“Yes. Do you know him, or did you skip the invertebrates?”
“For the first article I did, but they have to go into theDilettantiarticle. Luckily Ruddlestone is enthusiastic enough about his field to make it sound interesting. Again, I don’t know that he had anything more against Pettigrew than the general dislike. Pettigrew rubbed him the wrong way, but he didn’t let it rankle.”
“All right. That just leaves Dr. Bentworth, doesn’t it, Ernie?”
“Right, Chief. Curator of Fossil Plants, retired.”
“Blind as a bat,” said Daisy. “If he tried to kill someone, ten to one he’d get the wrong man.”
“You mean Pettigrew might not have been the intended victim?” Alec groaned.
“No, no, darling. Dr. Bentworth couldn’t possibly have stabbed anyone, on purpose or by accident. You’ll see as soon as you meet him, though, knowing you, you won’t cross him off your list just because he’s ninety.”
“Certainly not,” said Alec, grinning, “but he can sink to the bottom. Mummery, ffinch-Brown, Witt, and the Grand Duke seem to have floated to the top. All right, Ernie, let’s go and see them all.”
“Right, Chief. ’Bye, Miss Dalrymple.”
“Cheerio, Mr. Piper. I’m sorry you didn’t get a biscuit with your tea.”
“Never mind. Most places, we wouldn’t even’ve got tea,” said Piper philosophically. “Ta, miss, be seeing you.” Tactfully he removed himself.
Alec leaned with both hands on the writing table. “Thanks, Daisy, you’ve given me some useful pointers.”
“Loath though you are to admit it.”
“Not at all! You won’t go back to the museum, love, will you, till this is cleared up.”
“I have to, Alec. I shan’t go today—I’ve plenty to keep me busy at home—but I’m nowhere near finished with the Geology Department, and the deadline approaches.”
“For heaven’s sake, Daisy …”
“I’ve given my word,” she said stubbornly. “They need the article. If I let them down, news will spread and no one will give me work. And don’t tell me I shan’t need to work when we’re married!”
“I wouldn’t dare! You know I don’t expect you to drop your writing. But Daisy, if you really must go to the museum, pleasetrynot to talk about the case.”
“I’lltry,”Daisy promised.
7
To her regret, Daisy had not been present when Grand Duke Rudolf gave his address to the police. He was not likely to turn up at the museum again, she thought. Not, of course, that if he did she would talk to him about the murder, having promised not to, but she might learn more about him.
One address Daisy had overheard, and it was an easy one to remember. Mrs. Ditchley lived in Balaclava Terrace, Battersea, just across the Thames from Chelsea.
Having stuck diligently to her typewriter till half past three, Daisy needed—no,deserved—a break. The sun had come out after what seemed like weeks of rain and overcast skies, so she decided to walk over the Battersea Bridge.
She stopped in the middle of the iron bridge to look at the sparkling river. A brightly painted narrow-boat hauled its train of barges downstream. From the shadows under the Albert Bridge appeared a pleasure steamer, puffing upstream, with few passengers on a weekday so late in the season, in spite of the warm sunshine. The trees of Battersea Park were already touched by autumn’s hand, Daisy noticed, though lightly as yet. If she had had Bel’s Nana with her, shewould have been tempted aside from her errand to give the pup a run.
When she was married …
Walking on, she gave herself up to rosy daydreams, but without losing sight of her goal. She found Balaclava Terrace, a grim and grimy brick row backing onto one of the railway lines which criss-crossed the industrial area. Though outwardly grimy, the houses were respectably dressed with white net curtains shrouding every window, and front doors painted in vivid colours. They were larger than most workmen’s terrace houses, built for foremen and factory clerks perhaps.
Mrs. Ditchley lived with her daughter and son-in-law at Number 7. Daisy tapped on the vermilion front door with the gleaming brass lion’s-head knocker.
Katy opened the door, wearing a navy school uniform gym slip. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of Daisy, then she gave a shy grin and scampered away down a dark hall, calling, “Granny, it’s the museum lady. It’s Miss Dimple.”
Mrs. Ditchley emerged from the nether regions, swathed in an apron bestrewn with large yellow flowers, Katy hanging on her arm. With her came a smell of baking.
“Miss Dalrymple, how nice, come in. Katy gets out of school at half past three, but the rest of the kiddies will be home any moment, and I just put the kettle on.”
