The Death Collector

Chapter 12

Eddie was exhausted when he finally climbed into bed. He fell asleep almost at once, dreaming of fog and monsters and men with guns.

He was wakened by the light streaming in through the open window and the sounds of London. Carriages clattered past in the street outside; paper boys shouted headlines; someone cursed loudly. And an enticing smell of bacon wafted up the stairs. It was the smell that revived Eddie and which reminded him where he was. He hadn’t bothered even to take his jacket off, so he went straight downstairs.

There was a small kitchen at the back of the house. ‘Something smells nice,’ Eddie announced as he went in.

George was standing by a little stove. He flinched visibly at Eddie’s voice and almost dropped the frying pan he was holding through a wrapped tea towel.

‘Dear Lord, you gave me the fright of my life,’ George said when he had recovered a little. The bacon hissed and sizzled in the pan.

Eddie was laughing. ‘I could see that.’

‘How did you get in here?’

Eddie frowned. ‘You gave me use of the room. Said I could sleep in there.’

‘Yes, but you weren’t there last night when I got back from escorting Miss Oldfield home. I thought you’d be waiting outside.’

‘Can’t help that.’ Eddie leaned over the stove to inspect the bacon. ‘There’s not much in there. You not having breakfast, then?’

George moved him aside. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’

‘Must have got back after you then,’ Eddie said. ‘You can get in through windows as well as out of them.’ He pronounced it ‘win-ders’.

George was about to respond to this when he was pre-empted by a loud knocking from the front door.

‘Might be the postman,’ Eddie decided. ‘I’ll go and see.’

‘You will not,’ George told him firmly. ‘You will stay and finish cooking my breakfast.’

‘What about my breakfast, then?’ But George had already gone. So Eddie picked up a dirty fork from the wooden table in the middle of the small kitchen and helped himself to a rasher of bacon out of the pan.

Augustus Lorimore paced up and down in front of a display case of stuffed birds. His face was pale and drawn with anger. ‘This Protheroe,’ he snapped, ‘is making enquiries about Glick. And he has seen the body. He is a nuisance.’

Blade kept his expression neutral. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Him and his friends.’

‘We don’t know that they are friends, sir. It could be a coincidence. Archer works in a different Department at the Museum.’

Lorimore paused, turned towards Blade, gave a snort of derision and then continued his pacing. ‘Of course they are in league. You saw Archer and Protheroe together at the Museum the night you failed to retrieve the final volume of Glick’s diary, did you not? And Archer has been here — to this very house.’

Blade knew better than to argue. He had also caught the emphasis on ‘failed’ and he knew his life hung by a spider’s thread at this moment.

‘No,’ Lorimore continued, ‘they are in this together. And this street urchin who deceived you. And possibly others.’

‘But what do they want, sir?’ Blade hazarded.

‘The same as I, of course. They want it for themselves, or to deny it to me. It doesn’t matter which. I must have it.’ His eyes burned as he fixed them on Blade. ‘And they have this page from the diary. A clue, it must be, to where Glick hid it. I have spent years tracking it down, tracing it to Glick, realising the clue would be in his private diaries. I must know what he did with it, and for that I must have the diary page, Blade — you understand?’

There was an old man at the door. He was wearing a full-length dark coat, and silver hair poked out from under his hat. Sir William Protheroe peered at George through his small round spectacles.

‘I’m glad to find you at home, Mr Archer,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’ He did not wait for a reply, but pushed quickly past George and made his way into the living room. ‘Is that breakfast I can smell? Capital. I feel as if I could eat a cavalry charge.’

Somewhat bemused, George closed the door and followed his uninvited guest. He found Sir William making himself at home in George’s favourite armchair. His hat and coat lay discarded over the back of the small sofa.

‘I’m sorry,’ George said, ‘is this about the job you mentioned? I’m afraid I’ve not had time to give it much thought.’

