Chapter 7
To her regret, Daisy had not been present when Grand Duke Rudolf gave his address to the police. He was not likely to turn up at the museum again, she thought. Not, of course, that if he did she would talk to him about the murder, having promised not to, but she might learn more about him.
One address Daisy had overheard, and it was an easy one to remember. Mrs. Ditchley lived in Balaclava Terrace, Battersea, just across the Thames from Chelsea.
Having stuck diligently to her typewriter till half past three, Daisy needed—no, deserved—a break. The sun had come out after what seemed like weeks of rain and overcast skies, so she decided to walk over the Battersea Bridge.
She stopped in the middle of the iron bridge to look at the sparkling river.
A brightly painted narrow-boat hauled its train of barges downstream.
From the shadows under the Albert Bridge appeared a pleasure steamer, puffing upstream, with few passengers on a weekday so late in the season, in spite of the warm sunshine.
The trees of Battersea Park were already touched by autumn’s hand, Daisy noticed, though lightly as yet. If she had had Bel’s Nana with her, she
would have been tempted aside from her errand to give the pup a run.
When she was married …
Walking on, she gave herself up to rosy daydreams, but without losing sight of her goal.
She found Balaclava Terrace, a grim and grimy brick row backing onto one of the railway lines which criss-crossed the industrial area.
Though outwardly grimy, the houses were respectably dressed with white net curtains shrouding every window, and front doors painted in vivid colours.
They were larger than most workmen’s terrace houses, built for foremen and factory clerks perhaps.
Mrs. Ditchley lived with her daughter and son-in-law at Number 7. Daisy tapped on the vermilion front door with the gleaming brass lion’s-head knocker.
Katy opened the door, wearing a navy school uniform gym slip. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of Daisy, then she gave a shy grin and scampered away down a dark hall, calling, “Granny, it’s the museum lady. It’s Miss Dimple.”
Mrs. Ditchley emerged from the nether regions, swathed in an apron bestrewn with large yellow flowers, Katy hanging on her arm. With her came a smell of baking.
“Miss Dalrymple, how nice, come in. Katy gets out of school at half past three, but the rest of the kiddies will be home any moment, and I just put the kettle on.”
“Oh, but I only dropped in to see if you’ve all recovered from yesterday’s shock,” Daisy protested, less than sincerely.
“What a nasty business that was! Come in, dear, come in, if you’re not in a hurry, and we’ll have a nice cup of tea. There’s jam tarts in the oven.”
As Daisy stepped in, Mrs. Ditchley opened a door on the left, through which was visible a glimpse of the front parlour.
Obviously rarely used, it was a stiff, chilly room, wallpapered with roses in an unnatural shade of purple and furnished with antimacassared Victorian horsehair furniture.
An unhappy aspidistra in a brass pot lurked by the net curtains.
The only bright spot was a collection, on the mantelpiece, of china figurines which looked from Daisy’s distance like Presents from Southend and Clacton-on-Sea.
The children were probably rigorously excluded from the room. Daisy had no desire to be thus isolated.
“Mayn’t I join you in the kitchen?” she asked.
Mrs. Ditchley beamed. “It’d be more convenient,” she admitted, leading the way, “if you don’t mind.
The kiddies’ll want their tea before they go out to play, and it’s easier if I’m on the spot.
My daughter works down the foundry, like her husband.
They took women on during the War, when they were making munitions.
It was a reserved occupation, but lots of the lads volunteered, and so many didn’t come back, some of the girls stayed on after.
She likes it, and the extra money comes in handy, and I’m here to mind the little ones. ”
The kitchen was quite large, taking up the entire back half of the ground floor, presumably designed for a servant-less class for whom it was the main living room.
Big windows with gay cotton-print curtains looked out on a small garden, full of washing hung to dry, and the railway.
The centre of the room was largely taken up by a long, well-scrubbed table which showed signs of pastry-making at one end.
On the gas stove, a kettle was beginning to steam.
“Nasty business yesterday,” Mrs. Ditchley repeated as she poured water to heat the teapot. “But like I said, I was a nurse before I married and I went back when my daughter was grown, till the grandkiddies came along. I’ve seen worse in the hospital.”
“I worked in a hospital during the War,” said Daisy, “but in the office. What about the children? Has it upset them?”
“Not so’s you’d notice. They’re always seeing cowboys and Indians shooting each other dead at the pictures these days, aren’t they?
Except Katy here, she says she’s never going back to that museum.
Bustle about now, Katy, and lay the table for your brothers and sisters.
