Authors: Carola Dunn
Rattle His Bones (15 page)
Seven children, Alec thought, as he went out to the hall to set his waiting men to work. Jovial as Ruddlestone appeared, providing decently for so large a family was no joke. A small fortune in gems would come in very handy.
When Alec returned to the kitchen, the jam had reached setting point. He was pressed into service to help fill and cover the pots.
“You must take some with you,” said Ruddlestone, “unless it would get you into trouble.”
“Bribery and corruption? I think a jar of jam would pass.”
“You might find a ruby in the bottom.”
“Fortunately, I've seen these filled. But since you mention it, if you have any more home-made jam in the larder, perhaps I'd better have a look.”
Ruddlestone chortled. Alec felt an utter idiot holding jars of jam up to the electric light and stirring up the contents of one or two. He found no jewels.
Nor did the others. Tom Tring had been through the curator's papers, the few deemed worthy of keeping, chucked in an unlocked drawer along with more fossil shells and corals, because there was no room in the house for a desk. “Nothing suspicious there, Chief,” he reported, steadying the jar of hot jam on the car's floor, between his feet. “Frankly, I can't see how he'd ever have saved enough to pay for the copies.”
“Nor can I,” Alec gladly admitted. Another suspect he didn't want to have to arrest. “But he could have borrowed it.” Ruddlestone was still on his list.
They headed north to Ealing.
Steadman lived in a newish semi-detached, in a featureless
street full of indistinguishable newish semi-detacheds. The front garden was too small for any trees. The patch of lawn was shaved to near baldness, but by the nearby lamp-post Alec, who always wished he had more time for gardening, picked out the leaf-rosettes of dandelions and daisies. In the strip of flowerbed along the shared path, a few straggling pansies struggled through the smothering yellowed foliage of long dormant daffodils.
street full of indistinguishable newish semi-detacheds. The front garden was too small for any trees. The patch of lawn was shaved to near baldness, but by the nearby lamp-post Alec, who always wished he had more time for gardening, picked out the leaf-rosettes of dandelions and daisies. In the strip of flowerbed along the shared path, a few straggling pansies struggled through the smothering yellowed foliage of long dormant daffodils.
The front door was heliotrope, as (very much) opposed to its neighbour's canary. No knocker. Alec pressed the electric door-bell and heard it shrilling inside.
The man who came to the door looked like Steadman gone to seed. He was as tall and narrow-shouldered, his faded hair similarly thinning, but his face was jowled, his eyeballs red-tinged, his belly straining at the braces beneath his royal blue blazer.
“Mr. Steadman?” Alec said.
“That's me. What can I do you for, gentlemen?” Taking a closer look at Alec's companions, he exclaimed, “Uh-oh, it's the rozzers, right? It's my brother you want, I expectâI hope, ha ha! He's not here.”
“Mr. James Steadman does reside at this address?” Usually Alec would have said “live here,” but the officialese sprang to his lips in reaction to the other's loud heartiness.
“Oh yes, Jim-boy lives here all right, when he's at home. The old man left the house to both of us, see, and I wasn't going to sell a nice place like this, nice bit of freehold property, not with house prices ⦔
“Who is it, Teddy?”
A buxom blonde came up behind him. Her hair was marcelled and all too clearly peroxided. Her fringed, heavily beaded dress was in the height of fashion, yet somehow missed elegance, at least to Alec's inexpert eye. He knew only
as much of women's clothes as any observant detective experienced in judging their wearers. In this case it was as much the wearer as the lime-green cloth that made him suspect artificial silk rather than the real thing.
as much of women's clothes as any observant detective experienced in judging their wearers. In this case it was as much the wearer as the lime-green cloth that made him suspect artificial silk rather than the real thing.
“It's the busies, sweetie.”
“Well, don't leave them on the doorstep for all the neighbours to see! Oh, plain clothes. All right, then. Are you after Jimmy, over that museum business? He's out, so you can just go away again.”
“I'm afraid not, ma'am.” Alec introduced himself and explained about the search warrant.
Mrs. Steadman protested shrilly.
“Oh, shut up, Mavis,” said her husband, waving her out of the way and the detectives into the house. “They're the law, aren't they? It's not like we've got anything to hide. Nor has Jim-boy, I'll bet. The poor weed hasn't got the gumption to pinch those sparklers.”
Tom and the D.C.s went about their business.
