The Death Collector

Chapter 5

Elizabeth had not had cause to go to the police before, and she doubted she would hurry back. She had not expected them to be able to produce her father’s wallet miraculously out of the ether. But neither had she expected the off-hand lack of interest with which she was greeted. Her father, perhaps anticipating how the visit would turn out, sat himself down on a chair near the entrance to the police station and waited for Liz.

Rather grudgingly, the policeman at the desk wrote down her name and address. At Elizabeth’s insistence, he also scratched out a description of the boy who had taken the wallet, though he evidently thought this was a waste of time.

‘Thank you for your help,’ Liz said sarcastically. It was obvious there was no point in staying, so she turned to go. ‘Oh,’ she remembered, ‘do you want this?’ She reached into her bag and took out the wallet the boy had given her.

The policeman just stared at her.

‘Well, what do you suggest I do with it?’ she demanded.

‘I suppose we could return it to its owner,’ the policeman grudgingly admitted. ‘You say there’s a name and address inside?’ He reached out tentatively for the wallet, as if it might be hot.

Liz sighed and pushed it back into her bag. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll send it back to him. I expect your policemen are all too busy chasing pickpockets to worry about returning people’s possessions.’

She felt she had at least made a point. But as she rejoined her father, Liz had no doubt the policeman would have forgotten all about her in a few minutes.

After his meeting with Augustus Lorimore, George walked the long way home. The loss of his wallet had unsettled him, but he was more upset by the way he had been more or less turfed out of Lorimore’s house.

He kept thinking of Lorimore’s strange behaviour — his changes of mood and the insistence that George and he were entering into some business deal. But then he was a collector — George could attest to that — and he had been led to believe George was bringing him something for his collection. Though how a tiny scrap of paper could be of any real value, George had no idea. Perhaps he should ask Sir William Protheroe his opinion.

George did not receive many letters, and very few if any ever arrived by the second afternoon post. So he was intrigued to find a plain white envelope on his mat. It had been posted, he noted, in central London just a few hours ago. The address was written with neatness and precision. The handwritten letter inside was every bit as elegant.

Dear Mr Archer

I have through somewhat circuitous means come into possession of a wallet, which I believe you lost recently. I am afraid that any money that was in it has been removed, but, my father having suffered a similar loss, I thought you might appreciate its return.

I am happy to deliver it to you in person, being loathe to entrust your wallet to the postal service. Please let me know, at the above address, if this is acceptable and convenient. I deem it a favour if we could meet, albeit briefly, as I feel you may be able to help me in my quest to recover my father’s wallet which was given to him by my late mother as a gift and thus has a sentimental value. I am generally free during the day.

Yours faithfully

E. Oldfield (Miss)

George read the letter through carefully, wondering briefly what sort of woman would use words like ‘circuitous’ or ‘albeit’. Probably some middle-aged spinster, he decided. Still living with her ancient father and desperate for an excuse to talk to anyone outside their immediate circle of acquaintances. He was tempted to write back and ask that she simply post him his wallet despite her qualms.

But reading the letter again, he decided that he might as well meet the woman. Also, it was possible that the fragment of Glick’s diary was still inside the wallet — the card with his own name and address evidently was. As he sat down to write a brief reply, it occurred to George that following his recent encounter with Augustus Lorimore, it was obvious that the man was extremely keen to get hold of the contents of George’s wallet.

Was he being over-cautious, he wondered? Or would it be better not to invite the woman to his house or the Museum. He would rather that Lorimore did not discover he had his wallet back — with or without the diary fragment. It was unlikely he was being watched, but it was safer, he decided, to be cautious without need. He dipped his pen in the ink and started to write a reply to E. Oldfield (Miss).

Returning to the British Museum the next morning, George made a point of informing Mr Mansfield that he would work through lunch but take an hour mid-afternoon, if that was all right. As before, Mansfield seemed more than happy to oblige him, and George wondered when the man intended to break the news of George’s offer of a new job, if ever.

