey eyes. “This is
not
helpful,” he growled.
“ … ran a mile when I mentioned having Derek and Belinda with me,” Daisy concluded her teasing list of Witt's attributes. “He was working with ffinch-Brown on the flint tool thing. Pettigrew bodily hauled him away to look at some flints when he was talking to me. He looked pretty fed up. It must have been rather humiliating.”
“Aha!” said Alec.
Daisy chuckled. She nearly added that Tom Tring had got on very well with Witt, to the extent of joining him in a Latin music-hall turn. She remembered in time that she was not supposed to have been there.
“Mr. Steadman,” said Piper, “Curator of Dinosaurs.”
“He was very good with the children,” Daisy recalled, “as well as helpful to me. He shared the general dislike of Pettigrew, but that's all, as far as I know. His disgruntlement was aimed at the museum's trustees, for not sponsoring a dinosaur-hunting expedition, and at the Americans for sending a model Diplodocus, not the real thing.”
“So we'll know where to look when we find a dead trustee or a dead American on the premises,” Alec said sardonically. “Do stick to the point, Daisy.”
Daisy folded her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Any detail may prove significant,” she quoted his oft-repeated maxim.
“Mr. Ruddlestone,” Piper inserted hastily, “Curator of Inver … in-ver-tee-brates. What are they when they're at home, Chief?”
“Animals without backbones, Ernie, like so many petty criminals.”
“Daisy darling?” The door swung open and Lucy appeared on the threshold. Alec politely stood up. “Oops, sorry, darling! What am I interrupting? Good morning, Alec. Or is it Chief Inspector today? You're looking rather official. How fortunate, Daisy, that you didn't fall for a uniformed policeman!”
“Good morning, Lucy,” Alec said dryly. “I
am
official this morning, which is why I've brought D. C. Piper.”
Lucy nodded to Piper, who had jumped to his feet when Alec rose, but she turned at once back to Daisy. “Good gracious, darling, what have you done now?”
“I suppose you don't know. You were out when I got home last night and up at some ungodly hour this morning.”
“Yes, Lady Ashton wants her photos toot sweet and the tooter the sweeter, and they needed some delicate touching
up. Darling, can you lend me half a crown for a taxi, or I shall be late.”
“Not if I'm going to buy biscuits, and if I don't Mrs. Potter may quit.”
“Horrors! And likewise blast and bebotheration!”
With a resigned air, Alec reached into his pocket. “Here you are, Lucy.”
“Gosh, darling, thanks. I'll pay you back this evening—well, I'll give it to Daisy to give to you. Toodle-oo, I must run.” Lucy
never
ran, but she had sauntered through the doorway and half closed the door when she stuck her head back in to say, “By the way, what is it I don't know?”
“A murder at the Natural History Museum,” said Daisy bluntly.
“Darling, how too, too tiresome. You must tell me all about it later. Pip pip.”
“Toodle-oo,” Daisy responded as the door closed and the men sat down. “Don't worry, Alec, I shan't tell her more than I ought. Besides, she isn't really frightfully interested. Murder is vulgar. Where were we? Ruddlestone?”
“Yes. Do you know him, or did you skip the invertebrates?”
“For the first article I did, but they have to go into the
Dilettanti
article. Luckily Ruddlestone is enthusiastic enough about his field to make it sound interesting. Again, I don't know that he had anything more against Pettigrew than the general dislike. Pettigrew rubbed him the wrong way, but he didn't let it rankle.”
“All right. That just leaves Dr. Bentworth, doesn't it, Ernie?”
“Right, Chief. Curator of Fossil Plants, retired.”
“Blind as a bat,” said Daisy. “If he tried to kill someone, ten to one he'd get the wrong man.”
“You mean Pettigrew might not have been the intended victim?” Alec groaned.
“No, no, darling. Dr. Bentworth couldn't possibly have stabbed anyone, on purpose or by accident. You'll see as soon as you meet him, though, knowing you, you won't cross him off your list just because he's ninety.”
“Certainly not,” said Alec, grinning, “but he can sink to the bottom. Mummery, ffinch-Brown, Witt, and the Grand Duke seem to have floated to the top. All right, Ernie, let's go and see them all.”
