The Death Collector

Chapter 20

After losing himself in the fog, Garfield Berry had no idea what to do next. He had no wish to find Mr Blade again, and he could not return to work at the Museum. People would be looking for him — Blade wanting details of what he had discovered. Or Protheroe. They would look for him at home, and while he wasn’t there, his family was. Berry was not concerned about Sir William Protheroe confronting Lucy and the children. But Blade was a very different prospect. His men would be waiting for him.

He hurried home.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Lucy asked him in the little hallway as soon as he came in.

‘Nothing,’ he said quickly, the words coming out in a nervous rush. ‘Are you all right? What are you doing up, I thought you’d be asleep. I told you I would be late. Very late. Has anyone been looking for me?’ He took her by the shoulders, looking deep into her eyes and trying not to cry at how lovely she looked.

‘There was a man,’ she said slowly, pulling away confused. ‘It’s the middle of the night — I told him you were out on business. But he said you would be on your way back here. I didn’t believe him.’ She turned away. ‘How did he know?’ she asked quietly. ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Did this man say that I was?’

She turned back, her cheeks damp. ‘He didn’t say anything. Only that you would soon be back and he would wait.’

‘Wait? You mean he’s still here?’ Berry was unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’ Lucy said quietly. She clasped her hands together in front of her. ‘Oh why won’t you tell me what it is?’

‘I …’ What could he say? What could he tell her? He was so ashamed of himself already, without the burden of confession. Without her condemnation as well. She had been so proud when he got the job at the Museum. How could he tell her he had betrayed the man who was so generous to him? And for what? Money — money they desperately needed to keep the bailiffs from the door. But it was just money. The same thing that had seduced Judas.

She could tell he would say nothing more. She wiped her hands on her apron and nodded towards the door to the tiny sitting room. ‘He’s in there. I’ll be in the kitchen.’ She walked briskly away without turning back.

He expected Sir William. Blade would have struck terror into Lucy merely by his appearance. In a way, Berry wished it was Blade — he would know where he stood, how to react. But what could he say to Sir William?

It was neither. Berry did not recognise the figure that stood by the fireplace, though he knew at once who it must be. The man was staring down into the glowing embers. He was tall and incredibly thin, his whole face and body apparently composed of sharp angles. He did not look up as Berry came in, and Berry gave a stammered account of what he had discovered at the Museum. He wasn’t sure how he knew that this was Augustus Lorimore, but he was somehow certain of it.

‘I believe you owe me rather more of an explanation than that,’ Lorimore said quietly. ‘You have provided information, told Mr Blade that they have what I want in the Museum with them. Yet you have been unable, or perhaps unwilling, to acquire it for me.’ The man’s voice was sharp and angular too. Still he did not look up from the fire. ‘You know these coals burn inside as well as out. When the fire around them has gone, they still burn within. It happens underground sometimes — a whole coal seam can burn under the ground. All it needs is a little air to breathe. Until it has exhausted all the inner fuel and burns itself out.’

He turned and fixed Berry with a startlingly fierce gaze. His eyes were themselves pin-pricks of coal that burned deep inside. ‘Has your inner fire gone out, I wonder,’ he said quietly. ‘Have you exhausted your usefulness, and declined to help me just when I need you most?’

He crossed the room in two rapid strides, spindly fingers suddenly clamped tight about Berry’s throat, squeezing hard. ‘Because if that is the case, then you won’t need that little air to breathe any more, now will you?’

The room blurred, running red as Berry tried to focus, tried to drag the hands away from his neck. He could feel himself sagging, his strength ebbing away. His inner fire going out …

Then suddenly he was sprawling, gasping on the threadbare carpet.

The man’s voice was deadened by the rush of blood in his ears and the rasping of his breath. ‘Or could you perhaps summon the fire for one more simple task? Hmm?’

Berry’s hands were rubbing at his throat, feeling the swelling and bruises. The man leaned down and pulled one of his hands away. Berry gave a hoarse cry of fright, but the man had pulled a plain white envelope from his inner jacket pocket, and he slapped it into Berry’s palm.