“I suppose you'd better come into the lounge,” Mrs. Steadman ungraciously invited Alec.
He followed the Steadmans into a sitting room furnished with a modern couch and easy chairs wildly patterned in jazz coloursâmostly magenta, sulphur-yellow, and blackâand matching curtains. One corner was occupied by an expensive wireless set, another by a gramophone, playing a tango. A low table held two glasses, a large glass ashtray, a fashion magazine, the pink
Sporting Times,
and the
Evening Standard
with its banner headline: MUSEUM MURDERER STRIKES AGAIN? There were no books, and no pictures on the walls. In spite of the bright hues, the room had a stark feeling.
Sporting Times,
and the
Evening Standard
with its banner headline: MUSEUM MURDERER STRIKES AGAIN? There were no books, and no pictures on the walls. In spite of the bright hues, the room had a stark feeling.
Mrs. Steadman dropped sulkily into a chair. Picking up a lit, lipsticked cigarette between two crimson-nailed fingers
she puffed it back to life, then reached for a tumbler holding a liquid much the same sickly color as her dress.
she puffed it back to life, then reached for a tumbler holding a liquid much the same sickly color as her dress.
“Cigar, old chap?” Teddy Steadman offered Alec, taking his own, still burning, from the ashtray. “B-and-s? Or are you a whisky man?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
“Not on duty, eh? Never could see why anyone'd want to be a copper, no offence. I'm in insurance myself, and doing very nicely, thank you. I keep telling Jimmy he could triple his income if he joined me, but he hasn't got the gumption to switch.”
“Now that's not fair, Teddybear. If Jimmy gets into the pictures he'll make a packet, and all because he knows about those stupid bones.”
Alec blinked, but managed not to let his jaw drop. “The pictures?” he said weakly.
“That's where he's gone tonight,” said Mrs. Steadman.
“Not the cinema, but to the Dorchester to talk to Harry Hoyt, from Hollywood! Mr. Hoyt's going to make a film of that book by Sherlock Homes,
The Lost World,
that's all about dinosaurs, and he came to London to talk to our Jimmy. He's got Lewis Stone, who's in
The Prisoner of Zenda
with Ramon Novarro, and Wallace Beery that was in
The Last of the Mohicans,
and Bessie Love, and ⦔
The Lost World,
that's all about dinosaurs, and he came to London to talk to our Jimmy. He's got Lewis Stone, who's in
The Prisoner of Zenda
with Ramon Novarro, and Wallace Beery that was in
The Last of the Mohicans,
and Bessie Love, and ⦔
“And our Jimmy won't make a penny out of it, mark my words,” said his cynical brother. “I told him he shouldn't even talk to this bloke without a contract in black and white, but does he listen to me? He does not!”
As the pair wrangled, Alec decided that if James Steadman took it into his head to commit murder, he would start with his brother and go on to his sister-in-law. On the other hand, he might commit theft so as to be able to escape them.
“He wouldn't know what to do with a lot of money if he had it,” Mrs. Steadman proclaimed. “What's he do with what he's got, I ask you, after he's paid his share of expenses? He hasn't got a lady-friend, and you never see him go out for a bit of fun, not even down the local.”
With a glance at the Pink 'Un, her husband shook his head. “Not even a bob each way on the Derby,” he confirmed.
Tom knocked on the door and came into the sitting room, electric torch in hand. “There's a padlocked shed out the back, sir,” he told Alec.
“Jim-boy keeps some old bones there,” said Teddy. “Works on 'em out there evenings and weekends, if you call it work.”
“I won't have them in the house, disgusting things,” Mrs. Steadman said self-righteously. “There's a spare key in a drawer in the kitchen.”
“One of these, madam?” Tom held out his large hand, full of keys of every shape and size and degree of rustiness.
“I think it's that one. Or maybe that. I never go out there.”
“We didn't used to lock it,” Teddy said, “not keeping anything valuable there, but some kids got in once and messed about with the bones. I thought Jimmy'd have a stroke.”
He guffawed and his wife tittered at the memory.
“Treat the bones with care, Sergeant,” said Alec.
“With great care, sir,” Tom said emphatically. Departing, he murmured to Alec as he passed, “No bank papers visible, Chief.”
Alec nodded. With a word of apology, he poked around the sitting room. Bare as it was, there were few hiding places. No stolen gems in the gramophone's or wireless's innards, none behind the ugly modern clock on the mantelpiece, none down the sides of the chairs or sofa. As he searched he continued
to encourage the Steadmans to talk about James. Not that they needed much encouragement.
to encourage the Steadmans to talk about James. Not that they needed much encouragement.
