Chapter 3
Mr. Steadman ushered Daisy into the Dinosaur Gallery. Over half its length was taken up by the Diplodocus, eighty-five feet from nose to the whiplash tip of its tail, thirteen feet high, with its tiny head perched at the end of a long, slender neck.
“I’d like to take the Diplodocus,” Daisy said, “but it’s so huge I don’t think I could do it justice. Besides, it’s American, isn’t it?”
“The Iguanodon is home grown,” said Steadman with a smile, smoothing back his thinning hair. “Do you want to try that? It’s smaller, of course, but still quite dramatic.”
About to agree, Daisy heard the gallery’s commissionaire say sharply, “No running, if you please!” She looked round to see Derek and Belinda approaching at a sort of compromise between a run and a walk.
Derek skidded to a halt, eyes only for the Diplodocus. “Crikey!” he said, scanning it from end to end. “Crikey! Is it real?”
“Course it is, isn’t it, Aunt Daisy?” Belinda said scornfully. “Everything here is real.”
“You’d better ask Mr. Steadman here,” Daisy advised.
“He’s the museum’s dinosaur man. My nephew, Derek, Mr. Steadman, and …” She could hardly introduce Bel to the curator as her future stepdaughter, particularly as he was now looking rather disgruntled. She shouldn’t have troubled him with the children. “And Belinda,” she finished.
“Please, sir, is it real?”
“In a sense, it’s real, Master Derek. Miss Belinda is correct in that we don’t have imaginary animals in the museum. Creatures like this did exist millions of years ago. But I’m afraid this particular skeleton is a model made from casts of the real bones.”
“Oh,” said Derek, disappointed. Steadman grimaced. Daisy gathered his disgruntlement was with the plaster model, not the children. “Oh well,” said Derek, “it’s still spiffing, isn’t it, Bel? You can see what it was like, even if it’s not quite real.”
“You mustn’t mind,” Bel said kindly to Steadman. “Did you lose the bones?”
“No, no! The Diplodocus was found in America, and the Americans sent casts to various museums all over the world. Shall I tell you a secret?”
“Yes,” breathed Derek. “Please!”
“Promise not to tell?” They both nodded, wide-eyed. Stooping to their height, Steadman whispered, “They used the wrong feet by mistake. The front feet of this model are really the back feet of a Camarasaurus!”
“Really and truly?”
“Really and truly.”
Derek dragged Belinda off to study the erroneous feet. Daisy and Steadman went over to the Iguanodon, a heavily built beast about twenty-five feet long. It stood more upright than the Diplodocus, perhaps twelve or fourteen feet tall, its forelimbs more like arms than legs, with huge claws on the
thumbs. It would be a bit easier to fit into the viewfinder, Daisy agreed.
While she prepared to take the photograph, she asked several questions about the creature, and then said, “Wasn’t the Iguanodon the one Dr. Smith Woodward said was discovered by a woman?”
“That’s right. At least, Mrs. Mantell found the teeth.”
“And there was someone else—Ann something?”
“Mary Anning, a highly talented fossil hunter of the last century. I believe she unearthed the first complete ichthyosaur and plesiosaur both. Mummery could tell you more about that.”
Bother, thought Daisy. The female aspect sounded like a good idea to widen the appeal of her article, but it would mean applying to Mummery, whom she didn’t much care for.
“Are many dinosaurs found in England?”
“A few. The best hunting-grounds are elsewhere, however, chiefly Africa and the American West.” He glanced discontentedly around his collection. “The American museums and universities bag all the best.”
“Even the African ones?”
“They have the money to send out their own expeditions, as well as to buy the best from independent finders. Our trustees have been debating setting up an expedition since 1918. Smith Woodward is pushing for it, but five years and still no decision! The poor old fellow will die of old age before it happens. But I don’t want to bore you. Is there anything else I can tell you?”
“What else would you suggest I photograph?”
“Megalosaurus,” he said promptly. “It’s English, and actually the first dinosaur genus ever named or described in detail, just a century ago. We haven’t a complete skeleton,
but a photograph of its head showing the dentition would be worthwhile, I believe.”
Dentition—dentist—teeth, Daisy worked out. Latin was another subject the girls at her school had not been subjected to, but French dent, a tooth, helped.
Derek had already found the Megalosaurus skull and was gazing with bloodthirsty awe at its vicious, carnivorous grin.
