Justin Richards - The Death Collector

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.