The Death Collector

by Justin Richards

  She was quick. He could hear the slap of her shoes on the pavement behind him as he ran. He pushed aside anyone in his way, and pulled people into her path as he raced down the street. But whenever he stole a quick glance over his shoulder, she was still there. And every time she was slightly closer. It would not be long before she caught up with him, assuming no one grabbed hold of him first.

  Eddie turned and raced across the street. A horse reared up in surprise. A cab lurched sideways. Shouts, gasps, the rattle of wheels close to him. His own blood thumping in his ears. But still the constant rhythmic sound of the woman’s running feet close behind Eddie’s own.

  Eddie kept running, though he was slowing now. He turned into Stanhope Gardens, then immediately again into the street that led back up towards Cromwell Road where he hoped to lose her again in the crowds. He risked one more look back.

  There was no one there. The street was empty, and Eddie drew a great gasping breath of relief as he slowed to a brisk walk. Almost immediately, he realised his mistake.

  The woman was not behind him, because she had caught up with him and was running alongside. He caught a glimpse of green out of the corner of his eye. But before he could react, he was pushed suddenly up against the wall close to the side entrance to a mews. Close, but not close enough to wriggle free and duck inside. She had him.

  ‘What do you want?’ Eddie demanded. ‘I ain’t done nothing.’

  The woman was more composed than Eddie had expected, and she was not going to be fooled. ‘I want my father’s wallet back,’ she said. ‘And then I think we’ll find a policeman.’

  ‘Not the peelers,’ Eddie protested. ‘They’ll send me away, they will. Off to the workhouse or worse.’

  ‘They’ll tell your parents,’ she said levelly. There was no trace of pity in her face, and she was holding him to the wall with one hand while the other was held out for the wallet.

  ‘I ain’t got no parents,’ Eddie said. He watched for any flicker of a reaction to this. She blinked, but nothing more. ‘No home,’ he added. ‘Nothing. I live on the streets and wherever I can find shelter.’

  The woman smiled thinly. ‘Then perhaps the workhouse would be preferable. At least you would have a roof over your head.’

  Eddie said nothing. Instead he produced a leather wallet from his trouser pocket and slapped it into the woman’s outstretched hand. She glanced at it, then put it inside her bag, which Eddie noticed was looped over her wrist. To do this, she had to let go of Eddie, and he almost ran off.

  He stayed where he was partly because he was still out of breath, and partly because he was intrigued by the woman. Now he looked at her, she was not that much older than him really. Eighteen at the most, and possibly younger. Her face was red from running, but it was, Eddie thought, a pretty face beneath her anger. Her eyes were as startlingly green as her dress.

  The wallet safe in her bag, she looked up at Eddie and to his surprise she smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She stood looking at him for several moments, and Eddie guessed that she was deciding if she should try to march him off to find a policeman. He doubted she could hold him for long, but he was unwilling to find out.

  ‘My father, Horace Oldfield,’ she said at last, ‘helps at a hostel in Camberwell. People go there when they have nowhere else to sleep. I can give you the address, you’d be welcome there.’

  Eddie shook his head.

  She sighed. ‘You can get help, you know. So why do you do it?’

  ‘Because I have to,’ he blurted. He had not meant to say anything to her, but now it was easier to keep talking than it was to stop. And there was a policeman walking past the end of the street – he was sure that the woman had noticed.

  ‘My mum died,’ Eddie said, the words coming out in a rush. ‘When I was twelve. She fell down the stairs. My father found her when he got in from the pub. Then there was just Laura and me and him. She’s my sister. He didn’t care much about me, but he loved Laura. She couldn’t leave or he’d have come after her. But I did.’

  ‘You ran away?’

  He nodded, biting his lip at the memory.

  ‘You can always go back. Remember the prodigal son. Even after all this time I’m sure your father would welcome you home.’

  ‘I haven’t got a home,’ Eddie told her, wondering whose son she was talking about. He pulled away from the wall and stuffed his hands into his pockets, head down. ‘Anyway,’ he admitted, ‘I did go back. A month after, I went back home.’

  ‘What happened?’ she asked gently.

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing. The house was empty. They’d gone. Moved away. Dunno where.’ She wasn’t going to call the peelers now, he could tell. ‘So I’ve got no home, like I said. And I don’t care.’ He turned and walked away down Woodstock Street, leaving the woman standing alone.

  Her father was waiting where Elizabeth Oldfield had left him, outside Grosvenor’s Mourning Warehouse. The shop specialised in clothing for the bereaved, and it seemed appropriate that an aged clergyman should be spending his time looking in at the window.

  ‘There are so many of these shops nowadays,’ he said distractedly as Elizabeth joined him. ‘Death, it seems, is always with us.’

  ‘So are the pickpockets,’ she told him. ‘At least I got your wallet back for you.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ He smiled and shook his head as they continued their interrupted journey along the Gloucester Road. ‘Although there’s very little of value in it, it was given to me by your dear mother. I should be sorry to lose it.’

  ‘There’s the principle too,’ Elizabeth said. She opened her bag and retrieved the wallet. She handed it to her father, who inspected it with interest.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s your wallet,’ she said gently. He was getting so very vague these days. ‘Remember? The one mother gave you.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ He was shaking his head and offering it back to her. The dull brown of the leather was scuffed and well worn. He nodded back at Grosvenor’s where he had waited. ‘My wallet, the wallet she gave me, is as black as their mourning suits.’

  Elizabeth just stared. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Well, I ought to know my own wallet. Here, you have it.’

  She took it, feeling the colour rush to her face as she realised what had happened. ‘That urchin,’ she hissed. ‘He gave me the wrong wallet. He’s kept yours. He didn’t have time to take the money out, so he kept it. This is some other poor soul’s.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s possible,’ her father agreed. ‘Relieved of its contents earlier, no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt. All that talk about his mother dying, and running away from home …’ She was breathing heavily, getting angrier by the moment at how he had tricked her – how he had played on her emotions. As she fumed she opened the wallet, knowing it would be empty.

  Or almost empty. Certainly there were no notes or coins inside. But there was a handwritten card with a name and address, presumably the owner. Tucked behind the card, carefully folded in half as if to protect and preserve it was a small slip of paper. It looked as though it had been taken from a notebook. One edge of it was torn, leaving a tiny hole where the string of the binding had been threaded through. There was writing on the paper, faded black ink that started in mid-sentence, and was lost at the other side of the paper. The other edge was not torn, but ragged and charred, where it had been burned away.

  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 o
pened 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?’