Steadman explained to him the functions of the various types of teeth in far more gruesome detail than Daisy considered necessary.
Belinda had already gone off in disgust to look at some innocuous fossil fish on the other side of the gallery.
Apparently the description of a dinosaur meal, even as it destroyed Daisy’s usually hearty appetite, had aroused Derek’s. Having politely thanked Mr. Steadman, he reminded her that they were to have lunch in the refreshment room.
After lunch, the children decided to go with Daisy to the Mineralogy Gallery. From the cafeteria on the first floor, a glassed-in room with a view to the Central Hall on one side and the North Hall on the other, they walked past the giraffes and okapis.
Derek had recently seen live giraffes at the zoo, near Belinda’s home in St. John’s Wood. He was more interested in hanging over the arched and pillared balustrade to see the people walking below.
“Come along,” said Daisy crossly, grabbing the back of his jacket, her temper ruffled by the prospect of her interview with the unpleasant Pettigrew. “What am I to say to your mother if you fall and break all your bones to bits?”
“There’s lots of people here,” Derek pointed out, “who spend all their time sticking bones back together.”
“Not always right,” Belinda reminded him. “S’pose they stuck dinosaur feet on you?”
This struck both of them as the height of wit. Guffawing, Derek started to walk as he imagined a dinosaur might. Daisy shushed them and thrust them still giggling into the Mineralogy Gallery, while she went on to Pettigrew’s office.
Over his door, the architect’s whim had placed a terra cotta medallion of a strutting buck. Its combative stance reminded Daisy all too clearly of the Keeper.
However, Dr. Pettigrew greeted her courteously and answered her questions painstakingly, if with a heavy patience which suggested ill-disguised scorn for her ignorance. She finished by asking about the rock samples strewn on the work-bench under one window.
“Just some bits and pieces I picked up in Cornwall, on my summer holiday. Nothing of great value,” he added, but he rose from his desk chair and went over to the table.
“Isn’t that gold?” Daisy enquired, following, as a yellow gleam caught her eye.
“No, I’m afraid not. There is a little gold in Cornwall, but that’s just iron pyrites. Often known as fool’s gold.”
Daisy laughed. “I see why. And the others? What are those green crystals?”
“Polished up nicely, hasn’t it? That’s torbernite, a phosphate of copper and uranium.
These blue crystals are azurite, a copper ore.
Both copper and uranium are mined in Cornwall.
It’s an area rich in useful minerals, zinc, lead, arsenic, wolfram, and tin, of course, which the Phoenicians came to trade for.
This is its ore, cassiterite. Then there are the building stones, granite, sandstone, and slate; and mica; and the pigments ochre and umber.
Useful stuff,” he repeated insistently, “not like those ancient, crumbling bones downstairs which absorb so much money and effort.”
Fearing a tirade, Daisy hastily finished scribbling shorthand hieroglyphics and said, “I’d better be getting along. I left two children in the gallery. Thank you for all your help.”
“Children? Maybe they would like a piece of pyrites each. Here—no, I’ll come along.”
They found Belinda and Derek entranced by the display of opals.
Pettigrew actually unlocked the case and allowed each of them to hold one of the iridescent stones while he lectured them on the subject.
Though he was rather condescending, it was kind of him, Daisy thought.
She decided Ol’ Stony was not so stony-hearted as he was painted, in spite of his rudeness to Smith Woodward—unless the story of his brutality to the one-legged commissionaire was true.
She looked around. Between the rectangular pillars embossed, oddly enough, with sea creatures, she caught glimpses of a commissionaire’s uniform.
The youngish man patrolling the aisles appeared to have a full complement of limbs.
Of course, she couldn’t tell whether he was deaf, and even if he was, it would not prove Sergeant Hamm’s tale.
Pettigrew locked away the opals and gave the children the two small chunks of fool’s gold. He was starting to explain them, when the sound of the commissionaire’s footsteps nearby made him look round.
He frowned irritably. Then he looked beyond the approaching commissionaire and broke into a furious scowl. Abruptly deserting Daisy and the children, he stormed off towards a figure bending over one of the cases.
“There’s that damn fellow again. Hi, you!” he shouted. “What have you come back for?”
All over the gallery heads turned—except the undoubtedly deaf commissionaire’s. The object of Pettigrew’s ire straightened and swung round. Daisy saw that he was a slim young man, whose longish fair hair, parted in the middle and
carefully slicked down on top, matched a sweeping cavalry moustache.