Ross and Daisy both blushed, Daisy wondering whether she was notorious simply as Alec’s fiancée, or as the Assistant Commissioner for Crime’s bête noire.
“I’ve been doing some research here for an article,” she said hurriedly. “This evening at twenty to six I went to Dr. Smith Woodward’s office—he’s the Keeper of Geology—to ask him about Piltdown Man.”
“Exactly twedty to six? Excuse be.” Tring pulled out his hankie, turned his head, and produced another explosion.
“Roughly. You know how you look at a watch and you don’t so much notice the exact time as how long you have till … well, in this case till the museum closed. I saw I had about twenty minutes left and I decided it was long enough.”
Tring nodded. “And then?”
“We walked round to the Piltdown skull, just around the corner in the fossil mammal gallery. Dr. Smith Woodward looked at it for a minute and decided he’d much rather talk about fossil fish. So we crossed the gallery—I didn’t notice anyone there, but I wasn’t really looking. There was no one in the hall leading to the reptile gallery, I’m sure of that.”
“That would be here?” The sergeant pointed to a large sheet of paper on the desk in front of him.
Leaning forward, Daisy saw it was a plan of the museum. “That’s right,” she said. “We must have been about halfway along when we heard someone ahead speaking loudly, then a sort of roar, and then the most frightful crash.” She hesitated. “Thinking back, I’m pretty sure it was Dr. Pettigrew’s voice, though I didn’t recognize it immediately.”
“What did he say?”
“I couldn’t catch the words. This building’s so solid it muffles sounds. We would have seen, though, if anyone had entered the dinosaur gallery through this arch.” She showed him on the plan.
“Yes, that all agrees with Dr. Smith Woodward’s statement. That lets him out.”
“And me,” said Daisy.
Tring’s moustache waggled above a half-concealed grin. “And you,” he acknowledged. “What next?”
“I dashed into the reptile gallery, and saw Pettigrew lying … I’m afraid I was rather too aghast to notice if anyone was running off. I’m most frightfully sorry.” More affected by the memory than she had been by the actual event, Daisy suddenly felt cold and horribly sick.
Always light on his feet despite his size, Tom Tring was round the desk in a flash, his hand on her shoulder. “Here, put your head down on your knees. Ross, quick, pour a drop of whatever it is Sir Sidney keeps in that decanter. That’s the ticket. Take a good swallow, Miss Dalrymple.”
Head whirling, Daisy only half heard him. Expecting water, she gulped whisky. It hit the back of her throat like a lighted squib. As she choked and spluttered, tears pouring down her face, a comforting warmth spread through her middle. At least it had settled her stomach.
Tring thrust a handkerchief into her hand. “Here, it’s a clean one. The missus sent me out with half a dozen. Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Daisy croaked, mopping her eyes. “Ithinkso. Gosh!”
“Cad you … Half a tick.” He found another hankie and trumpeted into it. “Can you go on? You sent Dr. Smith Woodward for the police?”
“It sounds frightfully pushy, put like that, but I suppose I did. Mrs. Ditchley turned up first, though. You’ve seen her.”
“I want it in your words, please. You know the Chief’s methods.”
Tears pricked at Daisy’s eyelids. How she wished for Alec’s comforting presence, even if he was angry with her. But Tom Tring, dear Tom Tring, was now enveloped in a rosy haze, like a mammoth cherub. He needed her help. Blinking away the tears, she suppressed a giggle and tried to concentrate.
“Mrs. Ditchley,” prompted the mustachioed cherub.
Daisy told him about Mrs. Ditchley’s failure to find a pulse, her return to her grandchildren, and the dinosaur commissionaire’s subsequent arrival on the scene. At that point she got Wilf Atkins’s name hopelessly muddled, and she could not pronounce “Pareiasaurus” to save her life, though by articulating with extreme care she managed to substitute “skeleton.”
“Wolf Catkins—you know who I mean—said Mr. Flummery would have forty fits when he saw the smashed ske-le-ton. He did. He threatened to kill Pet-ti-grew, but he was too late.”
“Yes,” said the cherub, his face wavering in and out of her vision, “so Sergeant Jameson says. I think the rest of your statement had better wait till morning, Miss Dalrymple.”
“Sorry. Seem to be fearfully tired all of a sudden.” Daisy’s eyes closed of their own volition, and she couldn’t get them to open again.
Distantly, she heard the constable’s incredulous voice: “Sozzled?”
“A whacking slug of whisky on an empty stomach,” Tring rumbled. “Our Miss Dalrymple’s not one of these cocktail-bibbingBright Young Things, you know. I can’t escort her home now. Help me move the chair over into that corner.”
Briefly Daisy flew through the air. An overcoat was tucked around her, and she slept.
