Rattle His Bones by Carola Dunn Page A

my field, you know. I believe I may say I am accounted something of an authority on fossil fish. Do let me show you my Arthrodire.”
    He had been so kind that Daisy let him off the hook. She could always ask someone else about Piltdown. He limped at her side across the gallery, and they entered the hall leading to the fossil reptiles, with the dinosaur gallery beyond, wherein the fishes occupied their modest place.
    Somewhere in front of them a voice rose in triumph and
contempt, the words indistinguishable. The bellow that followed held a note of surprised agony, like that of a wounded bull. Then came a tremendous crash.
    With a gasp, Smith Woodward stopped, rooted to the ground. Daisy ran through the arch ahead.
    Sprawled on his back, immobile amidst a litter of smashed Pareiasaurus bones, lay Pettigrew. Across Ol’ Stony’s white shirtfront and pale grey waistcoat seeped a crimson stain.

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    â€œH elp!” squawked Daisy. She did not want to go near that bloody body, but unlikely as it seemed from this distance, Pettigrew might still be alive. Someone must check his pulse.
    Someone must also go for the police, though surely it could not be murder, not in a museum of all places! The Keeper of Geology must have had some sort of fit, fallen against the Pareiasaurus, and been stabbed by a shard of bone.
    Through the chest, when he was lying on his back?
    â€œWhat was that?” A plump, grey-haired woman appeared under the arch to the dinosaurs. “Good gracious! Stay there, children, don’t come any further.” She spread her arms in a barricade, behind which bobbed five youthful, inquisitive faces.
    â€œWhat’s happened, Granny?”
    â€œNever you mind, Arthur Stubbs. Take the others to look at the dinosaurs, do.” She moved a few steps towards Daisy and asked in a lowered voice, “Is he dead?”
    â€œI think so. I don’t know. I haven’t …”
    â€œYou leave it to me, dear. I used to be a nurse. If there’s a pulse, I’ll find it.” Bustling forward, she stooped to clear the
bone fragments from a patch of floor and knelt at Pettigrew’s side.
    â€œDon’t touch anything you don’t absolutely have to,” Daisy warned.
    â€œWhat … what … ?” came a weak voice from behind her.
    â€œDr. Smith Woodward, will you please go and tell the police there has been a … an accident?”
    â€œPolice? Surely a doctor …”
    â€œToo late for that. He’s gone,” pronounced the grey-haired woman. She looked down with grim compassion at the crimson bloom on Pettigrew’s chest. “And the young lady’s right, it looks like it could be a police matter.”
    â€œPolice, yes, at once.” Smith Woodward fled.
    â€œGive us a hand up, dear. I must get back to the grandkiddies, though what I’m to tell them I’m sure I don’t know. What is the world coming to?”
    â€œYou won’t leave, will you? I mean, the police …”
    â€œThere’s no way out I know save through here, and I’m not about to let the children see this.” She started back to the dinosaur gallery. A boy of twelve or thirteen was peering round the corner. “Shoo, shoo! Back you go this instant. You’ll be all right, dear, will you?” she asked, turning her head.
    â€œY-yes,” Daisy said doubtfully.
    As long as she didn’t actually look at the dead Keeper of Mineralogy, she wasn’t going to faint, or be sick, or anything like that. She had to stay on the spot, though, until the police came, to stop anyone touching what might turn out to be clues.
    Was it really murder? Alec would be furious that she had “fallen over” another body, got herself mixed up in another case—as if she wanted to, or could help it. It was awful of her to be worrying about that when poor Pettigrew lay dead. He
had been helpful to her and pleasant to Derek and Belinda, whatever