‘I could entrust this to the post, but it is urgent and I am a generous man. I shall give you one last chance to redeem yourself.’

‘Thank you, Mr Lorimore,’ Berry croaked.

‘I would like this delivered into Sir William Protheroe’s hand this morning. Coming from you, he is more likely to accept it, and he will be sure it is genuine. In return I will pay you what I promised for this month. After that, our obligations to each other are ended. Is that clear?’

Berry nodded, his throat still burning inside.

Lorimore paused in the open doorway and looked back pityingly at the figure still sprawled on the floor. ‘It may be that Sir William wishes you to deliver a reply,’ he said. ‘If so, you will bring it promptly to Mr Blade who will be waiting outside the Museum. If not …’ His mouth twisted and turned as he considered this eventuality. ‘If not, then I suggest you tender your resignation and come straight home. No doubt your charming wife will be worried about you.’

The sound of a baby’s crying came through the open door. Lorimore listened for a moment, then stepped out into the hall. His reedy voice floated back to Berry. ‘I hope you are less of a disappointment to your family than you are to me. I shall see myself out. Good day to you.’

The front door banged shut. Berry crawled to an armchair and climbed into it, collapsing exhausted. He closed his eyes, and rubbed at his throat with one hand, gripping the envelope tightly with the other. When he opened his eyes, Lucy was standing in front of him. Little Davey was over her shoulder, quiet now as his mother patted his back.

‘I have to go out,’ Berry said, his voice a dry croak. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Lucy said nothing. She watched him all the way to the door, followed him into the hallway.

‘I love you,’ he said. She did not reply.

To his undisguised irritation, Eddie had been volunteered again — this time to keep watch at the main doors of the Museum. Not that it was actually possible to see very much through the foggy night. He could hear the sound of cautiously approaching footsteps long before he could see anyone, and he prepared to run.

He was surprised to see that it was Berry, who seemed even more nervous than Eddie. He stammered out an explanation, showing Eddie the envelope he had brought for Sir William, and Eddie waved him past. The man didn’t seem much of a threat, so Eddie stayed where he was. On guard. In case Berry had brought any friends with him.

After Sir William had sent Berry away, declining to reply to Lorimore’s letter but accepting Berry’s sheepish offer of resignation, Liz and George crowded round to see what the letter said.

There were just two lines written on the thick cartridge paper:

You know what I want. You have one hour

from the receipt of this message.

It was unsigned.

‘Why does he still want the page from Glick’s diary?’ George wondered. ‘If Berry overheard us talking, then he can’t learn any more from this.’ He jabbed his finger at the slip of paper.

‘Perhaps Lorimore does not know that,’ Sir William suggested. ‘Or perhaps he knows more than we do about it.’

‘Or he knows we have the previous volumes of the diary and wants those,’ Liz suggested.

‘Whatever he wants,’ George told them, ‘he is demanding it from a position of strength. He knows where we are, so I doubt we’d be allowed to just leave. And we have nothing.’

Sir William raised his finger. ‘Not true,’ he insisted. ‘We have one hour, or slightly less. But that in itself proves that you are right, young man. They are watching, they must be to know when this was delivered. Watching and waiting.’

‘Which leaves us less than an hour, then,’ Liz said.

‘Well,’ Sir William continued, ‘we do have something he evidently wants very badly indeed. So the question is, does he want the slip of paper for himself, or does he want to prevent us having it?’

‘But neither makes sense,’ George said in frustration.

‘On the face of it that would indeed seem to be the case. So I can only assume we are still missing something here. Something important. Something that this paper means or would convey to Lorimore which we have so far failed to discern.’

Liz nodded. ‘And either he wants to know what that is, or he wants us to surrender the paper before we manage to work it out.’

‘Or both,’ George added. ‘But what can it be?’

‘I was about to run some tests on this paper.’ Sir William was examining the scrap again, as he had done an hour earlier. ‘It is possible that it was this that prompted Berry to reveal himself and try to steal it. Or, of course, it may be simply that he saw an opportunity.’

