The Death Collector

by Justin Richards

  Someone else was crouched down beside George and Percy. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone.’ George wondered how long Sir William Protheroe had been there with him, holding Percy’s hand – or rather, George now saw, his wrist.

  ‘There’s no pulse,’ Sir William said. ‘I am so sorry.’ He straightened up. ‘I found the guard at the entrance unconscious, so I blew his whistle. The policemen from D Division who are supposed to patrol the Museum have now given chase, but I rather doubt they will catch the miscreants.’ He looked down at Percy’s staring, sightless eyes, as if realising how inadequate the word was. ‘The murderers,’ he corrected himself.

  Gently, George lay his friend’s head on the floor and stood up. Even in the glow of the dying fire, he could see that he was himself coated with blood. He felt empty and numb and cold. ‘We should put the fire out,’ he said, and his voice was calm, emotionless, dead.

  The flames had died down to a flicker now the oil had burned away. The fire struggled to reach more paper or books, but was unable to jump that far. George stared down at the embers – at the charred, curling remains of the books. One of them was almost intact, he saw. So before he stamped out the remaining flames, he picked it gingerly out of the ashes. The leather cover was hot, but not too hot to hold. The book was one of the volumes of the diary, and without thinking, George opened it. The pages were dry and brittle and yellowed with the heat. The surviving cover was the back of the book, and he saw that the pages were blank. The final volume. The book the men had been searching for.

  Not that it would have done them any good, he realised. All the remaining pages were blank. The front of the book had burned completely away. A single charred fragment of paper detached itself from the spine and fluttered down towards the flames. As it fell, George could see that there was writing on it. He dropped the book, and grabbed at the piece of brittle paper, catching it just before it fell back into the dying fire.

  It was barely a quarter of a page from the notebook. Neatly written across the remains, a fragment of handwriting. A line and a half of words that emerged from the torn edge and disappeared into a charred blackness:

  ‘… now know which came first, and I can prove it. The answer lies in the Crystal …’

  ‘Sir Henry Glick’s diary.’ The words cut through George’s reverie, and he saw that Sir William was carefully picking up the surviving notebooks.

  ‘The last volume got burned, I’m afraid,’ George said.

  The elderly man clicked his tongue. ‘A shame. But his first work, his greatest discoveries will be detailed in the earlier volumes. At least we still have them.’ He picked up several surviving volumes and stacked them on the desk before looking round, shaking his head sadly. ‘Such a waste. Even without the loss of life, it would be unforgivable. As it is …’ He spread his hands out as if trying to show how great a crime he considered it to be. ‘What could possibly be worth this?’

  ‘What indeed?’ George agreed. As he spoke, he took out his wallet and tucked the fragment of paper inside. That must be what Percy had been trying to tell him he realised – that if anyone could help George discover the truth and avenge his friend’s death, then it was Augustus Lorimore.

  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 see
med 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.