Rattle His Bones Read online

  “Yes, miss,” Jameson said loudly, straightening, “you can go anywhere below the second floor, ’cepting the Mineral Gallery which is closed.”

  “Thank you, sergeant.”

  Turning, she saw a constable approaching. Jameson did not want to be caught gossiping by his subordinate. He had been helpful, but obviously he was not deeply involved in the case. Daisy doubted whether the unknown Detective Inspector Wotherspoon would be equally receptive to her questions, especially as he’d been up all night.

  She had come to the museum to finish her research, she reminded herself, and she headed for the east wing.

  A few visitors had straggled in, but in the fossil mammal gallery she found the one-armed commissionaire alone. “Good morning, Sergeant Hamm,” she greeted him.

  “Morning, miss. Tomorrow will I bring the locusts, and they shall fill thy houses and shall eat every tree.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, miss. They’ve bin told they’re not to be let into the Mineral Gallery till tomorrow. Not but what there’s bound to be a few wandering around today, taking pictures of the gallery gate and barging through here to the pariosaurus again.”

  “Oh, the Press,” said Daisy, enlightened.

  “And the rubbernecks,” Hamm added, descending from Biblical misquotation to American slang. “But the mighty strong west wind shall cast them into the Red Sea.”

  Daisy had no answer for this dire pronouncement, so she asked, “Is Mr. Witt available, do you know?”

  “Far as I know he’s in his office, miss. You go and ask Wilf Atkins in dinosaurs to knock him up for you. Tell Wilf I said.”

  Thanking him, Daisy proceeded through the hall where she had been with Dr. Smith Woodward when Pettigrew was killed. When she reached the reptile gallery, she was relieved to see the remains of the Pareiasaurus swathed in dust-sheets. Mummery was just lifting a corner to peer underneath. He dropped it and swung round as Daisy’s footsteps approached.

  “Oh, it’s you, Miss Dalrymple,” he said gloomily. “I have no idea yet whether he can be repaired. It’s iniquitous, they won’t even tell me when they’ll give me back the broken bones. I wish you would have a word with your Chief Inspector …”

  “My Chief Inspector?”

  “Are you not engaged to Fletcher? I understood …”

  “Actually, yes,” said Daisy, a bit cross, “though I can’t imagine how you know.”

  “Someone told me,” Mummery said with a vague wave, then went on irritably, “Does he really grasp that fossils must be handled with extreme delicacy, and as little as possible?”

  “I’m sure he does, and has given the proper instructions.”

  “I hope so, but I have little faith in his understanding since he had his men search my house last night. Jewels! What do I care about jewels after this terrible occurrence?”

  He gently smoothed the cloth over the reptile’s massive shoulder.

  That he was referring to the fate of the Pareiasaurus, not Pettigrew, was all too obvious. Losing patience with him, Daisy excused herself and went on into the dinosaur gallery.

  Near the far end of the 150-foot chamber, a space had been roped off. Atkins, in his bottle-green uniform, stood nearby looking on. Several men were inside the rope, gazing down at something on the floor. Daisy’s heart jumped and her breath caught in her throat—another body?

  No, they were talking calmly. She recognized Steadman’s lanky height, in a white coat today, while three of the men were in their shirtsleeves, the fifth in a blue suit. Drawing near, she saw behind them a wooden box some five feet high. Shavings on the floor and a hammer in the hand of one of the men suggested the box was newly constructed. On the floor between the men, the object of their interest, was an oddly shaped piece of metal about two feet long.

  The commissionaire moved to meet Daisy. “Morning, miss. Can I help you?”

  “I was going to ask you to find Mr. Witt for me, but what is going on here?”

  At the sound of their voices, Steadman looked round. His thin cheeks were flushed, and a glitter of nervous excitement brightened his eyes. “Miss Dalrymple,” he greeted her, “you might find this interesting. I’m about to start mounting a skeleton.”

  “I’d love to watch,” Daisy assured him.

  “May I introduce Mr. Willis O‘Brien? Mr. O’Brien is visiting from Hollywood. He’s going to be in charge of creating dinosaurs for a film of The Lost World. You know the Conan Doyle story? It will be an American film, but set partly in London. Mr. O’Brien came over here with Mr. Hoyt, the director.”

  Judging by Steadman’s excitement, he was as keen to be “in films” as any teen-age girl.

  “I’ve done dinosaurs before,” the American informed Daisy. “You maybe saw The Ghost of Spirit Mountain, ma’am? But Mr. Hoyt wants them realistic as can be, so I guess I can’t beat seeing how the real thing’s put together, before I turn Delgado, my modeller, loose.”

  “It sounds like a good idea.” Daisy took out her notebook. “I’m writing an article about the scientific work of the museum. What is this dinosaur called, Mr. Steadman?”

  “Saltopus. It’s small, just about two feet in length. It was found in Scotland, but it was a German, von Huene, who studied it and named it, in 1910. It rather got shuffled aside during the War. I’ve been working on it recently. The skull is missing, but the rest is similar to Scleromochlus, so I’ve modelled a similar head. I haven’t quite finished the rest of the missing bones. However, it’s the nearest to being ready to mount of any I have, so when Mr. O’Brien asked …”

  As they talked, the other men had retrieved two tall stepladders from the floor behind the pedestal and set them up. Two climbed the first few steps. The third handed the metal frame up to them. They set it on the box and balanced it in the centre.

  “Like this, Mr. Steadman?” asked one. “This all right, sir?”

  Steadman turned back, drawing a sheaf of papers from the deep pocket of his lab coat.

  Daisy rather lost interest in the exact placement of the stand. She was wondering whether it would be rude to go and see Witt and return later, when Dr. Smith Woodward came up. He greeted her in his rather absent-minded way and started to talk to Steadman about Saltopus and Scleromochlus, which latter he himself had named.

  After a very few minutes the talk grew too technical for Daisy. “Excuse me,” she said tentatively, reluctant to interrupt but not wanting either to stay or to sneak off without a word, “I think I’d better go and see Mr. Witt. I’ll come back when you start putting the bones together, Mr. Steadman.”

  “My dear young lady,” said Smith Woodward, “allow me to unlock the door for you.” Setting off towards the end of the gallery, he felt in his pocket. “Dear me, I seem to have mislaid my keys again. I wonder where I left them this time?” He turned back, looking around vaguely.

  “Never you mind, sir,” said Sergeant Atkins kindly, “they’ll turn up right as rain. I’ll let the young lady through.”

  “Does he often lose his keys?” Daisy asked in a low voice.

  “Lor’ bless you, all the time. They’re gen’rally found on his desk or sticking in a lock somewhere.” He took out his own jangling bunch.

  “You all have to carry such a lot around.”

  “Not as many as it might be. Lots of the doors are keyed the same, see. This here I’m using now wouldn’t open Dr. Smith Woodward’s office, but it’s good for the liberries, f’rinstance. And his’ll open any of the other Keepers’ office doors. We each of us has just the ones we need, too. Elsewise we’d all be too weighed down to move. There you go, miss.”

  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 Imperia
l 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?”

  “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 depends—which 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, ‘I 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 late—there’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.

  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 arrang
ed 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.”

  “Huh?” said O’Brien.

  “Sorry! From the Latin for ‘jumping 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.”

  “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 departments—Mineralogy, to be specific—was 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.