‘What tests did you have in mind?’ George wondered.

‘It seemed rather tenuous and unlikely at the time, but I did wonder if Glick had perhaps written another version of events on the same diary pages, but in invisible ink.’

‘Invisible ink, is that possible?’ Liz asked in astonishment.

‘My father showed me, when I was a boy,’ George remembered, ‘how to write using lemon juice instead of ink. It dried so you couldn’t see it.’

Sir William nodded enthusiastically. ‘Citric acid, a very useful substance. It does as you say dry invisibly. Then the application of heat, from a smoothing iron or some such, will cause the writing to appear in a dark brown form.’

‘We used to toast pages of invisible writing in front of the fire,’ George said quietly. He had a dreamy expression as he stared back fondly into the past.

‘I assume there are other forms that invisible ink can take,’ Liz said.

‘Oh indeed yes, my dear,’ Sir William agreed.

‘What’s wrong with lemon juice?’ George asked.

‘Just that this paper has already been subjected to considerable heat,’ Liz told him. ‘And there is no evidence of hidden writing having appeared.’

‘Oh,’ George said, recalling the fire. ‘Yes.’

‘But we are agreed on the general principle, are we not?’ Sir William said. ‘In some manner, this paper is more than it seems. And because of that, either because Lorimore wishes to know its secrets or because he is desperate for us not to learn them, either way we must at all costs keep hold of it. Are we agreed?’

The others nodded. It did seem the only option.

‘It does at least give us a position of some strength to bargain from,’ Sir William added.

Liz agreed: ‘Give up this paper, and we give up everything.’

‘Splendid.’ Sir William rubbed his hands together in delight as if the whole matter was now completely sorted out. ‘Well, I’ll get on with testing this piece of paper in any and every way I can think of.’

Forty-five minutes later, George and Liz had tired of watching Sir William busying himself with the scrap of paper. Every few minutes they glanced at the clock. Now it was nearly time — the hour that Lorimore had given them was almost gone.

‘I’d better go and get Eddie,’ George said. He had warned the boy what Lorimore had said, and Eddie had agreed they would be best advised to stay put.

‘We can defend ourselves here,’ Sir William had told George. ‘And soon, when morning comes and the staff begin to arrive, he’ll have to call off his thugs or someone’ll call the police.’

Liz went with George and together they joined Eddie on the steps outside the Museum, peering into the foggy night.

‘I can’t see more than about six feet in front of me,’ she said.

‘You hear things,’ Eddie told her. ‘Cabs, people shouting, and stuff.’

‘We might as well go back to Sir William and look for somewhere to hide,’ George said.

‘I doubt he’ll leave his precious collection,’ Liz remarked.

But Eddie was waving at her to be quiet. ‘Listen,’ he hissed.

A moment later, George could hear it too. Carriages. Several of them, judging by the clop of so many horses’ hooves and the rattle of the wheels over the cobbles. It was muffled by the fog, but the sound was clear enough.

‘Inside!’ George said quickly.

The fog seemed to have crept inside the building itself. It hung like smoke in the foyer, where Sir William now stood waiting. He was holding the slip of paper saved from Glick’s burnt diary.

‘Nothing,’ he proclaimed, as soon as Eddie and the others were inside.

George slammed the door shut, sliding heavy bolts into place and turning a large key in the lock.

‘I have tried everything I can think of. Nothing.’ Sir William nodded towards the closed door. ‘Is that really necessary?’

‘Yes,’ George said simply.

‘Lorimore is here,’ Liz explained.

‘And it sounds like he’s bringing Blade and his mates,’ Eddie added.

Sir William raised an eyebrow but seemed otherwise unimpressed. He glanced down at the paper in his hand. ‘Perhaps I have missed something then.’

There was a loud crack from the door behind them. The wood shifted visibly in the frame, creaking as something large and heavy collided with it. A moment’s pause, then another, louder crack.