George’s work that morning was further interrupted by a visit from Sir William Protheroe, wondering whether Mr Mansfield had indeed yet broached the subject of his offer of employment. He did not seem surprised to hear that Mansfield had not.

‘I imagine he will put it off for as long as he can,’ Sir William said. He seemed loathe to be more specific about the work until Mansfield had officially spoken to George.

When Sir William mentioned that he was in the process of examining Glick’s diaries and researching the man’s life and career, George was minded to describe his trip to see Lorimore. But he had not mentioned the surviving scrap of paper before, and he felt embarrassed at having to admit to its theft. Besides, he thought, the trip to meet Lorimore had been unrewarding at just about every level. So he said nothing.

Presently, Sir William bid George farewell and assured him he would once again press Mansfield to discuss George’s career with him. George worked solidly through the rest of the day, wondering again what working for Sir William would be like and what it would entail. The combination of work and thought meant that the day passed quickly.

There was a tea room on the Charing Cross Road that George knew. He sometimes went there for a break from work. He had suggested to Miss Oldfield that they meet at three, since the tea rooms were invariably over-subscribed for lunch.

In his letter to Miss Oldfield, George had described where he would be sitting and how he would be dressed. He managed to get the table he wanted, and kept his eye on the door as he sipped at a cup of Earl Grey. There was no shortage of ladies of a certain age in the tea room, but none of them, mercifully, seemed especially interested in George.

Imagining that punctuality might be a particular trait of the lady whose handwriting was so perfectly formed and whose vocabulary was so correct, George kept careful watch as the clock on the wall reached three. He allowed himself a small smile as the door opened to let in the sound of a distant church clock chiming the hour, and a woman with steel grey hair scraped back from her face. She looked round the tea rooms with small dark eyes. Her nose was a hooked beak jutting out from a severe expression. George was tempted to duck under the table, and hope she decided he had not come and move on.

But incredibly, when she looked at him across the room, her eyes showed no recognition or interest, and she passed quickly on to an empty table nearby.

Relieved, George reached to pour himself more tea.

‘Excuse me, but may I?’

There was someone standing on the other side of the table. A young woman was gesturing to the chair opposite. The light of the window was behind her, so George had to squint to try to make out her features.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said as her face dipped into view. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’ She had startlingly green eyes, he could now see. The ends of them curled slightly upwards, like a cat’s.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’ She pulled out the chair and sat down.

Taken by surprise, George started to rise politely. He was not sure quite what to say, and anyway she was already telling the uniformed waitress she would have a pot of tea.

‘Well, it seems very nice here,’ the young woman commented. ‘Oh, and before I forget,’ she went on, apparently oblivious to George’s discomfort and reaching into a small handbag, ‘here you are.’

George’s mouth dropped open and the world round him seemed to take a tea break of its own. The young woman opposite was holding out a wallet — his wallet.

‘You are George Archer, aren’t you?’ she said when he made no move to take it. She started to put the wallet away again. ‘Oh dear, I must have made the most embarrassing mistake, please forgive me.’

‘No, no,’ George protested, finding his voice at last. ‘I am indeed George Archer and that is my wallet, and I’m extremely grateful for its return.’ He took the wallet and opened it, keen to check that the diary fragment was still inside. ‘Thank you, Miss Oldfield.’

‘You are welcome, Mr Archer.’ She watched as he pulled out the slip of paper, looked at it, and visibly relieved carefully returned it to his wallet before placing that inside his jacket pocket. ‘I am sorry that the contents are, I suspect, somewhat depleted. I did inspect the wallet to determine your name and address, of course. And I confess I found that piece of paper. From your evident delight at finding it, I assume it is important to you.’

