The Death Collector

Chapter 3

George hardly slept at all. After describing his evening’s experiences to the police and answering their questions, he did not get home until well after midnight. Lying in bed in the dark, all he could think of was Percy Smythe’s face; all he could feel was Percy’s sticky, heavy head cradled in his hands. And even when he eventually managed to banish his memories of that, he could see Sir William Protheroe looking intently at him. Sir William had told George that he was Curator of the Department of Unclassified Artefacts.

George had worked at the Museum long enough to know all the Departments. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said slowly, ‘I have never heard of it.’

‘Ah,’ said Protheroe sympathetically. ‘Well, that would be because it does not officially exist. Also,’ Sir William admitted, ‘my Department is unique in that while it is funded and administered by the Museum, I was actually appointed by, and answer to, a small committee of the Royal Society. A secret committee, just as my Department is secret.’

‘Secret?’ George had echoed. He remembered how Sir William had smiled in reply. And what he had said:

‘No one apart from myself knows about my Department, other than the inner committee of the Royal Society, my immediate superiors at the British Museum and the senior trustees, and my assistant Mr Berry. Except for you.

‘Which is rather ironic I always think, given that it is called The Department of Unclassified artefacts. But it is an apt title, despite the fact that the work we do and the items in the collection itself, are kept secret — not only from the public but also from the majority of the scientific world. Put simply, it is to my Department that artefacts are sent which do not fit in other Departments.

‘At first, it was a catch-all — a home for finds that were genuinely unclassified. But over time its function has changed. Now, the Department is home to those relics and finds which not only fail to fit into other Departments at the Museum, but which do not fit into established archaeology or history or science. Some are items which contradict current thinking. But others are artefacts the existence of which would be simply too frightening for public awareness. Things that should not exist, but do.

‘Most of our artefacts seem innocent enough on first inspection. It is only when scientific and historical examination throws up contradictions and paradoxes that they come to us. A tooth might seem normal enough, unless it is the tooth of a vampire. The pelt of an animal of the canine family is unremarkable, unless it was taken from a werewolf. A stone tablet engraved in the Queen’s English is unlikely to cause controversy, unless it was unearthed from a site which is several thousand years old and might be the lost city of Atlantis.

‘Now, I’m not saying that we have any of these items in our collection. They are merely examples of how the apparently commonplace may be remarkable. And of course there are also items which are instantly recognisable as out of the ordinary. Inexplicable. Perhaps impossible, except that they do indeed exist in our vaults.

‘It is the job of the Department, of myself, to acquire and research such artefacts, to discover what they really signify — while knowing that my work may never be made public.

‘So why am I telling you this? For two reasons. First, believe it or not, the work of our small Department is on the increase. Now more than ever science seems to throw up things it cannot — will not — understand. As a result I find myself in need of a second assistant to help Mr Berry. It strikes me from what I know of your work, Mr Archer, and from what I have been told by others, that you would be ideally suited for the position. If you are interested. If not, then so be it. I have told you of my secret Department and its work, but no matter. Even if you wanted to make my work public, which I doubt, who could you tell who would believe you? But I think you would find the work rewarding — financially and intellectually.

‘The second reason I am telling you this relates to Sir Henry Glick’s diary. It seems that tonight someone has gone to great lengths to acquire the final volume of the diary. It may turn out to be nothing to do with my Department at all, but since I have been in some small way involved, I should like to know why.’

Sir William was looking at George carefully, his expression grave. ‘And I think,’ he finished, ‘that you would like that same question answered, would you not?’

Again and again George went over the conversation in his head. Again and again he replayed Sir William’s words. The notion of the Department of Unclassified Artefacts was at once both intriguing and a little frightening. And to be offered a job there … George eventually dropped into a fitful and restless sleep as the first hint of dawn was washing across the sky outside.

By eight o’clock, George was awake again, and he felt as though he had not slept at all. The events of the previous night and Sir William’s words all seemed a blurred dream, and it was only when he opened his wallet and carefully drew out the ragged slip of paper from inside that he really believed that those things had actually happened.