“Right, Chief. 'Bye, Miss Dalrymple.”
“Cheerio, Mr. Piper. I'm sorry you didn't get a biscuit with your tea.”
“Never mind. Most places, we wouldn't even've got tea,” said Piper philosophically. “Ta, miss, be seeing you.” Tactfully he removed himself.
Alec leaned with both hands on the writing table. “Thanks, Daisy, you've given me some useful pointers.”
“Loath though you are to admit it.”
“Not at all! You won't go back to the museum, love, will you, till this is cleared up.”
“I have to, Alec. I shan't go today—I've plenty to keep me busy at home—but I'm nowhere near finished with the Geology Department, and the deadline approaches.”
“For heaven's sake, Daisy …”
“I've given my word,” she said stubbornly. “They need the article. If I let them down, news will spread and no one will give me work. And don't tell me I shan't need to work when we're married!”
“I wouldn't dare! You know I don't expect you to drop your writing. But Daisy, if you really must go to the museum, please
try
not to talk about the case.”
“I'll
try,”
Daisy promised.
T
o her regret, Daisy had not been present when Grand Duke Rudolf gave his address to the police. He was not likely to turn up at the museum again, she thought. Not, of course, that if he did she would talk to him about the murder, having promised not to, but she might learn more about him.
One address Daisy had overheard, and it was an easy one to remember. Mrs. Ditchley lived in Balaclava Terrace, Battersea, just across the Thames from Chelsea.
Having stuck diligently to her typewriter till half past three, Daisy needed—no,
deserved
—a break. The sun had come out after what seemed like weeks of rain and overcast skies, so she decided to walk over the Battersea Bridge.
She stopped in the middle of the iron bridge to look at the sparkling river. A brightly painted narrow-boat hauled its train of barges downstream. From the shadows under the Albert Bridge appeared a pleasure steamer, puffing upstream, with few passengers on a weekday so late in the season, in spite of the warm sunshine. The trees of Battersea Park were already touched by autumn's hand, Daisy noticed, though lightly as yet. If she had had Bel's Nana with her, she
would have been tempted aside from her errand to give the pup a run.
When she was married …
Walking on, she gave herself up to rosy daydreams, but without losing sight of her goal. She found Balaclava Terrace, a grim and grimy brick row backing onto one of the railway lines which criss-crossed the industrial area. Though outwardly grimy, the houses were respectably dressed with white net curtains shrouding every window, and front doors painted in vivid colours. They were larger than most workmen's terrace houses, built for foremen and factory clerks perhaps.
Mrs. Ditchley lived with her daughter and son-in-law at Number 7. Daisy tapped on the vermilion front door with the gleaming brass lion's-head knocker.
Katy opened the door, wearing a navy school uniform gym slip. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of Daisy, then she gave a shy grin and scampered away down a dark hall, calling, “Granny, it's the museum lady. It's Miss Dimple.”
Mrs. Ditchley emerged from the nether regions, swathed in an apron bestrewn with large yellow flowers, Katy hanging on her arm. With her came a smell of baking.
“Miss Dalrymple, how nice, come in. Katy gets out of school at half past three, but the rest of the kiddies will be home any moment, and I just put the kettle on.”
“Oh, but I only dropped in to see if you've all recovered from yesterday's shock,” Daisy protested, less than sincerely.
“What a nasty business that was! Come in, dear, come in, if you're not in a hurry, and we'll have a nice cup of tea. There's jam tarts in the oven.”
As Daisy stepped in, Mrs. Ditchley opened a door on the left, through which was visible a glimpse of the front parlour.
Obviously rarely used, it was a stiff, chilly room, wallpapered with roses in an unnatural shade of purple and furnished with antimacassared Victorian horsehair furniture. An unhappy aspidistra in a brass pot lurked by the net curtains. The only bright spot was a collection, on the mantelpiece, of china figurines which looked from Daisy's distance like Presents from Southend and Clacton-on-Sea.
The children were probably rigorously excluded from the room. Daisy had no desire to be thus isolated.
“Mayn't I join you in the kitchen?” she asked.
