Rattle His Bones Read Free

every move scrutinized by the constable on duty, noticed nothing amiss. Nor did the public, when they wandered in later to ooh and aah at diamonds and sapphires before moving on to the meteorites.
    Naturally; nothing was missing. Yet.
    Â 
    That was Monday night and Tuesday morning. The following Friday he went out to Whitechapel after work, to make sure everything was proceeding according to plan.
    Satisfied, he did not return until the Friday after, fortunately a sunny though cool and breezy day. He went at midday, setting off from the museum with his attaché case, as if to eat his luncheon sandwiches in Kensington Gardens. Only that day, the case contained no sandwiches. It was stuffed with banknotes, every last remaining penny of his nest-egg.
    Sitting in the Tube, as it joggled its rattling way beneath the West End and the City, he wondered if he was crazy. He could turn around now, open a new Post Office savings
account, and redeposit his few hundred. No one would ever know what he had already done, what he planned to do tonight.
    But he could not bring himself to abandon hope. Not when he had already paid over half the price, with no chance of recovering the money.
    Besides, what he had to do tonight was no riskier than what he had already accomplished—if anything, less. He was cleverer than the police, cleverer than the museum authorities, cleverer than Pettigrew. He had the cool daring to complete the business, the patience to wait for time to cover his tracks.
    Pettigrew always returned from his holiday laden with rock specimens. Until he had studied them thoroughly, he had little interest in anything already classified, catalogued, labelled, and locked away. Weeks, if not months, would pass before he discovered that the jewels in his display cases were all as false as the Cullinan “diamond.”
    Stepping off the train at the Whitechapel station, he went up to the noisy, anonymous street.
    The strass glass gems were ready. They looked to him just as good as the real jewels. Having—that night two weeks ago—taken photographs and minutely precise measurements of the originals, and matched the colours against dozens of samples, the old man swore he had made perfect copies.
    â€œBetter qvality you vill novhere get,” he declared. “Vunce zese stones are beautifully set, only an eggspert can ze difference tell. Your vife vill be proud to vear. You vant I tell you ze address mine cousin’s, can make rings, necklaces, bracelets, vhat you like?”
    â€œNo, thank you!” He lifted his attaché case onto the work table and opened it. “My wife has her own favourite jeweller. Here you are.”

    Peering through thick spectacles, the old man watched him count out every note. Then he tenderly tucked each of his creations into its own little chamois bag. The exchange was made. Another bridge crossed.
    Â 
    He left it late, until even the most dedicated of his colleagues had surely gone home. It couldn’t be helped that that made his own presence the more questionable. He must not be seen!
    This time, he had to put the keys back in Pettigrew’s desk. The gods were assuredly on his side. As he left the Mineral Gallery, nothing moved among the giraffes and okapis. Nothing moved on the stairs. No footsteps echoed. Turning left, he sped to the Keeper of Mineralogy’s office.
    The key which had grated, he had taken to a locksmith to be smoothed. Now it rotated in the lock as easily as a spoon in a soft-boiled egg. He was in and out of the office in no more than ninety seconds.
    He intended to leave via the giraffes and the back staircase at the north end, but as he came abreast of the main stairs to the second floor, he changed his mind. If he was spotted, the farther from the Mineral Gallery the better. It would be safer to go along the far side of the Central Hall. The stairs tempted him, arching over the hall below, but he resisted—far too exposed. Back he went