Sir William waved his hand dismissively. ‘No hurry, dear chap. It is the weekend after all. And I don’t suppose that dolt Mansfield has even mentioned it to you yet, has he?’

‘Well, no, sir, actually he has not. Do you think perhaps I should mention to him that I have spoken with you?’ George wondered.

But Sir William Protheroe seemed preoccupied. He sniffed, his forehead crinkling as he frowned. ‘Is that burning bacon I can smell?’

George left Eddie in the smoke-filled kitchen with instructions about clearing away and washing up. It had not actually been the bacon that Sir William had smelled burning, as that had all been eaten by Eddie. But he had simply replaced the empty pan on the stove, and the fat heated up until it burst into flames, which Eddie thought wonderfully exciting. George had remained calm enough — just — to throw a wet tea towel over the pan, and lift it off the heat.

‘And you stay in there and clean up the mess,’ he told the boy. ‘I have things to discuss with Sir William Protheroe.’

If Eddie replied, his words were lost in the drifting smoke.

The armchair was empty when George returned to the living room and George saw that Sir William was standing by the bookcase in the corner of the room. He was examining the spines of the books there.

‘You read a lot, Mr Archer?’

‘Most of those were my father’s,’ George confessed. ‘I do enjoy reading, but I fear that many of those volumes will remain unread for a while.’

‘A pity. There are some interesting books here. And speaking of books …’ He turned from his inspection of the bookcase and returned to the armchair, settling himself back into it. ‘I wonder if you have given any more thought to the identity and motivation of those ruffians who were after Sir Henry Glick’s diary.’

‘Well, I have been rather busy,’ George said. He sat down on the sofa, carefully avoiding Sir William’s coat and hat. ‘And I think some of what I have been up to does indeed relate.’

‘So have I. Busy researching our friend the late Sir Henry Glick. But we shall come to that in a moment. First, perhaps you can tell me what you have been busy with, if you believe it is relevant.’

George paused, wondering what he should say. There was something about the man sitting opposite him that inspired confidence. ‘I have been spending much of my time trying to discover who was so desperate to get hold of Glick’s diary. And why they want it badly enough to resort to murder.’

Sir William replaced his glasses. ‘Alas, poor Percy,’ he murmured. ‘And poor Albert too, come to that.’

‘You knew Albert Wilkes?’

Sir William adjusted his head. ‘Until last night I had never knowingly set eyes on the poor man.’

‘Last night?’

‘I didn’t even realise who he was until the body disappeared, then I made some enquiries and found he had worked with Percy, who I did know slightly.’ Sir William paused, staring off into the farthest corner of the room. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on after a moment, ‘I’m probably not making much sense to you, am I?’

George nodded. Vaguely he could hear a noise, and it took him a moment to realise that it was another knocking on the front door.

It was Liz. George led her into the living room and introduced her to Sir William, who shook her hand solemnly before turning to George and raising an eyebrow meaningfully.

‘Miss Oldfield,’ George explained, ‘has been helping me investigate the strange case of Sir Henry Glick’s diaries. She has been most helpful.’

‘I fear that we have not discovered much,’ Liz admitted. ‘The desecrated grave of Mr Wilkes, a slip of charred paper, and a peculiar but largely fake seance. Little else.’

‘That may be more than you think,’ Sir William said slowly. ‘Let me tell Miss Oldfield about who I am and what I do. Mr Archer already knows,’ he told Liz. ‘And he also knows that we may actually be investigating different aspects of the same mystery. Since he appears to trust you, and I value his judgement, there are things that you should know.’

George moved the coat and hat so that he and Liz could sit together on the sofa. Sir William Protheroe leaned forward in his armchair. His fingertips tapped rhythmically together, and he began to speak. He told Liz much of what he had told George that night after the break-in and Percy’s death. He explained the Department of Unclassified Artefacts, and he told them both how he had read through the surviving volumes of Henry Glick’s diary and also researched the man’s career and life.