Mrs. Ditchley beamed. “It'd be more convenient,” she admitted, leading the way, “if you don't mind. The kiddies'll want their tea before they go out to play, and it's easier if I'm on the spot. My daughter works down the foundry, like her husband. They took women on during the War, when they were making munitions. It was a reserved occupation, but lots of the lads volunteered, and so many didn't come back, some of the girls stayed on after. She likes it, and the extra money comes in handy, and I'm here to mind the little ones.”
The kitchen was quite large, taking up the entire back half of the ground floor, presumably designed for a servant-less class for whom it was the main living room. Big windows with gay cotton-print curtains looked out on a small garden, full of washing hung to dry, and the railway. The centre of the room was largely taken up by a long, well-scrubbed table which showed signs of pastry-making at one end. On the gas stove, a kettle was beginning to steam.
“Nasty business yesterday,” Mrs. Ditchley repeated as she poured water to heat the teapot. “But like I said, I was a nurse before I married and I went back when my daughter was grown, till the grandkiddies came along. I've seen worse in the hospital.”
“I worked in a hospital during the War,” said Daisy, “but in the office. What about the children? Has it upset them?”
“Not so's you'd notice. They're always seeing cowboys and Indians shooting each other dead at the pictures these days, aren't they? Except Katy here, she says she's never going back to that museum. Bustle about now, Katy, and lay the table for your brothers and sisters. First bring me one of the good cups and saucers for Miss Dalrymple.”
Mrs. Ditchley somehow managed to make tea, take two trays of jam tarts from the oven, stir a pan, and turn toast under the grill all at the same time. Daisy was admiring; her attention tended to wander in the kitchen, so that disaster generally followed any attempt to do more than one thing at once.
Katy carefully brought her cup of tea.
“Not a drop spilled,” Daisy congratulated her. “Were you afraid at the museum?”
“A bit,” the child confessed. “Please, miss, was it the man with the loud voice which got killed?”
“He did have a loud voice,” Daisy agreed. “There was no danger for little girls. You heard him, did you?”
“After he talked in a loud voice, he made a horrable noise and then there was a great big crash. Arthur says he fell in a skellington and it was all smashed to bits.”
“Part of it was badly broken. Mrs. Ditchley, did you hear Dr. Pettigrew speak?”
“That I did not,” Mrs. Ditchley said emphatically, “and there's nothing wrong with my hearing. But there, Katy was right by the archway. It was when I was going to fetch her back, not wanting to call out in the museum, I heard the crash and she came running back, naughty monkey.”
“I didn't like them bones, Granny.”
“Those bones.”
“I didn't like those. I wanted to see the furry ephalunt again. It's nice.”
“Times I've told you not to wander off alone!”
“Do you remember,” Daisy started, when the front door slammed open. The three middle children rushed in like a herd of furry ephalunts, shedding coats, hats, and satchels en route.
“Gran, I'm hungry!”
“Arthur went to the park to play football, Granny. Did you say he could?”
“I got all my sums right, Gran. What's for tea?”
“Now mind your manners! Here's Miss Dalrymple come to see us.”
There was a momentary lull as they all said hello, and then the clamour began again, to be halted only by full mouths. Vast quantities of Heinz baked beans on toast disappeared, while Daisy nibbled a raspberry jam tart and debated whether it was worth trying to question Katy with the others present.
If she asked to see Katy alone, what should otherwise pass for common curiosity would begin to look rather odd. Mrs. Ditchley could well object, and the little girl might be frightened.
The children moved on to jam tarts. Mrs. Ditchley abandoned her post at the cooker, wiped clear a spot at the pastry end of the table, and with a sigh sat down with her cup of tea.
“What was it you were asking, Miss Dalrymple,” she said, “when this noisy lot interrupted?”
“I wondered whether Katy heard what Dr. Pettigrew said just before the crash, and if she can remember.”
“Bet she's forgotten,” jeered her nine-year-old brother.
“She can too remember, Billy. Give her a chance. Go on, Kate,” urged Jennifer, “what did he say?”
Katy swallowed a mouthful of sticky, flaky jam tart and announced importantly, “He said, ‘You think you're so clever, but I know how it was done!'”
