Justin Richards - The Death Collector

‘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.’