The Death Collector

by Justin Richards

  Blade produced a knife from inside his jacket and used it to prise open the casket, wrenching the lid off the large oblong box. He blinked and coughed and cursed at the smell, and stuffed the knife back inside his jacket pocket. With a handkerchief clasped over his nose and mouth, he bent to reach into the box and pulled out a shovel. Blade dropped it to the ground, then reached back into the casket for another.

  The smaller man helped him lift the wooden lid and they jammed it back over the box, covering its other contents.

  ‘Let’s make this quick,’ Blade said. He was gasping from holding his breath as he pushed one of the shovels at the small man. He picked up the other one himself.

  Together they began to dig into the loose topsoil, piling it in a mound beside the grave. The sound of shovels biting into the cold earth echoed off the impassive gravestones like some massive beast eating into flesh and bone.

  The boy was frightened, that was plain. Liz had left him with George in the living room while she went upstairs to check her father had not been disturbed.

  Now George and the boy were sitting opposite each other, neither of them willing to be the first to speak. George knew it wasn’t just because they were wary of waking Liz’s father, but he still could not think of anything useful to say to the boy who had so casually and expertly stolen his money.

  As if guessing what George was thinking, the boy shuffled uncomfortably in the large armchair. ‘I ain’t got it no more,’ he said quietly. ‘I spent it. On food. Honest.’

  ‘I’m not sure “honest” is the word I would have chosen,’ George told him sharply.

  The boy shrugged. ‘You live here, do you?’ he demanded. ‘Or just visiting.’

  ‘Just visiting,’ George replied. ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ he added.

  They sat in sullen silence for another minute, then George heard Liz’s quiet tread on the stairs.

  She stood in the doorway and looked at them both. ‘George, this is Eddie,’ she said, checking with the boy: ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Eddie Hopkins,’ he confirmed. ‘Didn’t reckon you’d be seeing me again so soon, did you?’

  ‘Indeed not. And I am a little puzzled as to how you found me.’

  ‘You said your father did work at a hostel in Camberwell.’ Eddie grinned. ‘Wasn’t hard to find out enough about him to get me here.’ His grin faded and he looked nervous again. ‘I tell you, they’re out to kill me, or worse. I needed to find someone I could trust.’

  ‘Trust?’ George blurted in surprise.

  ‘At least let’s hear his story,’ Liz said.

  ‘Very well. I suppose, if what the boy says is true, it may also concern us.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ Eddie agreed. ‘There are people who want that bit of paper in your wallet enough to kill me. Reckon they’d kill you for it and all.’

  George could feel the colour draining from his face. ‘I think you’d better tell us your story, Eddie,’ he said. ‘From the beginning.’

  The first glimmers of dawn were streaking the grey sky and struggling through the clouds. Police Constable Mark Skipper pulled his cloak tighter about his neck and stamped his feet to keep warm. It might be nearly morning, but the chill breeze was kicking up now, and wisps of damp fog still lingered in the air. Before long, the fog would be replaced by the smoke and smog of daytime London. In many ways, despite the cold, this was the best part of the day.

  It was certainly a time that Skipper welcomed. Another hour and he would be off duty. Home to a large, hot breakfast and the chance to put his feet up. A cup of Rosie and then some shut-eye. Just time for one more walk round his patch, he decided.

  The streets of London were never truly deserted, even at the dead of night. But here, away from the markets and the main shops, the early hours were as quiet as it got. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of a carriage clattering through the cobbled streets. A dog barked, setting off another. He paused and leaned on the cast iron fence that surrounded the graveyard, staring out across the irregular arrangement of headstones, waiting for the first hint of the sun to edge over the horizon.

  Now the light was streaming across the misty cemetery and the tombstones were black against the brightening sky. At first glance they seemed regular and similar. But Skipper knew that if you looked more closely you could see that every stone was different – the shapes and sizes, the way they had each angled and weathered gave every stone an individuality. Just as the people buried beneath had once been individuals. Now they were all equals – dust to dust.