Lorimore — he knew the name, he was sure. All the way to the British Museum, he tried to recall where he had come across the name. It worried him on the walk to the underground station. It rankled as he stood on the crowded, smoky platform waiting for the train. It was at the forefront of his mind as he sat inside one of the tiny carriages and hurtled through the dark tunnels. But by the time he arrived at the Museum, he had remembered, and he wondered how it had taken him so long. Augustus Lorimore — the industrialist. He owned a string of factories and workshops, financed experimental development work, supplied the latest technology to Her Majesty’s government, and was quoted as an expert almost daily in the papers and engineering journals.

It was not difficult to discover the address of Lorimore’s offices. For one thing it was stamped on the frame of the Museum’s goods lift which George had not realised was a Lorimore product. As soon as he took a break, George wrote Lorimore a short letter. Probably he would never hear back, but he owed it to Percy to try to contact the man. He gave his address as care of the British Museum, thinking this at least might impress and lend authenticity to his story.

Briefly, George explained that the Museum had suffered a break-in that was being investigated by the police. He mentioned Percy’s death, in case Lorimore and Percy had somehow known each other. He wrote of how the thieves had been after Sir Henry Glick’s diaries, but had fled empty-handed after the volume they wanted had been burned. He asked Lorimore if he could help in any way, unsure really what it was that he expected of the man. As an afterthought, George wrote that he had the last surviving fragment of the final volume of Glick’s diary in his possession.

‘It is not much,’ he admitted. ‘Little more than a few words. But it may furnish some clue as to what the ruffians were after. If it can be of any help, I am more than happy to show it to you in return for your assistance in this matter.’

George sent his letter by the next post, expecting to hear nothing for several days and then probably a simple acknowledgement from one of Lorimore’s staff.

The reply arrived at the Museum that afternoon by return of post. It was handwritten on paper headed with Lorimore’s home address, and George read it three times.

Dear Mr Archer

Thank you for your letter pertaining to the unfortunate events of last night at the British Museum. Please accept my sincere condolences on the loss of your colleague.

I appreciate your writing to me so promptly, and would indeed be grateful for sight of the page fragment you mention at your earliest opportunity. I am at home today, and look forward to receiving you and arranging whatever ‘assistance’ seems appropriate.

I am sure that we shall both benefit from this meeting which I know you will treat with the strictest confidence.

Yours sincerely

Augustus Lorimore

Doctor Archibald Defoe was a small man with a loud voice and an enormous beard. When he spoke, the sound seemed to be amplified by the mass of red hair round his mouth, and made more intimidating by his broad Scottish accent. His head was almost level with Sir William Protheroe’s, but that was only because Protheroe was sitting at his desk.

In the corner of the room, Garfield Berry — young and lank, his dark hair slicked back — stood with ill-concealed fear and watched as Defoe leaned across Protheroe’s desk to unleash his wrath.

By contrast, Protheroe seemed unimpressed. He was leaning back in his chair, turning gently to and fro as he waited for his superior to finish. The fact that he was polishing his spectacles on a large white handkerchief made it even more apparent that he was not paying full attention.

‘And not only can I see no reason for you needing a second assistant, I cannot even begin to think where the funding would come from. Do you think I’m made of money, man?’

‘Evidently not,’ Protheroe said quietly, putting his glasses back on.

‘In fact, I’m not entirely sure that you need Berry here, let alone another assistant. What are you doing that can possibly warrant such extravagance?’

Protheroe leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him. ‘If I may make two points,’ he said. Defoe made a sort of snorting sound which Protheroe took to be permission to continue. ‘First, I believe my Department is the least expensive of any in the Museum.’

‘That’s because you don’t do anything!’ Defoe roared, standing upright and folding his arms.

‘And second,’ Protheroe continued without reaction, ‘what we do, and why we do it, is none of your business.’ He paused just long enough for the parts of Defoe’s face that were visible behind his beard to become the same colour as that beard. ‘I mean that in the politest way of course.’

‘A law unto yourself,’ Defoe spluttered.

‘Not so. Just because you do not hold sway over my

Department’s activities does not mean that no one does. As you well know, I answer to an inner committee of the Royal Society for what I do. Unfortunately, and I mean that in administrative terms, I rely on you and the Museum for funding to carry out that work. Funding that is generously given, but a less than generous amount. I now need to increase that amount to enable me to employ a second assistant to help Mr Berry.’

