“I can let you have a series of drawings, from Eohippus to the modern horse,” he offered. “I’d appreciate it if you would trace them and return them, but it’s not the end of the world if your editor should lose them. Do you ride?”
“I used to. I grew up in Gloucestershire.”
“Fairacres,” said Witt, to her surprise. “I knew your brother slightly. I … ah … Fletcher seems a good sort of chap.”
Resignedly, Daisy realized that if Mummery knew of her engagement, doubtless so did everyone else. “He is,” she said firmly, “and a good detective as well.”
“He came round to my flat last night, looking for the stolen jewels. I imagine he sees some connection between the theft and Pettigrew’s murder?”
“He doesn’t discuss all his reasoning with me,” Daisy hedged.
Witt’s sardonic look told her he recognized prevarication when he heard it. “He didn’t find the loot, of course, thoughI’m aware that won’t have convinced him of my innocence. I can’t quite work out how the jewels were stolen, but I know I’m one of just half a dozen people who could have killed Pettigrew. Only why should I?”
“The police don’t have to prove motive, though it’s helpful in court.”
“They don’t?” Witt shrugged. “Well, the man was a pain in the neck, but I didn’t have to see much of him.”
“Even over the flints?”
“Ah, is that where Fletcher’s looking? Pettigrew was making a pest of himself about the flints, admittedly. However, I claim no expertise on the subject. I always referred Pettigrew to ffinch-Brown. He bore the brunt. And he was around when Pettigrew died.”
“Do you think he was worried about Pettigrew’s challenge? That business of detecting a newly chipped flint?”
Witt grinned. “Much as I’d like to divert suspicion by throwing it on ffinch-Brown, who is also a pain in the neck, I have to say I believe him perfectly competent to distinguish anything Pettigrew could produce.”
Which was as prevaricating as anything Daisy had said. Witt was quite clever enough to realize his encomium did not rule out ffinch-Brown’s worrying, however competent he was. So was he actually attempting in an oblique way to throw suspicion on the anthropologist?
Spotting an invitation to circular reasoning before she was entangled, Daisy decided Witt’s statement was really pretty useless.
“The stuff you’ve been doing for Mr. ffinch-Brown must have given you a lot of extra work,” she said, poising her pencil above her notebook as if returning to business. “Do you and your colleagues often work late?”
“Only when we’re planning a murder,” Witt quipped.
Daisy frowned at him. “Sorry! It depends—which is not a useful answer but true. One doesn’t get into palæontology unless one is keen. One doesn’t get on in the museum hierarchy unless one is keen enough to put in extra hours. Many are not, so there are Assistants and Attendants who will never rise above those Civil Service grades.”
“Thus Curators are by definition extra keen and ready to stay late?”
“More or less. Sometimes one finds oneself at the end of the day deeply involved in something particularly fascinating which one does not care to leave. Occasionally there is work which simply must be completed on time. Human time, that is, as opposed to geological time.”
Daisy laughed. “I’m glad we don’t have to live by geological time. Imagine saying, ‘I think I’ll just wait for the ice age to finish before I take the dog for his walk.’ So the dedicated scientists of the Geology Department frequently stay after hours.” She wrote it down in her notebook.
“I shan’t quarrel if you put that in your article,” Witt said with a smile. “Dr. Smith Woodward expects a great deal of his people. Individual circumstances vary, of course. For instance, I quite often have evening engagements. Steadman has a rotten home life, so he frequently works late—there’s always something interesting to do here, but also he accepts quite a few invitations to give outside talks. The public like dinosaurs. On the other hand, Ruddlestone has a family clamouring for his presence, so he rarely does overtime.”
“Mr. Ruddlestone has a large family?”
“Lord, yes. I couldn’t tell you how many children. He hardly ever stays. It was rotten luck he happened to be here on the very evening that Pettigrew … Unless … No, it couldn’t have been Ruddlestone! Forget I said that. It wasn’t so late when it happened, anyway, was it?”
“No,” Daisy agreed.
“Just late enough for most people to have left, so as to make Fletcher’s task easier,” Witt said wryly. “Oh dear, we don’t seem to be able to stay away from the subject, do we? What else can I tell you about my work?”
Glancing through her notes, Daisy said, “The information about the horses will do, I think, thanks.”
“Right-ho. Let me just get you those drawings. Here we are.”
“Spiffing. Thanks!”
“I’ll be happy to answer any further questions, Miss Dalrymple, and if you have none, no doubt your fiancé will have plenty!”