  He sighed and straightened up, ready to move on. But something caught his eye as he turned – a movement where he did not expect it. Between the stones, in the distance. Figures.

  The black shapes of two men stood out against the tip of the rising sun. Two men making a slow and deliberate journey away from Skipper towards the far gate out of the graveyard and into Galsworthy Avenue. The policeman raised his hand to shield his eyes from the increasing glare of the sun. The men were almost out of sight now, over the slight rise and disappearing from view. But not before he saw that they were carrying something between them. A rectangular shape. Like a box.

  Or a coffin.

  ‘Oi! You there!’ There was a gate further along the street, and Skipper ran for it as he shouted. Through the gate, cold air rasping in his lungs, the sun in his eyes making them water.

  By the time PC Skipper reached the spot where he had seen the figures, there was no sign of them. Had he imagined it, he wondered? A trick of the morning light?

  And as he turned, he saw the remains of a broken wreath lying haphazardly against a mossy gravestone. The grave itself was old and neglected. But next to it was a new grave. Skipper remembered it being dug, perhaps a week or so ago. He had walked through the graveyard and exchanged a few words with the men taking it in turns to dig. The next day he had seen that the grave was filled and covered, a wreath laid carefully at its head.

  The wreath was now dead and had been moved aside. But the ground was still black and the soil loose. As if the grave had been dug and filled not a week or more ago, but in the last few hours. Skipper crouched down beside the newly turned soil. He scooped up a handful and let it trickle out between his fingers.

  It was only when Liz drew back the curtains to allow the first light of the morning into the room that George realised how long they had been talking.

  Eddie had told them how he had seen the man with the scar – Blade – a few days earlier. He recounted how he had seen Blade and his accomplice Davey grab the old man and drag him into the grounds of a house. George was impressed that the boy had tried to help the old man. Under the dishonest, insolent exterior it seemed there might be a heart and a conscience after all.

  Then Eddie became quiet. He admitted he had not been able to find Blade and the old man, that he had given up and left. George sensed there was more to it than this, and so it seemed did Liz. ‘Why not go to that house for help?’

  Eddie glared at him, his eyes wide with annoyance, and with something else. He held George’s stare for a moment. Then he looked away again. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that George could only just make out his words: ‘Because of the monster.’

  ‘Monster?’ he echoed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s a monster,’ Eddie said, more assured now, as if challenging George to disagree. ‘In the grounds of that big house. I saw it, it chased me.’ He held George’s gaze for a moment, then looked at Liz. Then he looked away. ‘You don’t believe me,’ he said. ‘I don’t care. I know what I seen.’

  ‘Well,’ George said after a moment’s pause, ‘I don’t know about that. But I can understand you not wanting to tangle with the unpleasant Mr Blade. I’ve met him myself, I think. In fact, he killed a friend of mine.’

  ‘Strewth,’ Eddie said, at once involved and interested again.

  So now it was George’s turn to tell his story about the raid on the British Museum, and poor Percy’s
death. ‘That’s how I came to have that scrap of paper you think Blade is after,’ he finished. George drew the scrap of charred paper out of his wallet and at once both Liz and Eddie crowded round to inspect it.

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

  ‘So what’s it mean?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ George confessed. ‘But surely it must mean something, for Blade to be so keen to get hold of it.’

  ‘And Lorimore too,’ Liz added.

  ‘Who?’ Eddie asked. ‘You mean the factory bloke?’

  ‘Yes,’ George said. ‘But I’m pretty sure he is just a collector of curios and was interested because he thought I had something to sell.’

  ‘You think he wants a complete diary?’ Liz asked.

  ‘Well if he does it won’t be this one. The volume this paper came from is burned to ash,’ George added. ‘This is all there is now. Sir William Protheroe, at the British Museum, is examining the others.’

  ‘They must want them bad to go stealing and murdering,’ Eddie announced.