She made it sound as if she was not interested. But George could tell from the way her eyes watched him over the lip of her teacup that Miss Oldfield was keen to know the truth. Her assessment of George’s behaviour betrayed a keen intelligence as well as her obvious beauty. In fact, there was also something about her manner which made him instantly trustful of her, and he considered telling her everything. But anxious not to appear too eager, in case she misinterpreted his motives, he asked instead: ‘You said in your letter that your father had lost his wallet?’

She set down her tea cup carefully on its saucer.

‘That is so. A young boy, little more than an urchin, made it look as if he had accidentally collided with father in the street yesterday. He realised that his wallet was missing, and I chased after the boy and caught him.’

‘Did you really?’ George was unable to hide his surprise at this, and hoped she might interpret it as congratulation. ‘Well done,’ he added quickly.

‘I demanded he return father’s wallet. Stupidly, I thought he had. But in fact, he gave me yours in its place.’

George nodded thoughtfully. ‘And did the police not find your father’s wallet on his person?’ She looked away, glancing round the tea rooms as if someone at another table might be better placed to answer the question. George gave a short laugh. ‘Surely you marched the young scoundrel off to the police?’

She returned her attention to her tea. ‘No, actually.’ She took a sip, set down the cup, straightened it on its saucer. ‘I let him go.’

Before George could reply, she was leaning across the table, her hands pushed out in front of her so that they almost sent her teapot flying. Her words came out in a rush. ‘Oh I was stupid to do it, I know. But I suppose I felt sorry for him. I mean it can’t be much of a life can it, for a lad like that. Having to steal to get the money for food, living out on the streets because his mother has passed away and he can’t find his father and sister. Living hand to mouth.’

George sat back and folded his arms. He could not help but smile. ‘So you had quite a conversation with the young criminal then, before you set him free.’ He held up his hands to stop any protest. ‘You asked me about that slip of paper …’ He was leaning forward now, matching her pose. George wondered whether he should say nothing about the fragment of paper. But then again, just by having seen it Miss Oldfield might perhaps be in danger. Surely it was only right and proper at least to warn her of that possibility? ‘People have died, quite possibly because of that tiny scrap of paper,’ George said quietly. ‘I myself may be in danger.’

They sat in silence for a moment after this. ‘My goodness, Mr Archer,’ she said at last, ‘you make it sound as if we are caught up in the events of a penny dreadful. I think perhaps you had better tell me your story.’

She listened attentively as George spoke. It was, he found, a relief to tell someone finally about it. He started with the death of his poor friend Albert, who had died in his sleep — was it only last week? By the time he got to describe the break-in at the Museum and how the scarred man had lunged at him across Percy’s desk, Miss Oldfield was sitting with her eyes wide and her tea quite forgotten.

He described how he had written to Augustus Lorimore, and told her of the strange reply he had received.

‘So you determined to go and see the man?’ she asked him.

George nodded. He was feeling rather parched and asked her if she wanted more tea.

But in reply, her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my goodness, look at the time,’ she cried nodding at the clock on the far wall. ‘I am supposed to be taking my father to visit his former parishioners this afternoon. He will be so cross if I am late.’ She took a final, swift sip of cold tea, grimaced, gathered her bag, and stood up. ‘He can’t manage on his own. He needs me to help him with almost everything these days, I’m afraid.’

‘That must be a burden,’ George said, standing up.

She frowned. ‘I suppose so,’ she said quietly, as if the thought had never occurred to her. ‘But I must know how your story ends.’

‘If it has ended,’ George replied. ‘We could meet here again. Tomorrow perhaps?’

‘I can’t possibly wait that long to hear the rest of your adventures. Why not come to our house?’ she said. ‘Father won’t mind. In fact if you come after eight o’clock this evening he won’t even know — he needs his sleep. Oh, but it will all be quite proper, I assure you, Mr Archer,’ she quickly added. ‘I mean …’

‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘And I should be delighted to call on you and finish my story, so far as it goes. I have your address from your letter. But I must not keep you, Miss Oldfield, though I do have one small request.’