Tom returned, shaking his head, and the detectives took their leave.
“No jewels,” said Tom. “Like I told you, Chief, I didn't get a look at any financial papers. There's a locked boxâone of those metal cash boxesâin his bedroom. No key. I shook it, and nothing shifted about like the jewels would, just papers rustling.”
“But why'd he lock it, Chief,” said Ernie Piper, “if there's nothing in there to give him away?”
“Because his sister-in-law is a snooper, I dare say.”
“There's a key to his room in the kitchen drawer,” Tom said, “and it's not one of the rusty ones. It's not that big a room, but he's got it all fitted up nice like a bed-sitter and study combined. Bookcase full of dinosaur books and desk covered with dinosaur drawings. I don't reckon he spends much time downstairs, Chief.”
“Hardly congenial company for a gentleman of intellectual pursuits,” Alec commented, “and nosy with it. Mrs. Steadman says her brother-in-law banks at the South Ken Lloyd's. Tomorrow, as soon as the banks open, I want appointments made for me to talk as soon as possible to all the suspects' bank managers, Tom. Unless we strike lucky with Witt.”
Calvin Witt's residence was a service flat in a luxury block in South Audley Street, Mayfair.
“Blimey, must cost him a pretty penny!” observed D. C. Ross as the red-carpeted lift bore them smoothly upwards.
“Fishy, on museum pay,” said Piper hopefully.
“I had a word with the porter who let us in,” Tom rumbled. “Mr. Witt's lived here twelve years, since the building went up. Must have private means besides his salary.”
The young constables' disappointment was reflected in the gilt mirror hanging on the back wall.
Private means could be squandered, Alec reflected, leaving their erstwhile possessor accustomed to a style of living he could no longer afford. Or fine living might lead to a desire for finer. Perhaps Witt yearned to give up his job and retire to a place of his own in the country.
The Curator of Fossil Mammals answered his own doorbell. He was as sleekly self-assured as ever, in a superbly tailored dinner jacket and Old Wykehamist tie.
“Good evening, Chief Inspector,” he said resignedly. “I was half expecting you. You're looking for gemstones, I expect?”
“That's right, sir.” Once again Alec explained the search warrant. Hearing voices from an inner room, he added, “We'll disturb you as little as possible. My men will go through the rest of the flat, but I'm afraid I shall have to take a look at theâ” He hesitated: not lounge; sitting room? drawing room? He chose the last. “The drawing room.”
As if reading his mind, Witt smiled a trifle sardonically and said, “I'm not so high-falutin'. Sitting room will do. Come in.”
The spacious sitting room was as modern as the Steadmans' lounge, but of a different kind entirely. The predominant colours were ivory and lavender, with russet accents but a minimum of pattern. Chairs and sofas were leather-covered, as sleek as their owner. In contrast, a cabinet and occasional tables of probably-genuine Chippendale somehow humanized the whole.
Alec recognized at once the woman seated in one of the chairs. Maggie Weston was a well-known actress, the sort who plays Juliet or Rosalind, not the ingenue in drawing-room comedy. The couple on the sofa looked familiar, more
as a type, Alec thought, than because he knew them. They reminded him of Daisy's sister and her husband, Lord John Frobisher.
as a type, Alec thought, than because he knew them. They reminded him of Daisy's sister and her husband, Lord John Frobisher.
“Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, from Scotland Yard,” Witt introduced him dryly. “My sister-in-law Lady Genevieve, Chief Inspector; Miss Weston; and my stepbrother Lord Meredith.”
While Alec appreciated the courtesy of the introductions, it added to the doubts aroused by Witt's previous improbable helpfulness. A policeman, even of his comparatively superior rank, was not normally considered worthy to be presented to such company. Lord Meredith, in fact, looked surprised and made no move to rise and shake hands.
“Darling, too thrilling,” said Miss Weston in her famous throaty voice. “Has Mr. Fletcher come to arrest you?”
Witt cocked an eyebrow at Alec, who said, “Not tonight, Miss Weston.”
“Pity! One ought to see how it's properly done, and I'm sure Mr. Fletcher would have done it properly. Well, darling, if you don't need my support through this ordeal, I'm off. I've a rehearsal at an ungodly hour tomorrow.”
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