‘I don’t think that’s going to hold for terribly long, you know,’ Sir William observed just before the third crack of splintering wood. ‘Let’s get back to the laboratory.’ He turned and led the way briskly across the foyer and out into the Great Court.

‘Will we be safe there?’ Liz asked. ‘Shouldn’t we get out the back door or something?’

‘As safe as anywhere, my dear. Lorimore is likely to have all the exits watched. At least we know the territory. Come on.’

Behind them the door was already splintering apart.

They worked hurriedly to barricade the laboratory. Together they managed to drag the heavy workbench across the door. Eddie retrieved his smooth stone from the work top and stuffed it into his pocket.

‘You realise that there’s no other way out of here,’ George said. ‘If they find us, we’re trapped.’

‘We’ll be trapped soon enough wherever we go,’ Sir William said. ‘Our only chance is to bargain. And in here we can bargain, I hope, from a position of strength. We have the paper from the diary, and we have the means to analyse it — and to destroy it if need be. And now, thanks to our visit to his foundry and the time I have had to ponder this in the last hour, we have a good idea of what Lorimore is up to. More or less.’

‘And what is he up to. More or less?’ Liz asked.

Sir William was filling glass flasks and beakers from a tap over a small sink at the back of the room. ‘Help me stopper these up, will you. I’d like an impressive collection ready for when the time comes.’ He had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Satisfied that Eddie and George were able to put the rubber stoppers into the flasks and cover the beakers with glass lids, he turned to Liz.

‘Lorimore has coupled his fascination with modern technology with his love of fossils and dinosaur discoveries. His plan, it would seem, is to create a dinosaur for the modern age. A work animal that has the strength and power of the dinosaurs, the reliability and stamina of British steam technology, and the intelligence and intuition of humans. Although I think he has some way of regulating the brains of his subjects …’ Sir William paused, then corrected himself. ‘Or rather, his victims. I believe from Albert Wilkes’s behaviour that so far complete control of the individual has eluded him. He can either leave the reasoning faculties intact, along with their free will, or he can assume control — as he does with that monster — but at the cost of any individual thought and initiative.’

‘But why is he doing it at all?’ George asked as he arranged the last of the flasks on a small table.

‘I would guess, from what I know of his character and ambition, that his ultimate aim is to ensure that the British Empire endures for a thousand or more years. And that he, Augustus Lorimore, plays a prominent role in its governance.’ Sir William smiled thinly. ‘It may sound a trifle melodramatic, and I doubt if he has thought of it in entirely these terms, but I believe that Lorimore wants to rule the world.’ He surveyed the collection of flasks and beakers. ‘Yes, I think that will do for now.’

‘It’s just water,’ Eddie said.

‘You and I know that,’ Sir William said. ‘But don’t tell anyone else, will you?’ He looked up sharply as the handle of the door rattled.

A moment later, something crashed into it, shattering the lock. The door moved barely an inch, stopped by the heavy workbench. The bench shifted slightly, with a scraping sound, pushed backwards by whatever was on the other side of the door.

‘His ultimate goal,’ Sir William went on, apparently unperturbed, ‘must be to somehow recreate the animal and achieve a true marriage of living dinosaur and technology. But to do that he would need more than dead bones and corpse’s brains. He will need some living tissue, some animal material that has survived down the millennia and could still be viable.’

‘Viable?’ George echoed. ‘For what?’

‘Why, to breed from. To grow and harvest cells that can be transplanted on to his mechanical frames and driven by his engines. He doesn’t want to spend forever working with the bodies of the dead. No, no, no. He wants to create life.’ The workbench slid back another inch. ‘You know, I don’t think he wants to stop at ruling the Empire,’ Sir William said thoughtfully. ‘He also wants to be God.’

The workbench shivered, then shifted again. Slowly but inexorably, a gap was appearing. An arm — huge and bulging with muscles — poked through the gap, an enormous hand feeling round.

‘And these employees of his,’ Liz said, anxiously watching the hand as it fumbled over the door frame, ‘you implied they were somehow enhanced in this way.’