‘As if I have nothing else to do with the money,’ Defoe said. But his voice was quieter now, and Protheroe sensed that he was making some headway at last. ‘It will take a while to find and allocate funding,’ Defoe went on after a pause. ‘If it is possible at all.’

‘You’re very kind,’ Protheroe said smoothly.

‘But then I suppose it will take you a while to find a suitable candidate for the job. Whatever the job entails.’

‘Oh I don’t think so,’ Protheroe said. ‘In fact I have someone in mind. Since he already works here at the British Museum, it would be simply a matter of transferring him across to me. Together, I assume with his salary, though naturally we would want to increase that in line with his new duties. Whatever they may be.’

Defoe spluttered at this, and from the few words that escaped the beard Protheroe got the impression that he was far from happy with the idea of his approaching members of the Museum’s staff and offering them alternative employment, even under the same roof.

But before the splutters and exclamations could be resolved into a coherent argument, Protheroe stood up. His mass of white hair quivered as he leaned across his desk. ‘I have approached the gentleman’s superior and I may well ask you to expedite matters shortly if I don’t get a favourable and timely response. Now if you will excuse me,’ he said sternly to Defoe, ‘there is a matter that demands my attention.’

On the desk in front of Sir William was a pile of books. Although they were neatly arranged, several of the books were badly burned. Sir William did not wait for Defoe to leave before picking up one of the diaries and starting to read.

Jasper Mansfield, the curator who organised George’s time and directed his work, seemed surprised that George had turned up for work at all after the events of the previous night. He made no objection to George leaving early and made it clear that if he needed a few days to recover from his experiences, that would also be no problem.

Mansfield was a portly man who wheezed when he had to move, which was infrequently. ‘You are quite happy with our Department?’ he asked George, a bead of sweat running down from his hairline. It was the first time he had ever seemed concerned for George’s feelings. ‘I would hate to think you might be considering moving on, my boy.’ He wiped distractedly at his cheek with a red, meaty hand.

Significantly, Mansfield still made no mention of any job offer from another Department, or of Sir William Protheroe. So George assured Mansfield that he had been given no reason to consider moving on just at the moment — which was strictly speaking true. His superior smiled broadly and continued quickly: ‘I know you work hard, my boy,’ he said. He always called George ‘my boy’ even though he could not be much more than ten years older than George himself. ‘And your efforts are always of the most diligent and highest quality. You’re not a skiver like some I could mention. Take as long as you need, my boy. Within reason of course.’

George thanked him, glad not to have to explain why and where he was going. He did not understand Lorimore’s reasons for wanting to keep the meeting secret, but he respected them nonetheless. Perhaps all would become clear when they met.

Lorimore’s house was not far from Gloucester Road station, so George returned to the underground to make his journey. Coming out of the station, he paused for a minute to get his bearings. It was not a part of London that he knew, and as he stood on the pavement looking round for street names, someone bumped into him, making him take several steps backwards.

It was a lad of about fourteen, dressed rather scruffily. His coat was scuffed and torn and his grubby cap was pulled down so low over his eyes that George was not surprised he could not see where he was going. The boy’s trousers seemed to be held up with string in place of a belt, and what George could see of his face was a cheeky grin. A curl of black hair hung over the shadowed eyes, as if trying to escape from the cap.

‘Sorry, guv,’ the boy said, before continuing quickly down the street. George watched him for only a moment, then returned his attention to working out which way he needed to go.

In the end he asked for directions. The newspaper seller outside the station was happy to help, until he realised that George was not about to buy a paper as well. Then his attitude cooled, and George quickly bade him goodbye.

He now had no trouble finding Lorimore’s house. It was set back from the road behind huge iron gates, which stood open as if expecting him. There was a man standing just inside the gates, and he certainly was not expecting George. But once George had explained his business, and shown the man his letter from Lorimore, he was allowed to pass.

A gravel driveway wound its way from the gates up through extensive grounds. As he made his way along it George began to wonder if he had not come to some public park instead of a private house. But then the drive looped again, and before him was an enormous four-storey house built of imposing red brick and pale stone.

