Rattle His Bones by Carola Dunn Page B

his faults. All the same, how was she going to explain to Alec that once again someone she knew had been killed practically in her presence?
    Perhaps she could keep it from him. Perhaps the museum police would sort it out quickly and not need to call in Scotland Yard. Where were they?
    Daisy glanced at her wristwatch, a recent present from Alec. She was startled to see how few minutes ago she had decided there was time enough before the museum closed to ask Smith Woodward about the Piltdown fuss. It felt like an age since he had scurried off. Maybe he was having trouble persuading the police of the need for speed.
    â€œHoy!” The dinosaur commissionaire lumbered out of his gallery. “What the bloody—’scuse me, miss—flippin’ blankety blank’s going on here?”
    â€œDr. Pettigrew’s dead,” Daisy said tersely.
    â€œThat’s what the lady said, miss. Blimey, will you look at what Ol’ Stony’s done to that pariosaurus! Mr. Mummery’s going to have forty fits.”
    â€œNever mind about the blasted Pareiasaurus! Dr. Pettigrew’s been killed.”
    â€œWho by?” asked the commissionaire.
    â€œI don’t know. And goodness knows where he’s got to by now. Are there any other ways out besides through the mammal gallery?”
    â€œTwo lots o’ private stairs to the basement, miss, and one lot going up. Reckon they oughta be watched?” Looking around, he demanded, “Where’s Harry? Gawd, you don’t think he done it? Nah, not Harry!”
    â€œThis gallery’s commissionaire?”
    â€œThat’s him when he’s at home.” Skirting the corpse and the scattered bones by a respectful margin, he stuck his head
into the invertebrate gallery and yelled, “Hoy, Bert! C’mere, and get a move on!” He moved on to stand under the arch between the two halves of the reptile gallery and roared in parade-ground tones, “Harry!”
    Receiving no apparent response, the commissionaire hurried back between Daisy and the remains, saying, “Tell you what, miss, I’ll go to the General Liberry stairs. You tell Bert to hop it over to guard the ones by the Geological Liberry, and send Harry to the up-stairs at t’other end. Prolly too late, but mi’s well. Right?”
    Again without waiting for an answer, he disappeared through the door in the arch at the end of the gallery.
    Daisy had just started to wonder whether he or Bert might be the villain, when Bert arrived from one direction and a police sergeant from the other. They both stopped dead, and while they stood for a moment gaping at Pettigrew, Harry came through the dividing arch.
    His concern was all for the Pareiasaurus. “Cor, that’s put the cat among the pigeons, and how! Mr. Mummery won’t half hit the ceiling!”
    Bert nodded solemn agreement.
    The police sergeant rounded on Harry. “Where were you, Boston, when this here incident took place?”
    â€œJust popped through to have a word with Reg Underwood, di’n’t I?” Harry Boston said in an injured voice. “See he was orright, like, and did he need a hand wiv anyfing.”
    â€œIt’s a foot he needs more like,” said Bert. He snickered, then cast a sidelong, half-guilty glance at Pettigrew.
    â€œAnd where were you?” demanded the sergeant, a stocky, blue-chinned man of perhaps forty.
    Bert stiffened to attention. “In my place,” he said loudly, “back there with the fossile inverbitrates like I was s’posed. Wilf Atkins’ll tell you.”

    â€œAtkins was with you?” asked the sergeant. “Where is he now?”
    â€œIf Atkins is the dinosaur gallery commissionaire,” said Daisy, “he went to guard the stairs to the basement from the General Library. He suggested these two should watch the other stairs from this part of the building.”
    â€œProb’ly too late, miss,” the