  ‘Yes, and before that I think they tried to buy them,’ George said. ‘From poor Albert Wilkes before he died. He worked with my friend Percy,’ he started to explain.

  But Liz was looking at him in astonishment. ‘You did not tell me your friend’s name before,’ she said. ‘How curious. I wonder …’

  ‘Wonder? Wonder what?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Eddie added, ‘what is it?’

  Liz frowned. ‘Well, I can’t think it is relevant,’ she said. ‘Though it was rather unsettling at the time. Father and I visited the man’s widow just a few days ago. She lives on Clearview Street.’ Liz was looking off into the distance as she remembered. ‘The poor woman was in such a state. She must have been dreaming or something.’

  ‘So what did she say?’ Eddie demanded.

  Liz was looking out of the window. When she turned, George could not make out her expression as the light was behind her now. ‘She said that her husband, her dead husband, had come home and taken the dog for a walk.’

  There was a moment’s silence, broken by Liz’s nervous laugh. ‘Father did what he could to comfort the poor woman. But she was distraught.’

  ‘As you say,’ George agreed, ‘a dream. A waking nightmare. She missed him so much she thought he had come back.’

  Eddie was thoughtful. He stood up and walked round the room. ‘What about the dog?’ he asked at last.

  ‘The dog?’ George almost laughed out loud. ‘Who cares about the dog?’

  Eddie was looking at him excitedly. Then he turned to Liz. ‘Was the dog there?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘No, I didn’t see a dog, I must confess.’

  Eddie was almost breathless with excitement now. ‘So maybe this Wilkes really had taken it for a walk.’ He paused before going on: ‘You see, that old man Blade was after had a dog,’ he said. ‘And that was on Clearview Street.’

  George frowned. There was a coincidence here, but was it any more than that? He was trying to see the significance, if any, when he realised that Liz was no longer paying attention. She was looking out of the window again.

  ‘There’s a policeman coming to the door,’ she said.

  They had talked of going to the police, of course. But after her experiences with the relatively mundane matter of a missing wallet, Liz was adamant that without some solid evidence they would get no help.

  ‘I was hoping to find the Reverend Oldfield,’ the policeman said when Liz opened the door. ‘I know it’s early,’ he admitted.

  ‘Indeed,’ Liz told him. ‘He is still asleep. I am myself an early-riser,’ she added by way of explaining how she came to be awake and up and dressed at the crack of dawn. ‘Can I help? I am his daughter.’

  ‘It isn’t a pleasant incident, miss.’

  ‘An incident? What can you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure yet, miss. Probably nothing. I think I disturbed the men. I wasn’t really sure what to do about it as it seems there’s no real harm or damage done.’

  ‘Some sort of damage?’ Liz wondered. ‘Where?’

  ‘Well, not really damage miss. I saw two characters making off through the graveyard. Maybe they were just taking a shortcut. Only, well, one of the graves looks like it’s been disturbed. I gather that Reverend Henderson is away, so I was advised to inform your father. I’m just going off duty myself,’ he went on. ‘But if the Reverend wants to take a look for himself, there’ll be someone there until eight o’clock. We’d appreciate his professional opinion.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Liz said. The constable touched his helmet, and turned to go. Liz stepped back to close the door. ‘Oh, constable,’ she said quickly as a thought occurred to her. ‘Which grave is it that has been disturbed?’

  ‘It’s a recent one, miss. Over towards the Galsworthy Avenue side. No headstone yet, of course. But I gather it’s the grave of a gentleman called Albert Wilkes.’

  Chapter 7

  Eddie and George made their way to the graveyard while Liz went to wake her father. It seemed best to examine Albert Wilkes’s grave as soon as possible, and George was conscious that despite his lack of sleep he was due at work at the Museum in a few hours. With luck he would be able to find a quiet store room and catch forty winks.

  They walked briskly, Eddie leading as he said he knew the way. ‘Do you live round here?’ George asked him.