The man who opened the door to George had been shoehorned into his dark suit. His neck bulged out over the stiff collar of his white shirt, though his face was in shadow and George could see almost nothing of his features. ‘Yes?’ His voice was a low rasp of disapproval.

‘George Archer,’ George said, trying to sound confident and unperturbed. ‘Mr Lorimore asked me to call.’

The man stared back at him for several moments as if he had not spoken. Then he stepped back inside and gestured for George to enter the wide hallway.

‘You’d better wait here, sir.’ The last word sounded like an afterthought. ‘I’ll see if Mr Lorimore is expecting you.’

The butler’s footsteps echoed off into the house and George waited close inside the door. The hall was wider than the biggest room in George’s house, and had more furniture crammed into it than George possessed in total. But he was too used to the impressive space and furnishings of the British Museum to feel intimidated. Instead he spent the time he was alone looking with interest at the display cases that lined one whole side of the hall.

The first few were disconcerting. They were glass-fronted, mounted on the wall. Glassy eyes stared out. They seemed to follow George as he walked slowly along. From inside each and every case, a stuffed animal watched him. One was a fox, its teeth glinting sharply in the dark maw of its mouth. Then a family of mice, nestling in a home of straw. Cats, dogs, birds … All manner of creatures were frozen within the glass cages. Each and every one stared at George in an uncomfortably accusing manner.

The last animal was another bird, which strutted somewhat precariously inside its relatively large environment. It looked ungainly yet somehow assured. It had a bulbous body and head, with a feathery tuft for a tail. Its beak was hooked and on another bird might have looked savage and threatening. But here it merely added to the whole faintly ridiculous shape. George examined the creature through the glass, wondering where it might have come from. There was no label or clue on the case.

Soon, George was standing before the last display case. From here on down the rest of the hallway, the wall was lined with low, narrow tables, each holding a display. At first he had thought that these too were bizarre examples of taxidermy. On the first table stood a figure about a foot tall which stared out at the world as if daring anyone to approach. It was a monkey, standing on its hind legs and dressed in an army uniform, complete with cap. In its tiny paw, the monkey was holding a cigarette.

But it was not a stuffed animal. George could see now that it was made of wood and metal. A superb sculpture that caricatured the form of the real animal and emphasised the more human aspects. The figure stood on a small plinth, and in the plinth George could see a keyhole. An automaton he realised — once wound up the monkey would perform some trick or go through a series of predefined clockwork actions. He forgot his unease at the stuffed animals, and began to look forward to meeting Augustus Lorimore.

‘It was constructed by a Frenchman called Thierry.’ The voice was taut and nasal and quiet. It startled George.

He turned quickly to find a man standing beside him. The man was almost as tall as the butler, but incredibly thin. His suit fitted his skeletal form immaculately. His neck was sinewed, and the skin of his face was stretched like parchment over the bones so that the shape of his skull was distinctly visible. He was, George supposed, in his fifties. His hair was the colour of newly wrought iron. His eyes were almost the same colour, and seemed to burn with intelligence and passion.

‘Mr Lorimore?’ George guessed.

‘Mr Archer,’ Lorimore replied. ‘They executed him, you know.’

‘I’m sorry — who?’

‘Thierry.’ Lorimore was holding a key. The tiny piece of metal was almost lost in the man’s long bony fingers as he slotted it into the plinth and turned it carefully. ‘He was a murderer, of course,’ Lorimore added as he wound the mechanism. ‘But you would think that the ability to produce something as beautiful as this, as elegant and engineered …’ He clicked his tongue, feeling round the base of the automaton for a switch or lever. ‘Well,’ he continued as he stepped back, ‘you would think it should count for something, wouldn’t you?’

‘Er, yes,’ George agreed, although he was not at all sure that he did. His attention focused on the monkey as its head turned and it looked around. Perhaps it was checking to see if anyone was watching, because then it raised its paw furtively to its mouth as if dragging on the cigarette. The mechanism was smooth and quiet, George noted.

