Justin Richards - The Death Collector

‘You read a lot, Mr Archer?’

‘Most of those were my father’s,’ George confessed. ‘I do enjoy reading, but I fear that many of those volumes will remain unread for a while.’

‘A pity. There are some interesting books here. And speaking of books …’ He turned from his inspection of the bookcase and returned to the armchair, settling himself back into it. ‘I wonder if you have given any more thought to the identity and motivation of those ruffians who were after Sir Henry Glick’s diary.’

‘Well, I have been rather busy,’ George said. He sat down on the sofa, carefully avoiding Sir William’s coat and hat. ‘And I think some of what I have been up to does indeed relate.’

‘So have I. Busy researching our friend the late Sir Henry Glick. But we shall come to that in a moment. First, perhaps you can tell me what you have been busy with, if you believe it is relevant.’

George paused, wondering what he should say. There was something about the man sitting opposite him that inspired confidence. ‘I have been spending much of my time trying to discover who was so desperate to get hold of Glick’s diary. And why they want it badly enough to resort to murder.’

Sir William replaced his glasses. ‘Alas, poor Percy,’ he murmured. ‘And poor Albert too, come to that.’

‘You knew Albert Wilkes?’

Sir William adjusted his head. ‘Until last night I had never knowingly set eyes on the poor man.’

‘Last night?’

‘I didn’t even realise who he was until the body disappeared, then I made some enquiries and found he had worked with Percy, who I did know slightly.’ Sir William paused, staring off into the farthest corner of the room. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on after a moment, ‘I’m probably not making much sense to you, am I?’

George nodded. Vaguely he could hear a noise, and it took him a moment to realise that it was another knocking on the front door.

It was Liz. George led her into the living room and introduced her to Sir William, who shook her hand solemnly before turning to George and raising an eyebrow meaningfully.

‘Miss Oldfield,’ George explained, ‘has been helping me investigate the strange case of Sir Henry Glick’s diaries. She has been most helpful.’

‘I fear that we have not discovered much,’ Liz admitted. ‘The desecrated grave of Mr Wilkes, a slip of charred paper, and a peculiar but largely fake seance. Little else.’

‘That may be more than you think,’ Sir William said slowly. ‘Let me tell Miss Oldfield about who I am and what I do. Mr Archer already knows,’ he told Liz. ‘And he also knows that we may actually be investigating different aspects of the same mystery. Since he appears to trust you, and I value his judgement, there are things that you should know.’

George moved the coat and hat so that he and Liz could sit together on the sofa. Sir William Protheroe leaned forward in his armchair. His fingertips tapped rhythmically together, and he began to speak. He told Liz much of what he had told George that night after the break-in and Percy’s death. He explained the Department of Unclassified Artefacts, and he told them both how he had read through the surviving volumes of Henry Glick’s diary and also researched the man’s career and life.

‘And it seemed to me that a recent investigation of my own might be related in some way,’ he went on. ‘From what Mr Archer tells me of your own exploits it seems I was right. You see, last night, I performed a brief examination of a body that was brought to me. An elderly man called Albert Wilkes. Yes, you begin to see the connection. You know that Wilkes was initially responsible for cataloguing Glick’s diary, and you know that he died — apparently of natural causes. Mr Archer tells me his grave was perhaps opened, and that I find especially intriguing. Because I found, before it mysteriously disappeared, that Wilkes’s body had been tampered with.’

Sir William paused, took off his glasses and polished them on the corner of his jacket. ‘There is a mystery here, Mr Archer and Miss Oldfield,’ he told them. ‘Something is happening that may challenge our understanding of the scientific world. And, with your help, I mean to discover what.’

There was silence for several moments after Sir William had finished. Sir William regarded his audience carefully, the light glinting on his spectacles as he replaced them and waited for their reaction.

Liz spoke first. ‘It is very generous of you to take us into your confidence, Sir William.’

‘And we do appreciate the need for complete secrecy,’ George added, looking at Liz.

Sir William nodded seriously at this. But his manner changed in an instant as a voice called from the doorway:

‘So who was this Glick bloke, anyway?’ Eddie stepped into the room. ‘I only ask ’cause it seems like his diary’s the key to all this.’

Sir William stared at Eddie for several seconds.

‘What?’ Eddie demanded.

‘Have you been out there for long?’ Sir William asked, his voice quiet and strained.

‘Oh yeah, I heard everything,’ Eddie assured him. ‘No need to go over it all again.’

‘This is Eddie,’ George said quickly.

‘He’s, er, he’s been helping us,’ Liz added.

‘If you can call it that,’ George muttered.

‘Indeed?’ Sir William pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. When he returned it to his pocket he seemed to have recovered. ‘And you can vouch for Eddie?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ George said, ‘he’s a pickpocket and a rogue, but I think he’s trustworthy.’

‘He seems to have his own moral code,’ Liz said. ‘Honour amongst thieves or something.’

‘Like I said,’ Eddie interrupted, ‘who’s this Glick?’

Sir William fixed Eddie with a steady gaze, as if summing him up. ‘Sir Henry Glick was a palaeontologist and geologist.’

‘What?’

‘He was a scientist,’ George told him.

‘And a very eminent one,’ Sir William agreed. ‘He was destined for great things, or so it was thought.’

‘So what happened?’ Liz asked.

‘According to my sources, he died young. Very tragic, before he could realise his potential. His diaries are useful as they catalogue his discoveries and theories and give us some insight as to the mental processes he went through on his journey of enlightenment.’

‘So why does someone want the last volume?’ George wondered. ‘If his work is already known about.’

‘I really cannot imagine. His early years were apparently his most productive, before he became ill. He continued to work, of course. In fact he was one of the twenty-one scientists invited to dinner at the Crystal Palace on New Year’s Eve 1853. It was, by all accounts, quite an occasion though I was not myself invited.’ He sniffed, as if irritated by this apparent oversight.

‘What was the occasion?’ Liz wondered. ‘Just the New Year?’

‘No, it was to celebrate the creation of the dinosaur statues that are now in the Crystal Palace Park. In fact the dinner was held inside the Iguanodon statue before the top was lowered. There was a drawing of the event in the Illustrated London News , I remember. Sir Henry Glick was due to make a speech which was eagerly anticipated. But on the evening his illness took a turn for the worse. It was, I think, the beginning of the end for him. He made his apologies and left early. Perhaps,’ Sir William said with a sad smile, ‘he was sickened by the rather self-serving speech that I gather the eminent palaeontologist Richard Owen gave.’

‘I’ve seen a monster that looked like a dinosaur,’ Eddie offered.

Sir William was impressed. ‘You have been to the Museum of Natural History?’