‘And it seemed to me that a recent investigation of my own might be related in some way,’ he went on. ‘From what Mr Archer tells me of your own exploits it seems I was right. You see, last night, I performed a brief examination of a body that was brought to me. An elderly man called Albert Wilkes. Yes, you begin to see the connection. You know that Wilkes was initially responsible for cataloguing Glick’s diary, and you know that he died — apparently of natural causes. Mr Archer tells me his grave was perhaps opened, and that I find especially intriguing. Because I found, before it mysteriously disappeared, that Wilkes’s body had been tampered with.’

Sir William paused, took off his glasses and polished them on the corner of his jacket. ‘There is a mystery here, Mr Archer and Miss Oldfield,’ he told them. ‘Something is happening that may challenge our understanding of the scientific world. And, with your help, I mean to discover what.’

There was silence for several moments after Sir William had finished. Sir William regarded his audience carefully, the light glinting on his spectacles as he replaced them and waited for their reaction.

Liz spoke first. ‘It is very generous of you to take us into your confidence, Sir William.’

‘And we do appreciate the need for complete secrecy,’ George added, looking at Liz.

Sir William nodded seriously at this. But his manner changed in an instant as a voice called from the doorway:

‘So who was this Glick bloke, anyway?’ Eddie stepped into the room. ‘I only ask ’cause it seems like his diary’s the key to all this.’

Sir William stared at Eddie for several seconds.

‘What?’ Eddie demanded.

‘Have you been out there for long?’ Sir William asked, his voice quiet and strained.

‘Oh yeah, I heard everything,’ Eddie assured him. ‘No need to go over it all again.’

‘This is Eddie,’ George said quickly.

‘He’s, er, he’s been helping us,’ Liz added.

‘If you can call it that,’ George muttered.

‘Indeed?’ Sir William pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. When he returned it to his pocket he seemed to have recovered. ‘And you can vouch for Eddie?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ George said, ‘he’s a pickpocket and a rogue, but I think he’s trustworthy.’

‘He seems to have his own moral code,’ Liz said. ‘Honour amongst thieves or something.’

‘Like I said,’ Eddie interrupted, ‘who’s this Glick?’

Sir William fixed Eddie with a steady gaze, as if summing him up. ‘Sir Henry Glick was a palaeontologist and geologist.’

‘What?’

‘He was a scientist,’ George told him.

‘And a very eminent one,’ Sir William agreed. ‘He was destined for great things, or so it was thought.’

‘So what happened?’ Liz asked.

‘According to my sources, he died young. Very tragic, before he could realise his potential. His diaries are useful as they catalogue his discoveries and theories and give us some insight as to the mental processes he went through on his journey of enlightenment.’

‘So why does someone want the last volume?’ George wondered. ‘If his work is already known about.’

‘I really cannot imagine. His early years were apparently his most productive, before he became ill. He continued to work, of course. In fact he was one of the twenty-one scientists invited to dinner at the Crystal Palace on New Year’s Eve 1853. It was, by all accounts, quite an occasion though I was not myself invited.’ He sniffed, as if irritated by this apparent oversight.

‘What was the occasion?’ Liz wondered. ‘Just the New Year?’

‘No, it was to celebrate the creation of the dinosaur statues that are now in the Crystal Palace Park. In fact the dinner was held inside the Iguanodon statue before the top was lowered. There was a drawing of the event in the Illustrated London News, I remember. Sir Henry Glick was due to make a speech which was eagerly anticipated. But on the evening his illness took a turn for the worse. It was, I think, the beginning of the end for him. He made his apologies and left early. Perhaps,’ Sir William said with a sad smile, ‘he was sickened by the rather self-serving speech that I gather the eminent palaeontologist Richard Owen gave.’

‘I’ve seen a monster that looked like a dinosaur,’ Eddie offered.

Sir William was impressed. ‘You have been to the Museum of Natural History?’