She glanced at the clock again and frowned. ‘Yes?’

‘My friends call me George.’

She regarded him sternly for a moment. Then she smiled. ‘Very well, George it is. My name is Elizabeth.’

‘May I call you Elizabeth?’

‘No,’ she said in a matter of fact voice as she walked past him and headed for the door. She paused and turned. ‘But you may call me Liz. I shall see you this evening, George.’

Only after he had sat down, his head swimming with visions of Elizabeth Oldfield’s smile and the anticipation of seeing her again did it occur to George that his recently returned wallet was empty. He had no money at all.

Feeling foolish and anxious, he finally summoned the courage to gesture to the waitress who had served them as she walked past. ‘Excuse me, but about the bill …’

‘That’s all right, sir.’ She barely paused on her way to another customer. ‘The young lady paid on her way out.’

They grabbed him as he was working the side streets near Kensington Gardens. It was a good place to finish up the day, and as night fell Eddie often found useful pickings in the area as people hurried home. That was how the two men knew he would be there, of course. Someone who knew Eddie’s routine, such as it was, had told them — Smudgy Steve or Mike the Mouth. Possibly little Annie from the baker’s who sometimes gave him one of yesterday’s rolls.

The first Eddie knew of anything amiss was when a pair of enormous arms wrapped themselves round him from behind and pulled him backwards. He kicked out at once, shouting and struggling. But one of the arms was positioned so that a huge, sweaty hand clamped over his mouth. Someone else was approaching him, and Eddie’s eyes widened. He hoped they would realise he was in trouble — help him or raise the alarm.

The street was in shadow, the sun already below the level of the buildings. The lamps had been lit, and as he approached Eddie, his potential rescuer’s face caught the light. The man was smiling horribly, and Eddie could clearly see the thin, raised scar that ran down the whole side of his face. Scarface — the man who had been shadowing the old man Eddie had tried to help.

‘I thought it might be you, from the description we were given,’ Scarface said, grabbing Eddie’s thrashing legs and lifting him up. The two men carried Eddie off into a narrow alleyway. ‘So nice to meet you again. Eddie, isn’t it?’ His voice was rough as gravel.

Scarface set Eddie’s feet down on the ground again, and the man holding Eddie from behind relaxed his grip slightly. Not enough for Eddie to have any hope of pulling free, but he could stretch round and see that it was ‘Sidekick’ — the man who had been with Scarface.

‘I’m sorry I got in your way,’ Eddie gasped as soon as the hand was removed from his mouth. ‘I can give you me day’s takings. To make amends.’

‘You hear that, Davey?’ Scarface ground out. ‘Very generous I’m sure.’ His face thrust close to Eddie’s, the scar gleaming. ‘But we don’t want money off you, oh no. You’ve got something far more valuable than money, haven’t you, Eddie the Dipper.’

Eddie swallowed. ‘Have I?’

‘Oh yes,’ Davey — the man holding him — said with a high-pitched chuckle. ‘Much more valuable, that’s right Mr Blade.’

Something caught the light as Scarface drew it out of his jacket. A knife. He angled it so that the reflected light shone in Eddie’s eyes. ‘Bet you’re wondering why I’m called Blade,’ he said. The knife moved slowly closer to Eddie’s eyes. ‘Maybe you think it’s on account of the scar?’ And closer. ‘Or perhaps you think it’s because I’m so good with the knife.’ Closer still.

The knife stopped just shy of Eddie’s left eye. It was so close he could see the tiny flat dot of its point.

‘But you’d be wrong,’ Blade said. ‘It just happens to be my name.’ The knife drew back, accompanied by Blade and Davey’s laughter. ‘Like Draper or Smith, it seems I’m named after my trade.’

‘What do you want?’ Eddie asked. His voice was husky and his mouth dry.

