Rattle His Bones (16 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Rattle His Bones
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“We'll give you a lift, darling,” Lady Genevieve said languidly, rising. “It's time we made a move. Do let us know, Joker dear, if you have to be bailed out.”
Witt kissed the cheek she offered, and then Miss Weston's—rather more warmly. Lord Meredith, who had stood up when the ladies rose, put his hand on his stepbrother's shoulder and said in a low voice, which just reached Alec's ears, “Don't want to desert you, Joker. Gen can drive Maggie home and come back.”
“That's all right, old man. Fletcher's a gentleman, and I've nothing to hide.” Witt raised his voice. “I'll be with you in a moment, Chief Inspector.” He went out to see off his guests.
Alec used his absence to peek behind the half dozen framed drawings hanging on the walls. Contraband had been stuck to the backs of pictures before. He found nothing, and when Witt returned, he was contemplating a drawing of a bison. It was crude and misshapen, yet there was something oddly satisfying, even graceful, about its sweeping lines.
“Prehistoric art,” said Witt, coming up behind him. “They're copies of wall paintings found in caves in France and Spain: Altamira, Pair-non-Pair, Font-de-Gaume.”
“I've heard of them, but not seen any before. Interesting. It's an attractive room.”
“So I'm told. I can claim no merit, at least not for the colour scheme. It was designed for me by a friend who does that sort of thing. I'm colour-blind.”
“Ah,” said Alec, in the best tradition of Tring inscrutability, but he warmed slightly towards Witt. At least his suspected lack of war service was explained. “Mind if I poke around a bit?”
“Not at all.” He grinned. “As if I had any choice in the matter. There's just one favour I must beg, Chief Inspector.”
“Which is?” Alec asked, peering into a beautifully shaped vase with a lavender glaze.
“Please refrain from mentioning at the museum that I'm known to friends and family as Joker! A schoolboy play on my name, of course. I am not given to jokes, verbal or practical. But it wouldn't go down well with my colleagues.”
“And you care what they think?”
“Naturally. I see them and work with them daily.”
“You'd be sorry to give up your position, then.”
Witt gave him a sharp look, then laughed, with a mocking edge to his tone. “Ah, I see, you think I might have purloined the jewels so as to be able to quit work.”
“It's a possibility I have to consider, sir.”
“Yes,” Witt mused, “It is a possibility. I do need a job. You see, Chief Inspector, the comforts of my life are provided by my father. He's an American—my mother divorced him and brought me back to England as a baby, then married Meredith's father.”
“A wealthy American,” Alec assumed.
“Oh, very. The fly in the ointment, so to speak, is that Poppa came up the hard way and believes idleness is bad for the soul. He requires his offspring to hold down a job of work in order to profit from his millions. I refused to go into his ironmongery business—hardware they call it over there. Fortunately I had an alternative to offer, though it was not easy to persuade my father it qualified as a career.”
“Palæontology?”
“Yes, I was already hopelessly addicted to fossils. It is a sort of addiction, Chief Inspector. We may not all be quite as single-mindedly obsessed as Dr. Smith Woodward, but it's not the sort of job one falls into by chance. You will have realized by now that we're all dedicated, even passionate about our subject.”
 
Alec recalled Witt's words as Tom described the man's study: “Full of bones and books about bones, Chief, and drawings of bones, and drawings and models of mammoths and such.”
“I reckon they're all a bit dotty,” said Piper.
Even Ruddlestone, his house crammed full of children and associated paraphernalia, had found space for a few fossils. Yes, they were all dedicated, passionate, perhaps a bit dotty!
A
scending the steps far enough to be sheltered by the great rounded arch, Daisy paused to shake out and close her umbrella. It was drizzling again, yesterday's sunshine forgotten.
At the top of the steps stood a familiar figure, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. Rudolf Maximilian had arrived early at the museum. His long nose touched the glass as he peered through the door into the interior.
Daisy glanced at her watch.
She
was dead on time. A shadowy shape unlocked the central doors as she reached them.
“Good morning, Grand Duke,” she said.
He started, turning. “Ach, it is Miss Dalrymple. Goot morning,
gnädiges Fräulein.”