  The boy glanced at George, a lick of dark hair poking out from under his cap. ‘I don’t live nowhere,’ he said.

  ‘Everyone lives somewhere.’

  The boy grunted. ‘Fat lot you know. You’ve got a house or something, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ There was something in the boy’s manner that made George almost ashamed to answer. ‘It was my father’s house,’ he said.

  ‘You got a father too. That’s nice.’

  ‘I did have,’ George replied quietly. ‘Not any more.’ Eddie looked at him – not a sideways glance of contempt, but with an intensity that made George feel even more uneasy. ‘That’s sad,’ Eddie said. Then he looked away.

  ‘I just meant you seem to know your way around here,’ George said. It sounded more apologetic than he had intended.

  ‘I know lots of London.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  Eddie had stopped, and George had to stop as well to answer. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to like me,’ the boy snapped. ‘I don’t expect you to worry about what I do or where I sleep or where my next meal’s coming from. You got a house and home, so that’s all right.’

  George stared at him. He had no idea how to respond to this sudden outburst. He could just agree with the boy and walk away – a lot of what he had said was certainly true, and George felt no pricks from his conscience about how he lived. But somehow, despite everything – even losing his wallet – he felt caught up in the boy’s life. They were linked now, both entangled in a mystery that if the lad was right threatened their lives.

  ‘I do like you, Eddie,’ he said quietly, without even realising he was going to say it. It sounded trite and awkward, but he realised that it was true. There was something about Eddie Hopkins. If nothing else, the boy was a survivor, and while George didn’t agree with the boy’s morals, at least the lad had some.

  Eddie stared at George for a long moment. His mouth moved as if he was about to speak. Then he glanced down at his feet before suddenly slapping George heartily on the shoulder and grinning at him. ‘Let’s go and see the grave robbing, then,’ he said.

  It was raining when Liz eventually got her father to the graveyard. A fine drizzle that was almost a mist, and which seeped into Liz’s clothes. Her father seemed not to notice as he prodded at the turned earth with the end of his stick and muttered quietly to himself about what the world was coming to.

  ‘You say that the constable was going to meet us here?’ he said at
last, his forehead wrinkling like a tortoise’s.

  ‘He was going off duty. But he said there would be someone.’

  ‘Probably idling about somewhere,’ her father decided. ‘You stay here, I’ll go and find the fellow.’

  Liz watched him set off towards the nearest path, leaning heavily on his stick. She was tempted to follow, but she waited until her father’s shape was blurred by the rain. Then she walked slowly over to where George and Eddie were sitting on the wall of the graveyard.

  Being cold and damp was nothing new to Eddie. He could feel the rough brickwork of the wall through his trousers and shuffled slightly to get more comfortable. He watched the old man walking unsteadily into the mist, and then Liz came over. They had been forced together by circumstance, and he had stolen from both George and Liz. He quite liked them – well, the woman anyway. The man was quiet and dull and difficult to understand. But Liz was open and honest and she hadn’t turned him over to the police when she could have done.

  What worried Eddie was that neither of his new associates seemed willing to accept Mrs Wilkes’s story. For Eddie it was simple – if the woman said her husband had come home, then she must have some reason for saying it. Even if she thought he was dead. And he was sure that he had seen the old man himself – dead and walking.

  ‘We should dig this Wilkes bloke up,’ he pronounced as Liz reached them.

  ‘Why?’ George wanted to know.

  ‘To make sure he’s still there,’ Eddie said.

  ‘And if the grave is empty?’ Liz asked.

  ‘Either he isn’t dead at all, or …’ Eddie shrugged.

  ‘He is dead,’ George said.

  ‘People get buried alive,’ Eddie protested.

  ‘Not these days,’ Liz said sharply. She bit at her bottom lip. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’ The notion obviously worried her.

  ‘Then we go to a medium and hold a séance,’ Eddie decided. ‘If he’s really walking, we should find out what he wants. And to do that we have to talk to him.’