“I’ll mention it, of course,” she said doubtfully, “but I’m afraid a photograph wouldn’t quite—”
“Mooning over your musty old bones as usual, eh, Woodward?” boomed an approaching figure, a tall, robust man who strode down the gallery as if he owned the place, scattering members of the public before him like autumn leaves in a brisk breeze.
Smith Woodward uttered a muted groan.
“You ought to let ‘em crumble in peace,” said the newcomer scornfully, eyeing Daisy with interest, “instead of fabricating imaginary creatures around ’em. Lot of balderdash, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” pointed out the Keeper of Geology with slightly querulous dignity. As the man showed no sign of moving on, he continued resignedly, “Miss Dalrymple, allow me to introduce our Keeper of Mineralogy, Dr. Pettigrew. Miss Dalrymple is writing an article about the museum.”
“She won’t want to write about fusty old fossils, my dear chap. They’re a waste of her time—and yours. Jewels arewhat the ladies are interested in.Theyknow what’s truly valuable. I’m off to see the Director now, Miss Dalrymple, but I shall be in my office upstairs in half an hour. Come and see me, and I’ll show you precious stones worth a king’s ransom.”
“Thank you, this afternoon, if I may?” Daisy put business first, though she had taken an instant dislike to the boorish Keeper of Mineralogy. “I’m rather concentrating on fossils this morning. Actually, I find these old bones simply fascinating.”
“Well, it’s your funeral, dear lady.” With a contemptuous laugh, Pettigrew took himself off.
Daisy and Mr. Smith Woodward exchanged a glance.
“Thank you,” said the Keeper of Geology simply. “I fear Mr. Pettigrew has a greater respect for worldly values than for the value of pure knowledge.” He sighed. “I expect the mammoths and the larger reptiles will be most suitable for your photography. Let us go and find the appropriate curators. Ah, there is Witt now.”
Farther along the gallery, two men stood inside the rope barrier fencing off one of the mammoth skeletons. One was short and scrawny, his face fringed with a yellowish beard and whiskers, his tie askew. He was talking eagerly to his companion, with much gesticulation, and constantly pushing his horn-rimmed spectacles up on his nose.
The other, younger, taller, slim rather than skinny, and nattily dressed, appeared to listen with calm courtesy. However, as Daisy and Smith Woodward approached the pair, she thought she detected a trace of hidden amusement behind the gravity of his decidedly good-looking face.
“Ah, Witt, can you spare me a moment?” said Smith Woodward.
They both turned. “Certainly, sir,” said the younger man politely, his voice pure public-school and Oxbridge. “Mr.ffinch-Brown is going to lend me several flints to make some experiments. Excuse me a moment, ffinch-Brown.”
“Miss Dalrymple, this is Calvin Witt, our Curator of Fossil Mammals.” Smith Woodward explained Daisy’s project. “Her article is sure to bring us visitors from America, so I wish her to receive every facility. And when you have answered her questions, be so kind as to take her to see Mr. Steadman.”
Witt bowed his dark, sleek head in acknowledgement. Dr. Smith Woodward departed, head bent to read the paper still in his hand, heedless of the people hastily stepping out of his way.
“He’s going to have another accident,” said Witt with exasperated affection. “Break the other arm or leg, likely as not.”
“Is that why he limps?” Daisy asked, disillusioned.
“He walked into a display case. He wouldn’t spare the time to go to the hospital, insisted on setting it himself.”
“Good heavens!” Seeing the scowling ffinch-Brown open his mouth, Daisy went on hastily, “I don’t want to interrupt your discussion, Mr. Witt.”
“We’re quite finished, ma’am, aren’t we, ffinch-Brown? I believe I understand perfectly what you wish me to undertake.”
“You’re sure? Good, good.” The little man rubbed his hands together. “I’ll be popping in quite often to see how you are getting on.”
A shadow of irritation crossed Witt’s face. “It may take some time to see results,” he said.
“No reason why it should,” ffinch-Brown objected, hands beginning to wave again. “After all, the hunters must have worked quite quickly.”
Daisy foresaw a long wait for Witt’s undivided attention,and besides, her curiosity was piqued. “Do tell me what experiments you are planning,” she said.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. ffinch-Brown,” said Witt resignedly, “from the British Museum, of which we are, of course, a mere branch. Mr. ffinch-Brown is an anthropologist. He means to investigate the marks made by the weapons of primitive hunters on the bones of slaughtered mammoths, by comparing them with marks made now on butcher’s bones.”
“Witt refuses to lend me any of his marked fossil bones.” Not attempting to hide his disgruntlement, ffinch-Brown glowered, his whiskers bristling.
“My dear sir, as we have already agreed, fossils are a great deal rarer than flints, and fragile, to boot.” He smiled at Daisy. “However, Miss Dalrymple cannot wish to hear our debate on the subject rehashed. I have promised to take the greatest care of your spearheads and knives.”
“We ought to have some of those fossils in our Prehistoric room,” the anthropologist said discontentedly, pushing his specs up again, “the ones marked by the tools of man. They are artifacts, not mere natural objects. As are the cut gems in the Mineral Gallery. It’s disgraceful that that blackguard Pettigrew refuses to hand them over.”
“A matter for your Director to take up with ours,” Witt pointed out. “Now I hope you will excuse me, sir. I must not keep Miss Dalrymple waiting any longer. So you want to photograph the mammoths, ma’am?”