‘There is a facility,’ Lorimore said, his voice quiet so as not to disturb the monkey, ‘to light the cigarette, and also a wick inside the body. Then it blows smoke out of its mouth, to complete the illusion. It was a gift from Lord Chesterton, delivered only this morning. I am, I confess, still intrigued by its workings.’

As he spoke, the monkey looked round again. As if startled, its eyes widened with a click, and the paw holding the cigarette disappeared behind its back. A moment later, the other arm shot up and the monkey snapped a smart salute. George laughed out loud at the absurdity and cleverness of it.

‘You too are impressed, Mr Archer,’ Lorimore observed. ‘That is good. Very good. Now,’ he held his arm out to allow George to precede him along the hall, ‘let us discuss business.’

‘I’m not sure it’s really business,’ George said as they walked slowly to the end of the hall. He was walking slowly so he could look at the other tables they passed. Each one had on it an automaton. Some were crude and simple — a musical box with a large key, for instance. Others were every bit as intricate and sophisticated as the monkey — a tiny carriage; skaters on a frozen lake of glass; a lady in a crimson, velvet dress — George could not guess what the mechanism did, but she looked perfectly sculpted and beautifully lifelike.

‘Everything comes down to business,’ Lorimore told George as they entered a large drawing room.

But George hardly heard him. It was as if the displays in the hall were merely the overture to a grand opera that opened out in the drawing room. The walls were all but covered with more display cases — animals, birds, unfathomable shapes floating in tanks of viscous liquid. Two sofas were arranged facing each other in the middle of the room, almost lost amongst the clutter. Beyond them, a large carved tiger was bearing down on the figure of a man who was trying to push it away. Every level surface seemed to have on it a metal or wooden model or apparatus.

‘I apologise for the distractions,’ Lorimore said, smiling at George’s evident fascination. ‘A hobby of mine, I confess. I am a collector as well as an enthusiast. Flora and fauna, automata, historical books and papers … They all interest me.’

‘I understand the fascination with automata,’ George said. He bent down to examine a device that fed ball bearings down a chute after which they were channelled into different runs marked off with numerals. ‘From what I understand, your factories produce industrial versions of machines almost as impressive and clever as these?’

‘Almost?’

Perhaps there was a hint of annoyance in Lorimore’s tone, but if there was, George did not hear it. He was tracing the possible paths of the tiny metal balls. ‘Is this a clock?’ he asked, realising how the mechanism must work.

‘Indeed it is. You can tell that from looking at it?’ There was no anger now, but surprise and perhaps a little respect.

George shrugged. ‘That’s the business I’m in.’

Lorimore nodded. ‘And talking of business …’ He motioned for George to sit on one of the large sofas that was almost lost in the huge room. He himself sat opposite, his hands resting on his bony knees, so that he looked like a spider hunched up ready to spring. ‘What is it exactly that I can do for you?’

‘It’s very good of you to see me, and so promptly,’ George said, uncertainly. He was not really sure what Lorimore could do. ‘Did you know Percy Smythe?’ he asked.

Lorimore shook his head. ‘No.’

‘He suggested you might be able to help.’

Lorimore raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? He was the man who died last night, is that right?’

‘He was murdered.’

‘Indeed.’ Lorimore was regarding George carefully. ‘I have to confess I am now even more at a loss as to exactly what you expect from me. You offer to let me have a scrap of Glick’s diary. The final scrap, or so you claim. Yet I have no idea what you are asking for in return.’

George was as confused as Lorimore now. ‘I have a piece of the last page of the diary, yes,’ he admitted. ‘But I mentioned that only in passing. I thought you knew Smythe somehow. He told me you could help.’

‘Help?’

‘Help me find the people who killed him, the person responsible,’ George said. He could feel his eyes pricking as the image of Percy’s dying moments welled up in his memory. ‘That’s what I assume he meant.’

Lorimore’s mouth moved as if he was literally chewing over what George had told him. ‘Well,’ he decided, ‘perhaps if you allow me to see this page fragment, I might have a better idea of how your friend thought I could help.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘May I?’

