It was dark now, and out here in the suburbs lamp-posts were few and far between. For a few minutes, until Piper had extricated them from the winding streets around the common, Alec concentrated on driving. Then his mind returned to the Mummerys.
The curator’s desk was covered with books and journals on fossil reptiles, and a monograph in progress. Papers in the drawers, however, revealed an adequate income, from earnings and a few minor investments, with no evidence of debts. The house was freehold, unmortgaged. The latest quarterly bank statement had no extraordinary payments in or out.
The only unusual expenditures were for Miss Mummery’s college fees and a nurse to care for Andrew part-time during the university terms. Neither apparently strained the family budget.
But Alec had found a file of brochures and letters describinga cure for gas-injured lungs. They came from America, land of medical miracles and quacks, and the price quoted was enormous. At the bottom of the file was a letter from a Harley Street doctor and professor at Guy’s medical school, which mercilessly unmasked the “cure” as sheer fraud. The sheet had been screwed up, and then smoothed out again. Alec could not begin to guess at the emotions consequent on its receipt.
Yet Mummery had kept the papers. Did hope linger? If so, the jewels lying in their cases in the Mineralogy Gallery might have presented an irresistible temptation, and one difficult to condemn.
The last thing Alec had expected was to come away from Wimbledon full of sympathy for the choleric reptile curator. Now he saw the man’s bad temper at work as a respite from the tight hold he must keep on his emotions at home. And his focus on the complex details of his profession could be seen as a temporary refuge from the inescapable horror of his son’s condition.
“D’you reckon,” said Tom Tring, who had been meditating in silence while the two in the back talked quietly, “they could all be in it together, Chief? The family, that is, if it was for the young chap’s sake.” He pitched his voice too low for the constables to hear.
“It’s possible. Would you have searched differently if you had thought of that before?”
“Mebbe,” Tom admitted reluctantly.
“Forget it,” said Alec, “unless we find evidence tying Mummery to the murder.”
He drove over Richmond Bridge, and Piper directed him to Ruddlestone’s house.
Ruddlestone lived at the end of a narrow street leading down to the river. The houses were also narrow but tall, quitesubstantial though joined in terrace rows of five or six. The last three, at the lower end of the street, had low, gateless walls in front which had to be surmounted by steps—a reminder that after centuries of effort, the Thames was only partly tamed. The coincidence of spring tides with heavy rains upstream still brought flooding.
One by one, the detectives tramped up the steps and down the other side, crowding the small paved forecourt already occupied by a tub of scarlet geraniums as yet untouched by frost. Alec rapped with the shell-shaped iron knocker.
No one answered, but lights glowed in windows and the sound of voices came to them. He banged again, more vigorously.
A boy in grey flannels and a Fair Isle jersey opened the door. There was no question of his welcome—he was thrilled to death to have four Scotland Yard ’tecs requesting admittance. As he invited them in, a small girl peered at them from behind him, then dashed off crying, “Daddy, it’s the police. There’slotsof them. Come and see.”
Through an open door on the right, Alec saw a dining table with school books spread across it. The mantelpiece beyond was crammed with shells and bits of coral—the tools of Ruddlestone’s trade, so to speak—varied by a doll and two toy motor-cars.
The boy said dismissively, “I’ll finish my homework later. Have you come to talk to my father about the museum murder?”
Alec left Tom to answer or evade the lad’s questions. As Ruddlestone did not appear, he went after the girl, towards the rear of the hall.
She popped back into sight. “Daddy says he can’t leavethe jam just now or Mummy will have his guts for garters, so will you please come in here.”
The fossil invertebrate curator was in his shirtsleeves, standing at the stove in a large kitchen. Face and bald dome red from the heat, wooden spoon in massive hand, he stirred a huge pan from which rose steam scented with cooking blackberries. Empty jam jars waited on the nearby table. A girl of twelve or so was washing up at the sink, with a younger boy drying.
Ruddlestone grinned at Alec. “Good evening, Fletcher. Sorry, but if I take my eyes off this for more than ten seconds, it will infallibly boil over.”
“Undoubtedly,” Alec agreed.
“It’s a sort of corollary to Boyle’s Second Law. You know the one? Watt’s pots never Boyle.” He laughed. “My wife’s upstairs putting the little ones to bed, and this stuff gets too hot for children to handle safely. What can I do for you?”
Ruddlestone kept stirring, his eyes on the bubbling, deep red contents of his pan, as Alec explained about the search warrant. The small girl, busy cutting lengths of string and squares of waxed paper to top the pots, interrupted.
“Daddy, you’re s’posed to keep checking if it’s ready to set, or it’ll cook too much and waste all the berries we picked.”
“Quite right,” Ruddlestone said cheerfully, and dropped a splodge of jam onto a saucer. “No, still runny. All right, Fletcher, you’d better get on with it, but please try not to upset the children upstairs. James, run up and warn your mother that they’re coming, please.”
“How many more?” Alec asked.
“Let’s see, three in here; Roger doing his homework, I hope; that leaves three, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You know you’re not, Daddy,” said the dish-drying boy severely, departing with the damp tea-towel slung rakishly around his neck.
Seven children, Alec thought, as he went out to the hall to set his waiting men to work. Jovial as Ruddlestone appeared, providing decently for so large a family was no joke. A small fortune in gems would come in very handy.
