Justin Richards - The Death Collector

‘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.’

Mist hung low over the gravestones like a shroud, almost glowing in the pale diffuse moonlight. The tips of the tombstones erupted from the soft blanket like broken teeth — angled, chipped, discoloured. Then clouds reached across the moon, and the scene faded to darkness and silhouette.

Two figures, made insubstantial by the mist that swirled round them, picked their way between the graves. Silent and pale as ghosts, they were caught for the briefest moment in a shaft of moonlight that escaped from behind the clouds. Between them they carried a large wooden box. They were a mismatched pair — one thin and wiry, the other taller and massively broad.

The struggling moonlight picked out a thin scar that ran down the length of the larger man’s face as he turned to hiss instructions to his fellow. ‘Just along here. Careful now, don’t drop it.’

The smaller man did not answer, but he tightened his grip on the wooden casket. The ground was uneven, broken up by the gravestones and by raised areas of thick, unkempt grass and by the ragged edges of fallen gravestones. The mist swirled round their feet as a breeze swept through the desolation, making the ground churn and undulate — as if it were about to give up its dead.

But neither of the men noticed. They were both used to being close to death.

‘Here we are,’ Blade said at last.

They set down the casket close to the mound of a new grave. Earth had been heaped over the grave, and the first spikes of grass were poking through the dark soil. There was no stone yet, just a simple small wooden cross to mark the place.

A wreath of flowers lay near the head of the grave. The smaller man picked it up and tossed it away. Leaves spilled from the wreath, leaving a trail across the grave. As the wreath fell against a nearby headstone, a shower of dry petals spilled like confetti across the ground.

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?’