He bowed, and rather reluctantly let her enter first.
Sergeant Jameson had unlocked the doors and stayed to hold one open for Daisy. His greeting to her was friendly enough, but his harried gaze was on the Grand Duke behind her. “What's he want?” he muttered. “His blasted ruby's gorn, innit.”
“Mine ruby, he is finded?” the Grand Duke demanded.
“Not it, mate. Sir. You sure you haven't got it at home in a teapot?”
“Teapot? Vhy you talk about teapot? Vhy you not busy mine ruby to find?”
“Not my job, sir, is it? There's been dozens of men searching all night, and a new lot come on this morning. Just the second floor and the towers to go.”
“I help,” said Rudolf eagerly.
“Not on your nelly you don't,” exclaimed Sergeant Jameson, but he made no great effort to stop the Grand Duke when he pushed past. “D. I. Wotherspoon'll put a spoke in his wheel soon enough, or someone else will if he's dropped off. Poor ole Spoony's been up all night, but he's set on seeing it through. And I'll take it kindly, miss, if you won't mention what I just called him.”
“I shouldn't dream of it,” Daisy assured him, hoping that Alec had managed a good sleep last night. She stuck with Jameson as he went to unlock the other doors. “Have they not found anything at all?”
“They think they found the handle the flint was stuck to. Leastways they found a spare handle for a ge‘logical hammer with a splodge of the right kind of glue on it in the right place, and what might be bloodstains. It was in the basement, but they're all over the place in fossils and minerals both, any road. They all use 'em, so it don't mean much.”
“And anyway it was probably Dr. Pettigrew's. No fingerprints on it, I suppose.”
“Nary a one, miss.”
“They haven't found any skeleton keys?”
“Nor reckon to,” said Jameson, strolling back towards the police post. “The thief's had plenty of time to get rid of 'em, seeing it could be weeks since the jewels was pinched. Me, I think it was done at night when Dr. Pettigrew was on holiday.
He'd be the most likely to notice some little thing not quite right, but after a few days away he might not. Makes sense, don't it?”
“It certainly does,” Daisy said warmly, leaning on the L-shaped counter as the sergeant opened the flap and stepped inside his sanctum. About fifteen feet square, it backed onto the front wall of the museum, with a partition filling the fourth side. “When was that?”
“First two weeks in July. I looked it up.” Jameson flipped back through the pages of a large date-book, then swivelled it for Daisy to see, and pointed. “See?”
“A couple of months ago. That's about how long Mr. Grange said since the cases were opened, isn't it? Just right. I bet you're right. Were you on duty nights then?”
“No, miss, I was not,” said Jameson emphatically. “Not neither week, though some chaps' shifts changed in the middle of that fortnight, and I done my share of night duty since. The fakes was discovered on my watch, but no one can't say the real jools was swiped on my watch.”
“Mr. Fletcher asked for a list of all you museum police, I remember. Has he seen everyone yet?”
“Every last man Jack, or rather Sergeant Tring did, and no one saw nothing odd. Course, some of ‘em wouldn't notice a stuffed mammoth waving its trunk, 'less you pointed it out to 'em special. Ole Westcott—he's retired, mind, so I tell no tales—he—”
“Retired? When?”
Sergeant Jameson consulted his tome again. “Well, now, miss, the end of July it was. What d'you know?”
“What do
you
know?” Daisy riposted.
He opened a drawer and took out a pile of past duty rosters. “Lessee, here we are, July, second week Westcott was on evenings—closing time till two in the morning. And I happen
to know the sergeant in charge used to send him upstairs and not expect to see him again till the end of the shift. But like I was saying, miss, he wouldn‘t've noticed nothing in front of his nose 'less his nose was shoved in it.”
“Did anyone mention him to Mr. Tring? Has anyone told Mr. Fletcher that Dr. Pettigrew took a holiday in July?”
“I wouldn't know about that, miss,” Jameson said cautiously. “'Spect so.”
“Is Mr. Fletcher in the museum now?” Daisy asked.
“Don't think so, miss. Sergeant Wilby that I just took over from would've said.”
“Do you know if—” Daisy started.
“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.”

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