‘Trade is a good word. ’Cos that’s what we want. In return for your life, or at least your good looks such as they are, you give us something. How’s that?’

‘Anything.’ He tried to pull away but the arms still held him tight. ‘Whatever you want.’

‘See?’ Blade snapped at Davey. ‘I told you he was a smart boy.’ He reached out suddenly for Eddie, and Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to feel the prick of the knife on his face at any moment. But instead, Blade put his hand on Eddie’s cap and rubbed it round his head, ruffling his hair. Then he slapped Eddie on the cheek. ‘Good boy.’

‘What do you want?’

‘You lifted a wallet from a Mr Archer yesterday.’

‘Maybe,’ Eddie conceded. ‘I lift lots of wallets.’

‘Well this one, we want. Or rather, something that’s in it.’

‘What?’ Eddie asked. He could read well enough to know which wallet had been Archer’s. But why did they want the man’s wallet — there hadn’t even been much money in it. Just some loose change, a business card and a burnt scrap of paper. Hardly worth the effort, in fact.

‘Well, that’s for us to know and for you to mind your own business about.’

Eddie nodded slowly. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I got his wallet — Mr Archer — I lifted it yesterday. Still got it in fact. Nice leather one. Got nothing but a few coins and a pocket watch today, so I kept his wallet till I find something better.’

Davey let him struggle free enough to pull the wallet from his trouser pocket. He held it out to Blade, who snatched it at once.

With Davey leaning over Eddie’s shoulder to watch, Blade opened the wallet and checked inside. ‘It’s empty,’ he snarled, throwing it to the ground in anger and reaching for Eddie’s throat with both hands.

‘No,’ Eddie insisted. ‘No, it ain’t. There’s a scrap of burned paper inside, I saw it. Tucked away in the lining.’

Blade halted. ‘Where?’

‘I’ll show you. Here let me show you.’ So it was the burned paper they wanted, was it? But why? Eddie made to pick up the wallet, and Davey let go of him, watching closely. Eddie held up the wallet — the wallet he had taken from the old clergymen on the Gloucester Road and swapped for Archer’s. He felt inside. ‘Here it is, you see?’ He pulled out his hand, then gave a gasp of annoyance. ‘Oops,’ he said loudly, ‘dropped it. There — quick, before it blows away.’

Both men looked. They were not fooled for long, but it was long enough for Eddie. He was already running, the wallet jammed back into his pocket and his lungs bursting with the effort as he ran for his life. He could hear the sound of the men behind him — feet on cobbles, shouts of anger, threats …

As he ran, Eddie’s mind too was racing. What could he do? Where could he go? They were desperate to find the scrap of paper, that was clear. So desperate that they would be after him again, they wouldn’t easily give up. But what sort of scrap of paper was that important to anyone? Next time he might not escape so easily. Next time, Blade might bring the knife that bit closer to his face. Next time …

Half an hour later, Mr Blade’s employer listened to his report without comment.

‘But we’ll find him, sir,’ Blade concluded. ‘He can’t stay hidden for long, not with all the contacts and sources we have. We’ll find him.’

His employer nodded. ‘See that you do. With this and the mess at the British Museum I am not in the mood for any more mistakes.’ He was angry and disappointed, but it would do no good to get upset with Blade. The man had at least established who the boy was and that he knew about the fragment of Glick’s diary. If he did not still have it he would know where it was. In any case, Blade knew better than anyone the fate that awaited those who failed his master — and that was the best incentive that there could be.

The full moon shone in through the glass roof of the laboratory, augmenting the artificial light that illuminated the huge wooden work bench and the gears and cogs and components that were set out meticulously across it. The bare, pale flesh of a detached human arm seemed almost luminescent in the moonlight. The bottles of blood and jars of tissue reflected the glow.

The man rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and reached his bony hand deep into a tank of viscous liquid, feeling round inside. ‘Mrs Wilkes, I gather, is telling some rather improbable stories,’ he said to Blade.

