“Every last man Jack, or rather Sergeant Tring did, and no one saw nothing odd. Course, some of ‘em wouldn’t notice a stuffed mammoth waving its trunk, ’less you pointed it out to ’em special. Ole Westcott—he’s retired, mind, so I tell no tales—he—”
“Retired? When?”
Sergeant Jameson consulted his tome again. “Well, now, miss, the end of July it was. What d’you know?”
“What doyouknow?” Daisy riposted.
He opened a drawer and took out a pile of past duty rosters. “Lessee, here we are, July, second week Westcott was on evenings—closing time till two in the morning. And I happento know the sergeant in charge used to send him upstairs and not expect to see him again till the end of the shift. But like I was saying, miss, he wouldn‘t’ve noticed nothing in front of his nose ’less his nose was shoved in it.”
“Did anyone mention him to Mr. Tring? Has anyone told Mr. Fletcher that Dr. Pettigrew took a holiday in July?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, miss,” Jameson said cautiously. “’Spect so.”
“Is Mr. Fletcher in the museum now?” Daisy asked.
“Don’t think so, miss. Sergeant Wilby that I just took over from would’ve said.”
“Do you know if—” Daisy started.
“Yes, miss,” Jameson said loudly, straightening, “you can go anywhere below the second floor, ’cepting the Mineral Gallery which is closed.”
“Thank you, sergeant.”
Turning, she saw a constable approaching. Jameson did not want to be caught gossiping by his subordinate. He had been helpful, but obviously he was not deeply involved in the case. Daisy doubted whether the unknown Detective Inspector Wotherspoon would be equally receptive to her questions, especially as he’d been up all night.
She had come to the museum to finish her research, she reminded herself, and she headed for the east wing.
A few visitors had straggled in, but in the fossil mammal gallery she found the one-armed commissionaire alone. “Good morning, Sergeant Hamm,” she greeted him.
“Morning, miss. Tomorrow will I bring the locusts, and they shall fill thy houses and shall eat every tree.”
“Really?”
“Yes, miss. They’ve bin told they’re not to be let into the Mineral Gallery till tomorrow. Not but what there’s bound to be a few wandering around today, taking pictures of thegallery gate and barging through here to the pariosaurus again.”
“Oh, the Press,” said Daisy, enlightened.
“And the rubbernecks,” Hamm added, descending from Biblical misquotation to American slang. “But the mighty strong west wind shall cast them into the Red Sea.”
Daisy had no answer for this dire pronouncement, so she asked, “Is Mr. Witt available, do you know?”
“Far as I know he’s in his office, miss. You go and ask Wilf Atkins in dinosaurs to knock him up for you. Tell Wilf I said.”
Thanking him, Daisy proceeded through the hall where she had been with Dr. Smith Woodward when Pettigrew was killed. When she reached the reptile gallery, she was relieved to see the remains of the Pareiasaurus swathed in dust-sheets. Mummery was just lifting a corner to peer underneath. He dropped it and swung round as Daisy’s footsteps approached.
“Oh, it’s you, Miss Dalrymple,” he said gloomily. “I have no idea yet whether he can be repaired. It’s iniquitous, they won’t even tell me when they’ll give me back the broken bones. I wish you would have a word with your Chief Inspector …”
“MyChief Inspector?”
“Are you not engaged to Fletcher? I understood …”
“Actually, yes,” said Daisy, a bit cross, “though I can’t imagine how you know.”
“Someone told me,” Mummery said with a vague wave, then went on irritably, “Does he really grasp that fossils must be handled with extreme delicacy, and as little as possible?”
“I’m sure he does, and has given the proper instructions.”
“I hope so, but I have little faith in his understanding since he had his men search my house last night. Jewels! What do I care about jewels after this terrible occurrence?”