‘Course not. I saw it in the grounds of a big house. Monstrous it was. Huge, with great teeth.’

‘Not this again,’ George sighed. ‘I told you — it’s all in the imagination. All you saw was the branch of a tree blowing in the wind or something.’

‘George is right,’ Liz said gently.

Eddie stared back at them defiantly. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But I went back there last night, and I heard it breathing. In a big shed at the edge of the lawn.’

‘You did what?’ Liz said, aghast.

‘Where was this?’ Sir William asked quietly.

‘Just off Clearview Road. The place where they nabbed your mate Albert Wilkes. Place with lizard things on the gate posts,’ Eddie told him.

‘Nabbed Albert Wilkes?’ said Sir William in surprise.

‘But that’s Augustus Lorimore’s estate,’ George said. ‘It has to be.’

‘The industrialist?’

George nodded. ‘Funny thing, you know. But that’s who Percy told me to go to for help.’

‘Not that he was much help, was he?’ Liz said.

Sir William was frowning. ‘How would Percy Smythe know Augustus Lorimore, I wonder. And what’s this about Albert Wilkes being there? Tell me, what exactly did poor Percy say?’

George struggled to remember. ‘He said Lorimore’s name. And he said “help” I think. He was telling me Lorimore could help.’

Sir William’s face was grave. ‘But the man was dying,’ he said quietly. ‘He was asking you for help, for himself. Mentioning Lorimore’s name under those circumstances … Well, isn’t it just as likely that he was telling you who was to blame for his death?’

George felt suddenly cold. ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ he admitted. It was not something that had occurred to him, but now it seemed to make sense. And it explained Lorimore’s strange behaviour when they had met — how he had wanted the last surviving page of the diary. ‘But, Augustus Lorimore? There was something else nagging at him too, something at the edge of his mind.

‘Lorimore,’ Liz said. She was staring at George. ‘If you were spelling that out to someone, and they missed the first letter …’

‘Orimore?’ George said, bemused.

Liz went on. ‘And if they were interrupted or the contact was broken.’

‘What contact is this?’ Sir William asked.

‘I dunno,’ Eddie told him. ‘Think she’s going barmy.’

But George understood now. ‘If you just spelled out the middle part of his name,’ he said. ‘O R I M O.’

‘What you said that glass spelled out at the seance,’ Eddie said jumping about in excitement. ‘Albert Wilkes told you, his spirit told you. Like I said it would.’

‘Well, something did,’ Liz said. ‘Unless it’s just a coincidence?’

‘It sounds like a big coincidence,’ Sir William said. George explained quickly what had happened at the seance, and the older man nodded. ‘We live in strange times, Archer. Though of course it could be just coincidence.’

‘Don’t sound like coincidence to me,’ Eddie said. ‘Specially if this Lorimore lives in the lizard house where the monster is. The house where Wilkes was dragged off by Blade.’

‘Monsters or not,’ Sir William decided, ‘it does seem at least a possibility that Lorimore is indeed behind these macabre events. But we should be wary of jumping to conclusions without sufficient evidence.’

‘And I went to see him,’ George groaned. ‘I went and told him about the surviving fragment of the diary, and what I was doing. He knows everything.’

At that moment, in Sir William’s office at the British Museum, Garfield Berry was hunting through the papers on the desk. He found the notes from the examination that Sir William had performed on the body of Albert Wilkes, and quickly and efficiently set about making a copy.

When he was finished, he replaced the papers exactly as they had been. He put his copy in an envelope together with a short covering letter that explained that he had received the request and hoped that this was what was wanted. He also included the address of another employee of the Museum — a man called George Archer. It had not been difficult to get into Mansfield’s office and find the information he needed. Berry sealed the envelope and quickly wrote the name of the recipient on it: Augustus Lorimore.

Berry locked the office behind him with a duplicate key that Sir William knew nothing about. He did not expect Sir William back for a while yet, but he was still in a hurry. The man with the scar was waiting.