‘Indeed sir, so I gather. They’re saying in the local pub that her dead husband went home and demanded tea and fruitcake. A somewhat fanciful account.’

‘But nonetheless disturbing.’

‘Indeed, sir. There is an old white-haired gentleman that has apparently been asking questions.’

‘Just so long as he gets no answers,’ the man replied sharply. ‘Ah!’ His hand closed on the thing he was hunting for, felt it give under the slight pressure of his fingers. He reached in with his other arm and cradled the grey mass of tissue carefully as he lifted it clear of the tank. ‘This man might believe the stories, however improbable. He might think to investigate further if only to disprove them.’

‘What do you suggest, sir?’

‘I think it might be best, Mr Blade, if the dead were to stay dead. Don’t you? And demonstrably so.’

Blade swallowed, and his master was amused to see that his manservant was trying not to look at what he now held in his hands. ‘What about the body, sir?’ Blade asked. ‘It’s hardly in a condition — ’

‘Yes, and I fear I have already used some of the components. When our friend failed to get us the diaries and instead went home to terrify his wife, I decided there was little reason to keep him … intact. But don’t worry.’

‘No, sir,’ Blade said deferentially.

The man completed his examination of the slippery, grey brain and set it down next to the arm. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out. I don’t expect anyone will inspect it too closely, if at all.’ He reached for an assembly of tiny gears and levers. ‘Just put it back, best you can, Blade. Before this white-haired old man, or anyone else, goes looking for it.’

‘sir.’ Blade hesitated only a moment, then he turned and quickly left the room.

They spoke quietly, although Liz knew that her father was sound asleep and would not easily be wakened.

There were two small armchairs in the front room, facing each other and angled towards the fire. Liz sat in one, George in the other. As he recounted his visit to Augustus Lorimore’s house, the fire crackled and burned lower. George’s fascination with the automata was obvious, and Liz found herself caught up in his enthusiasm as he described them. With him she felt a measure of distaste at the stuffed animals.

As George came to the end of his tale, Liz felt it was rather like listening to a ghost story, or being caught up in the excitement of a melodrama.

‘And then I got your letter,’ he finished.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The question, I suppose, is what do we do now with this fragment of paper?’

‘I suppose we must return it to Sir William to examine along with the rest of the surviving diaries. Unless you have another suggestion?’

Before Liz could answer, there was a knock at the front door. They both froze, looking at each other wide-eyed and fearful.

‘They’ve found us,’ George hissed. ‘Those villains. They’ve come looking for the burned scrap of paper and I’ve led them to you.’

‘How? They can’t have, surely.’ Liz got up, trembling at the thought that the man with the scar that George had described so vividly might be standing on her doorstep. She went to the window and gently pulled the curtain back just far enough to peep out into the murky street outside.

‘Who is it?’ George whispered.

‘Well, it isn’t your scar-faced man,’ she told him. ‘A reformed criminal perhaps, though.’ She went out into the hall, aware that George was following her.

As soon as she opened the door, the figure standing outside pushed his way into the hall and slammed it shut behind him. It was the boy she had chased down the Gloucester Road, and he was holding her father’s wallet. He slapped it into Liz’s palm.

‘Look,’ the boy said, ‘you’ve got to help me.’

‘Us, help you?’ George said from behind Liz, the disbelief evident in his voice.

‘You two know each other?’ the boy asked, surprised at seeing George. He pulled his cap off and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘You’ve got to help me because it’s all your fault that’s why.’ He pointed at George as he said this, his eyes glinting with fear and accusation.

‘What’s his fault?’ Liz asked.

‘They’re after me, that’s what. Going to kill me too, if I don’t give them what they want.’

‘And what’s that?’ George demanded.

‘The burned scrap of paper out of your wallet, that’s what. I don’t know why they want it, but they want it bad. And old scarface Mr Blade says he’ll kill anyone that gets in his way.’