“In which case I would certainly have seen him.”
“ … Or down the private stairs at the east end of the mineral gallery.”
“And then through to the reptile gallery where he died,” Daisy said. “Mummery’s domain. How did your interview with him go?”
“You warned me he was explosive.”
Alec made a funny story of Mummery’s temper. The fossil reptile curator started out furious at having his work interruptedby police with nothing better to do than pursue the benefactor of humanity who rid the earth of Pettigrew. Especially as Pettigrew had ruined his Pareiasaurus, which, if repairable, would take months of hard work to restore.
Diverted to the question of what he was doing in the General rather than the Geological Library, he was provoked to another outburst: He was consulting an obscure German text comparing modern with ancient Crocodilia; it obviously ought to be in Geology but Zoology also claimed it, so it was relegated to General.
Asked to suggest why the mineralogist’s corpse was found in his gallery, Mummery had snapped that he certainly did not belong there. He then embarked on an irate and very technical lecture on why—unlike Pettigrew—the dinosaurs did belong among the reptiles.
“So I gave up on him,” Alec confessed ruefully, “for the present. Here we are.”
He pushed open the door of the Good Intent. A pug puppy danced forward to welcome them to the small, quiet restaurant, its chequer-clothed tables mostly empty. While Daisy greeted the little dog, Alec glanced around at the once avant-garde paintings on the walls. One was a portrait of a smug pug with a violet ribbon round its neck, perhaps the present tutelary canine’s predecessor.
Seated, Daisy gave her attention to the menu, which offered a solid rather than exciting choice. Selecting Scotch broth and shepherd’s pie did not occupy her for long. Alec plumped for celery soup and Lancashire hot pot. By the time he had given the waitress their order, Daisy’s thoughts had returned to the museum murder.
“Who else did you see? The commissionaires, I expect, and Dr. Smith Woodward, though he’s out of it, and Dr. Bentworth, though he couldn’t possibly have done it. Whatabout Ruddlestone? He’s far too cheerful to commit murder, isn’t he?”
“Being under suspicion certainly didn’t cow him,” Alec said dryly. “Far from it. He presented us with his theory that detective work and palæontology have a great deal in common, in the painstaking following up of often insignificant-appearing clues. The notion amused him.”
Daisy smiled. “He’s easily amused, and quite amusing. You didn’t winkle out any particular reason for him to hate Pettigrew?”
“No, nothing beyond the general dislike.”
“And Steadman?”
“Again, nothing specific. He struck me as a nervy type, and the sort of chap to hold a grudge, but you were right, his animosity is directed at the museum trustees and at Americans who send plaster models instead of real fossils.”
Their soup arrived. Daisy took a few spoonfuls in meditative silence, then said, “Perhaps Pettigrew jeered at Steadman about his biggest dinosaur being plaster, until it was beyond bearing. He was obnoxious enough about the uselessness of real fossils. I can’t imagine what he might have had to say about a fake.”
“I asked,” said Alec. “According to Steadman, Pettigrew never said a word about the model because he didn’t have a leg to stand on. The biggest diamond in the mineralogy collection is a fake.”
Daisy laughed. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. The Cullinan is paste. I have an appointment with one of Pettigrew’s assistants tomorrow, Alec. Grange, his name is. You’re not going to make a fuss, are you, darling? I really must get on with my research.”
“That’s all right, Grange and Randell are in the clear. They left on time and went together to the Crooked Elm inOld Brompton Road. They claim always to need a drink after a day with Pettigrew.”
“Oh dear, no one mourns him, do they? At least, did he have any family?”
“He was a widower, with two grown sons. One’s in the army, stationed in Ireland at present. The other’s a solicitor in Truro.”
“So you didn’t have to break the news to them.”
“No, thank heaven.” Alec found informing bereaved relatives of a murder far more distressing than dealing with a corpse no longer capable of feeling pain. “The Truro police and the soldier’s C.O. had to cope with that. Both sons are on their way, and I’ll have to see them, but parricide isn’t on the cards.”
“Two fewer suspects to worry about,” Daisy said blithely. “How was your soup?”
“Soup?” Alec looked down at his empty bowl, and confessed sheepishly, “I didn’t even notice eating it. Or drinking it, if you prefer.”
“Well, it can’t have been too dreadful, at least. Eat or drink rather depends on whether it’s thick soup or thin, I suppose. Supping is really the best word: to sup one’s soup. A pity it’s dropped out of use.”
Over the second course they talked about language. Alec entertained Daisy with examples of eighteenth-century slang, picked up while studying the Georgian period at Manchester University. She blushed adorably when he reminded her that the little mole by her mouth was placed just where Georgian ladies used to stick the face-patch known as the “Kissing.”
Had the A.C. meant it when he ordered Alec to marry Daisy with all possible speed? Would he really expedite leave, the difficulty of obtaining which being the main obstacle in setting a date?
Pondering, Alec fell silent over his Double Gloucester and biscuits. Daisy, engaged in demolishing a dish of Queen of Puddings, was too stickily occupied to talk.