‘The strength of a dinosaur in the body of a man,’ Sir William said quietly. ‘Demonstrably the case, wouldn’t you say? Now all he needs is the ability to breed rather than manufacture. So much more efficient.’

The workbench was still slipping slowly back. The door was opening further. Something was heaving itself through the gap, the top of the door bending as it forced its way through. A head appeared, huge and bony. Eyes glittered with malevolent triumph as the man — if he was a man — stared at Sir William and the others.

‘Now I wouldn’t stand there too long, if I were you,’ Sir William said. He had picked up one of the flasks and was holding it up so the man could see it clearly. He agitated it, letting the clear liquid inside slosh about. ‘Do you know what this is?’

‘It’s water, innit?’ The man’s voice was a deep gravel-rasp.

‘Certainly it looks like it. But as you will discover if you come through that door and force me to throw this at you, it is nothing so benign.’

The man was frowning, unsure what Sir William was telling him.

‘I suggest you tell whoever is in charge out there that we are willing to listen to any reasonable request or offer. But if any of you so much as set a foot through that door again, then he will get a face-full of concentrated sulphuric acid. Now perhaps you don’t know what that would do to you. How it would blister and burn and destroy your face before eating into your brain, or what Lorimore has left you of it. But I suspect your employer will. So you might want to check with him before we close up the breach with your steaming dead.’

The man stared at them for several seconds. Eddie was holding his breath. If he forced his way into the room, he would soon discover that the flasks and beakers held only water. What then?

Sir William sighed, raised the flask. ‘Very well,’ he said sadly, and drew his arm back ready to hurl the flask.

But the man was gone.

‘Now what?’ Liz asked.

‘Now, I hope, Lorimore will be forced to offer us some sort of deal. Something which may give a further clue as to what he is after. Remember, we still have something he wants.’

‘But,’ George said slowly, ‘how badly does he want it?’

The answer came barely a minute later. A clanking, hissing, thumping from the corridor outside. Mechanical and rhythmic, like the mechanism of a gigantic clock. But organic too — breathing, sighing, a sore-throat scraping like someone trying to speak through unbearable pain.

‘It can’t be that monster,’ Eddie said. ‘It would never get down the passage.’

‘Our mistake was perhaps in assuming he had just the one monster,’ Sir William admitted quietly.

The door was flung fully open. The workbench was shoved backwards by the impact. Steam blew through the doorway and hung warm and oily in the air. Through the smog, a shape slowly solidified as it approached. Every step was measured, deliberate, accompanied by a breath of steam and a whirr of gears.

It was something that George had seen before, albeit in its component pieces — at Lorimore’s foundry. Waiting to be assembled into exoskeleton frames like this. But what confronted them now was not merely the metal frame that had been assembled at the foundry.

‘Two lines of experimentation,’ Sir William said, nodding sadly. ‘Replacing the bones internally, or this — an exoskeleton to strengthen the existing body even as it rots away.’ He shook his head, more sad than afraid. ‘Grotesque,’ he murmured. ‘Devilish.’

The exoskeleton, as Sir William called it, was like an enlarged human figure. It was crude and distorted, like a child’s drawing outlining the figure held inside, keeping it rigid and upright. Its limbs were bulky and long, iron bolts and supports erupting from the pale bone and connecting them to the metal frame. When the man moved, so the heavy metal frame around him also moved. Or perhaps it was the other way round. Steam hissed out from the joints — from the elbows, knees, shoulders …

Worst of all was the face. A deathly white face, drawn and emaciated. The cheekbones all but poking through the parchment-thin translucent skin. The remains of a tangle of white hair flopped uncertainly to one side, away from the scars and stitches across the scalp.

Pale, watery eyes fixed on George. Was there a flicker of recognition, somewhere deep behind the irises? Or was it just a trick of the light? Whatever it was, George was unable to take his own eyes off the face. The face of what had once been a man.

Had once been a man he knew.

‘Albert?’ George said, the word sticking in his dry throat. ‘Albert Wilkes?’