“That's right,” Jennifer crowed. “That's what she told me before, just those exact words. Told you so. There was another bit first, though, Katy, remember?”
“Not 'xackly.” A note of doubt entered Katy's voice.
“She told me, Miss Dalrymple,” Jennifer persisted. “She told me when we were by the Megalosaurus waiting for Granny. She doesn't remember 'cause she didn't understand properly. Is it all right if I say it for her?”
Since Daisy was not bound by the rules of evidence regarding second-hand evidence, she eagerly assented, hoping the beginning would shed light on the cryptic end, perhaps even supply a name.
“‘You fossil-eyed fool.' That's what he said, wasn't it, Katy?”
“Maybe.” Katy was still dubious.
“Was it ‘fossilized,' Katy?” Daisy asked. “‘Fossilized fool'?” That was the sort of cheap insult Pettigrew liked to throw around.
“Maybe. I thought he said eyes. And fools.” Her lips trembled. “I don't know for sure. Granny, I don't know.”
“Told you so!” Billy triumphed.
“William Albert, that's enough of that. Clear the table, and you can help me wash up. I don't care if it's not your turn. It doesn't matter, duckie, there's nothing to cry about. Come to Gran, then.”
“I'm sorry,” said Daisy. “It's all right, Katy. Much better to say you don't know than pretend you do. Will you tell me one more thing, if you know the answer?”
Katy raised her jammy face from Mrs. Ditchley's yellow-flowered bosom and nodded dolefully.
“You too, Billy, and Mary as well. Give me an honest answer. Did any of you see anyone crossing the dinosaur gallery while your Granny was gone?”
Three heads shook in unison.
“I was looking at the dinosaur's teeth,” said Billy regretfully. “Was it the murderer, miss? Cor, I wish I'd seen the murderer!”
“You get on with collecting up those plates sharpish, young man,” said his grandmother. “I've your mum and dad's supper to cook yet.”
“I must be going,” said Daisy. “Thank you so much for the tea and the delicious tarts.”
Mrs. Ditchley set Katy on her feet, told Jennifer to wash her sister's face, and accompanied Daisy to the front door.
“Are you working for the police?” she asked bluntly.
“Not exactly,” Daisy temporized. “I thought it might be easier for the children to talk to me rather than a police officer.”
“Very likely,” Mrs. Ditchley conceded.
“I can tell the police what they said, and maybe they won't need to ask any more questions. You see, as a matter of fact, it turns out that the detective in charge of the case is my fiancé.”
“Well now,” said Mrs. Ditchley, her amused face lit by daylight as she opened the door, “what a coincidence!”
“Actually,” Daisy confessed, “I believe he was put in charge because I'm mixed up in it.”
“I wouldn't be a bit surprised, dear. You tell him from me, if he wants to talk to the kiddies, he'll do well to bring you with him.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ditchley. It doesn't sound to me, though, as if they saw or heard anything really useful.”
“Thank heaven for small mercies,” said Mrs. Ditchley.
Daisy was less grateful to heaven. Whatever her rationale, Alec was not going to be pleased by her meddling, but if she had had something significant to report he might have forgiven her more easily.
Sighing, she hoped tonight's dinner was not going to turn into an acrimonious argument.
 
Nonetheless, her heart sank when the telephone rang at half past five and Ernie Piper's voice replied to her recital of her number. “D. C. Piper, miss.”
“Don't tell me,” she groaned, “the Chief can't make it.”
“He can, miss,” Ernie anxiously reassured her, “but he says d'you mind going early and somewhere nearby. He'll pick you up at half six if that's all right. He hasn't got time to change. He's still got to see the an … an-thro-pologist and your Grand Duke this evening.”
“
My
Grand Duke?”
“That's what Sarge calls him, miss.” Piper's grin was audible. “I gotta run. What'll I tell the Chief?”
“Tell him right-oh, six-thirty.”
Daisy was ready to go when Alec rang the doorbell at twenty-eight minutes past six.
He kissed her and said, “Thank heaven you're not one of those women who makes a man wait.”
“If I were, I'd never see you. It's difficult enough already. If you're in a hurry, let's walk round to the Good Intent, in King's Road.”
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