“Police? Surely a doctor …”
“Too late for that. He’s gone,” pronounced the grey-haired woman. She looked down with grim compassion at the crimson bloom on Pettigrew’s chest. “And the young lady’s right, it looks like it could be a police matter.”
“Police, yes, at once.” Smith Woodward fled.
“Give us a hand up, dear. I must get back to the grandkiddies, though what I’m to tell them I’m sure I don’t know. What is the world coming to?”
“You won’t leave, will you? I mean, the police …”
“There’s no way out I know save through here, and I’m not about to let the children see this.” She started back to the dinosaur gallery. A boy of twelve or thirteen was peering round the corner. “Shoo, shoo! Back you go this instant. You’ll be all right, dear, will you?” she asked, turning her head.
“Y-yes,” Daisy said doubtfully.
As long as she didn’t actually look at the dead Keeper of Mineralogy, she wasn’t going to faint, or be sick, or anything like that. She had to stay on the spot, though, until the police came, to stop anyone touching what might turn out to be clues.
Was it really murder? Alec would be furious that she had “fallen over” another body, got herself mixed up in another case—as if she wanted to, or could help it. It was awful of her to be worrying about that when poor Pettigrew lay dead. Hehad been helpful to her and pleasant to Derek and Belinda, whatever his faults. All the same, how was she going to explain to Alec that once again someone she knew had been killed practically in her presence?
Perhaps she could keep it from him. Perhaps the museum police would sort it out quickly and not need to call in Scotland Yard. Where were they?
Daisy glanced at her wristwatch, a recent present from Alec. She was startled to see how few minutes ago she had decided there was time enough before the museum closed to ask Smith Woodward about the Piltdown fuss. It felt like an age since he had scurried off. Maybe he was having trouble persuading the police of the need for speed.
“Hoy!” The dinosaur commissionaire lumbered out of his gallery. “What the bloody—’scuse me, miss—flippin’ blankety blank’s going on here?”
“Dr. Pettigrew’s dead,” Daisy said tersely.
“That’s what the lady said, miss. Blimey, will you look at what Ol’ Stony’s done to that pariosaurus! Mr. Mummery’s going to have forty fits.”
“Never mind about the blasted Pareiasaurus! Dr. Pettigrew’s been killed.”
“Who by?” asked the commissionaire.
“I don’t know. And goodness knows where he’s got to by now. Are there any other ways out besides through the mammal gallery?”
“Two lots o’ private stairs to the basement, miss, and one lot going up. Reckon they oughta be watched?” Looking around, he demanded, “Where’s Harry? Gawd, you don’t think he done it? Nah, not Harry!”
“This gallery’s commissionaire?”
“That’s him when he’s at home.” Skirting the corpse and the scattered bones by a respectful margin, he stuck his headinto the invertebrate gallery and yelled, “Hoy, Bert! C’mere, and get a move on!” He moved on to stand under the arch between the two halves of the reptile gallery and roared in parade-ground tones, “Harry!”
Receiving no apparent response, the commissionaire hurried back between Daisy and the remains, saying, “Tell you what, miss, I’ll go to the General Liberry stairs. You tell Bert to hop it over to guard the ones by the Geological Liberry, and send Harry to the up-stairs at t’other end. Prolly too late, but mi’s well. Right?”
Again without waiting for an answer, he disappeared through the door in the arch at the end of the gallery.
Daisy had just started to wonder whether he or Bert might be the villain, when Bert arrived from one direction and a police sergeant from the other. They both stopped dead, and while they stood for a moment gaping at Pettigrew, Harry came through the dividing arch.
Hisconcern was all for the Pareiasaurus. “Cor, that’s put the cat among the pigeons, and how! Mr. Mummery won’t half hit the ceiling!”
Bert nodded solemn agreement.
The police sergeant rounded on Harry. “Where were you, Boston, when this here incident took place?”
“Just popped through to have a word with Reg Underwood, di’n’t I?” Harry Boston said in an injured voice. “See he was orright, like, and did he need a hand wiv anyfing.”
“It’s a foot he needs more like,” said Bert. He snickered, then cast a sidelong, half-guilty glance at Pettigrew.
“And where were you?” demanded the sergeant, a stocky, blue-chinned man of perhaps forty.
Bert stiffened to attention. “In my place,” he said loudly, “back there with the fossile inverbitrates like I was s’posed. Wilf Atkins’ll tell you.”