First bring me one of the good cups and saucers for Miss Dalrymple. ”
Mrs. Ditchley somehow managed to make tea, take two trays of jam tarts from the oven, stir a pan, and turn toast under the grill all at the same time.
Daisy was admiring; her attention tended to wander in the kitchen, so that disaster generally followed any attempt to do more than one thing at once.
Katy carefully brought her cup of tea.
“Not a drop spilled,” Daisy congratulated her. “Were you afraid at the museum?”
“A bit,” the child confessed. “Please, miss, was it the man with the loud voice which got killed?”
“He did have a loud voice,” Daisy agreed. “There was no danger for little girls. You heard him, did you?”
“After he talked in a loud voice, he made a horrable noise and then there was a great big crash. Arthur says he fell in a skellington and it was all smashed to bits.”
“Part of it was badly broken. Mrs. Ditchley, did you hear Dr. Pettigrew speak?”
“That I did not,” Mrs. Ditchley said emphatically, “and there’s nothing wrong with my hearing. But there, Katy was right by the archway. It was when I was going to fetch her back, not wanting to call out in the museum, I heard the crash and she came running back, naughty monkey.”
“I didn’t like them bones, Granny.”
“Those bones.”
“I didn’t like those. I wanted to see the furry ephalunt again. It’s nice.”
“Times I’ve told you not to wander off alone!”
“Do you remember,” Daisy started, when the front door slammed open. The three middle children rushed in like a herd of furry ephalunts, shedding coats, hats, and satchels en route.
“Gran, I’m hungry!”
“Arthur went to the park to play football, Granny. Did you say he could?”
“I got all my sums right, Gran. What’s for tea?”
“Now mind your manners! Here’s Miss Dalrymple come to see us.”
There was a momentary lull as they all said hello, and then the clamour began again, to be halted only by full mouths.
Vast quantities of Heinz baked beans on toast disappeared, while Daisy nibbled a raspberry jam tart and debated whether it was worth trying to question Katy with the others present.
If she asked to see Katy alone, what should otherwise pass for common curiosity would begin to look rather odd. Mrs. Ditchley could well object, and the little girl might be frightened.
The children moved on to jam tarts. Mrs. Ditchley abandoned her post at the cooker, wiped clear a spot at the pastry end of the table, and with a sigh sat down with her cup of tea.
“What was it you were asking, Miss Dalrymple,” she said, “when this noisy lot interrupted?”
“I wondered whether Katy heard what Dr. Pettigrew said just before the crash, and if she can remember.”
“Bet she’s forgotten,” jeered her nine-year-old brother.
“She can too remember, Billy. Give her a chance. Go on, Kate,” urged Jennifer, “what did he say?”
Katy swallowed a mouthful of sticky, flaky jam tart and announced importantly, “He said, ‘You think you’re so clever, but I know how it was done!’”
“That’s right,” Jennifer crowed. “That’s what she told me before, just those exact words. Told you so. There was another bit first, though, Katy, remember?”
“Not ’xackly.” A note of doubt entered Katy’s voice.
“She told me, Miss Dalrymple,” Jennifer persisted. “She told me when we were by the Megalosaurus waiting for Granny. She doesn’t remember ’cause she didn’t understand properly. Is it all right if I say it for her?”
Since Daisy was not bound by the rules of evidence regarding second-hand evidence, she eagerly assented, hoping the beginning would shed light on the cryptic end, perhaps even supply a name.
“‘You fossil-eyed fool.’ That’s what he said, wasn’t it, Katy?”
“Maybe.” Katy was still dubious.
“Was it ‘fossilized,’ Katy?” Daisy asked. “‘Fossilized fool’?” That was the sort of cheap insult Pettigrew liked to throw around.
“Maybe. I thought he said eyes. And fools.” Her lips trembled. “I don’t know for sure. Granny, I don’t know.”
“Told you so!” Billy triumphed.
“William Albert, that’s enough of that. Clear the table, and you can help me wash up. I don’t care if it’s not your turn. It doesn’t matter, duckie, there’s nothing to cry about. Come to Gran, then.”
“I’m sorry,” said Daisy. “It’s all right, Katy. Much better to say you don’t know than pretend you do. Will you tell me one more thing, if you know the answer?”
Katy raised her jammy face from Mrs. Ditchley’s yellow-flowered bosom and nodded dolefully.
“You too, Billy, and Mary as well. Give me an honest answer. Did any of you see anyone crossing the dinosaur gallery while your Granny was gone?”
Three heads shook in unison.
“I was looking at the dinosaur’s teeth,” said Billy regretfully. “Was it the murderer, miss? Cor, I wish I’d seen the murderer!”