1
July 1923
He hurried up the stairs from the basement and unlocked the door which kept the public from wandering down into the private areas of the museum. Pushing it open a crack, he heard voices in the North Hall. He froze, still as a rabbit mesmerized by a stoat, nerves aquiver.
“Regular maze down there, Sarge, innit?” The constable must have just come up the stairs on the other side of the hall. “Proper sinister, the pipes gurgling away up by the ceiling, and all them pillars with their shadows moving when you walk past with your torch. And all full of bones and dead things—ugh! Like a cata-thingummy.”
“Catacomb. It’s live people you’re looking out for, Jones. Anyone in the offices downstairs?”
“Nah, they don’t work late, mostly, these light summer evenings.”
“There’s a bloke in one of the Bird Rooms, stuffing a bird of Paradise. Lovely thing.”
“One of them taxi-whatsits,” suggested the constable.
“-Dermists. Taxidermists. Couple of chaps in the libraries, too, noses stuck in their dusty old books. Me, I’d rather be outdoors smelling the roses.”
“Wouldn’t mind being out on the beat, nice day like this.”
“No kettle on the beat,” observed the sergeant. “Let’s go brew up. Twitchell’ll be down in a minute.”
Their voices receded, accompanied by the clink of the sergeant’s great bunch of keys and the thunk of police boots on the mosaic floor, echoing hollowly in the vast spaces of the museum.
The listener hesitated. The third policeman, Constable Twitchell, would probably descend by the main staircase after completing the night’s first patrol of the upper floors. Even if bad luck brought him down these stairs, he would think nothing of meeting another late worker, like the taxidermist in the Bird Room, the readers in the libraries.
Still, better not to be seen unnecessarily. He stayed where he was, ears straining for a third set of footsteps.
Only his own breath soughed in his ears. The massive Victorian building absorbed even the heavy tread of three policemen, relaying no hint of their whereabouts. Two would have reached the police post by the main entrance by now, but had the third come down to join them yet? Vital minutes ticked away while he listened.
Surely Twitchellmusthave gone down the main stairs by now.
Rubber-soled shoes silent on the stone steps, he sped upward again. Now he was committed, at least to the extent that he had no legitimate purpose above the ground floor.
Slightly out of breath, he reached the first floor. Instinct shrieked, “Go with care!” but to be caught peeking around the corner would instantly arouse suspicion. He stepped out boldly. No one in sight in the long gallery ahead.
As he passed the head of the main staircase, keeping well back, he glanced that way. From the corner of his eye, hecaught a glimpse of a still figure standing on the broad half-landing. His heart jumped.
Sir Richard Owen did not stir, being bronze. But footsteps sounded down in the Central Hall.
The tread of heavy boots, not a scholar’s shoes—all three coppers accounted for. Tempted nonetheless to look over the balustrade to make sure it was the third policeman, not a stray museum employee, he made himself move on along the window side of the gallery. Between him and temptation marched a silent, motionless parade of giraffes and okapi.
Four steps up, then the stairs to the second floor, bridging the central hall, rose on his right. The heavy black wrought-iron gate to the Mineral Gallery barred the way to his left, and Pettigrew’s private office lay straight ahead. The Keeper of Mineralogy had just started his annual fortnight’s holiday.
It was a shadowy corner. He had not reckoned on being silhouetted against the frosted glass door-panes, all too visible from the giraffe gallery and the stairs.
Crouching below the level of the glass, he fumbled in his trouser pocket for the key.
His discovery that the key of the Keeper of Geology’s office also opened Pettigrew’s directly above had been purely fortuitous. He happened to be present that day last year when Dr. Smith Woodward, having—typically—mislaid his own keys, borrowed Pettigrew’s. From that chance had developed his present brilliant plan. The old man’s forgetfulness of anything not directly concerning his beloved fossils had made it easy to borrow the keys and have the important ones copied.
The door-key copy grated in the lock and his heart stood still. He glanced round, but onlyGiraffa camelopardaliswatched him, with a glassy-eyed stare.
The key clicked round. Taking out his handkerchief, hewiped his suddenly damp forehead, then used the cloth to turn the door-handle. The door swung open. He stepped through and closed it quickly behind him …
… Leaving the blasted key on the outside.
That was the sort of stupid mistake which could get him caught. All the same, he decided to risk leaving it there for a few minutes. He must find Pettigrew’s keys very soon, or he might as well give up. Of course, if the Keeper of Mineralogy had taken them home, the whole thing was off.
As he put away the handkerchief and took out his light summer gloves, he scanned the spacious room. The two large windows admitted plenty of light in spite of the trees outside and the late hour.