‘Of course.’ George too stood up, reaching into his inside pocket. ‘I have it here. In my — ’ He broke off, patting at his jacket in a sudden panic, reaching into each of the pockets in turn. ‘My wallet.’ He could feel the colour draining from his face and his stomach seemed to drop away as if he was falling from a great height.

Lorimore’s long fingers snapped impatiently, like gunshots. ‘Well?’

‘My wallet,’ George repeated. ‘My wallet’s gone.’ He was checking his trouser pockets now, although he never kept his wallet anywhere but in his jacket. ‘I can’t find it.’ He looked at Lorimore for help, aware that his mouth was open and his face pale.

Lorimore sighed, his whole frame moving with the sound. ‘How much?’ he asked.

George blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘How much do you want?’ Lorimore had no trouble finding his own wallet and opened it for George to see. He riffled through the folded bank notes inside.

‘It’s all right,’ George said, thinking he must be offering to pay for his cab or train home. ‘I’ll manage.’

The large man’s eyes narrowed. ‘For the page,’ he hissed angrily. ‘How much do you want for the page from Glick’s diary?’

George shook his head in confusion. ‘I don’t want anything. I just want my wallet back.’ He could not have left it at home — he had needed it to pay for the underground. ‘Don’t you understand?’ George said, close to panic, ‘I don’t have the page.’

Lorimore all but ripped notes from his own wallet. ‘Fifty,’ he snapped.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘All right — a hundred.’ His eyes were wide with anger and passion. ‘Name your price.’

George just stared. Part of his brain was struggling with the fact that the man was willing to pay a fortune for a scrap of burned paper. Another part was trying desperately to work out where his wallet had gone. His mind was retracing his journeys that day at high speed — to the Museum, out again to the underground, arriving at Gloucester Road station unsure of which way to turn …

‘That boy,’ he realised. ‘He must have taken it. When he bumped into me.’

‘Boy?’ Lorimore demanded angrily. ‘What boy?’

‘There was a boy.’ George tried to replay the events in his mind’s eye. ‘I thought it was an accident, but he must have meant to walk into me. Then in the tangle, as I stumbled, he took my wallet. My money.’

‘Confound your money,’ Lorimore’s face was close to George’s and the transformation was terrifying. His lips had curled away from his teeth and his eyes were red with anger. ‘Describe the boy,’ he snarled, grabbing George suddenly by the lapels of his jacket. ‘If there was one.’

‘Of course there was.’ Lorimore let go of George and turned away. He was breathing less heavily now, more in control. George was relieved that the man seemed to have recovered his composure. He did his best to describe the boy, in faltering nervous tones. He recalled the grubby clothes, the cheeky expression, the comma of dark hair emerging from under the cap …

Lorimore nodded as if George’s description was quite in order, and encouraged by this George asked cautiously: ‘So, can you help me, sir?’

Lorimore frowned. ‘What?’ he seemed puzzled by the question.

‘Can you help me find out who was responsible for my friend’s death?’

A nerve ticked under Lorimore’s left eye as he regarded George across the room. Then he walked quickly over to the fireplace and touched a button — a bell. ‘I am afraid not,’ he admitted as he turned back towards George. ‘I really have no idea how — or why — your poor friend believed I could help you. I am sorry if I appear brusque, but you will understand that the possibility of seeing a page of Glick’s diary was …’ The nerve ticked again as he sought for the right word. ‘Intriguing,’ he decided. ‘Please do not let my disappointment unsettle you.’ He forced a thin smile.

The manservant was already standing in the doorway. Clearly, George was being invited to leave.

‘Not at all. Thank you for your time,’ he muttered, feeling his own disappointment keenly.

Lorimore waved a hand dismissively, not even bothering to look at George. He paced up and down, his head lowered, deep in thought.

The butler led George back past the automata and the display cases to the front door. He said not a word as he opened the door and let George step out into the cold of the day. All the while he kept his face turned away, his features obscured, as if trying to avoid letting George see his face.

George was annoyed — angry at his wasted journey and Lorimore’s dismissal of him. Angry at himself for losing his wallet and not even noticing. Before he knew it, George had walked the length of the drive. He passed the man at the iron gates and turned out on to the main road, only distantly aware of the carved lizards on the gate posts watching him through sightless stone eyes.