Justin Richards - The Death Collector

‘Course not. I saw it in the grounds of a big house. Monstrous it was. Huge, with great teeth.’

‘Not this again,’ George sighed. ‘I told you — it’s all in the imagination. All you saw was the branch of a tree blowing in the wind or something.’

‘George is right,’ Liz said gently.

Eddie stared back at them defiantly. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But I went back there last night, and I heard it breathing. In a big shed at the edge of the lawn.’

‘You did what?’ Liz said, aghast.

‘Where was this?’ Sir William asked quietly.

‘Just off Clearview Road. The place where they nabbed your mate Albert Wilkes. Place with lizard things on the gate posts,’ Eddie told him.

‘Nabbed Albert Wilkes?’ said Sir William in surprise.

‘But that’s Augustus Lorimore’s estate,’ George said. ‘It has to be.’

‘The industrialist?’

George nodded. ‘Funny thing, you know. But that’s who Percy told me to go to for help.’

‘Not that he was much help, was he?’ Liz said.

Sir William was frowning. ‘How would Percy Smythe know Augustus Lorimore, I wonder. And what’s this about Albert Wilkes being there? Tell me, what exactly did poor Percy say?’

George struggled to remember. ‘He said Lorimore’s name. And he said “help” I think. He was telling me Lorimore could help.’

Sir William’s face was grave. ‘But the man was dying,’ he said quietly. ‘He was asking you for help, for himself. Mentioning Lorimore’s name under those circumstances … Well, isn’t it just as likely that he was telling you who was to blame for his death?’

George felt suddenly cold. ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ he admitted. It was not something that had occurred to him, but now it seemed to make sense. And it explained Lorimore’s strange behaviour when they had met — how he had wanted the last surviving page of the diary. ‘But, Augustus Lorimore? There was something else nagging at him too, something at the edge of his mind.

‘Lorimore,’ Liz said. She was staring at George. ‘If you were spelling that out to someone, and they missed the first letter …’

‘Orimore?’ George said, bemused.

Liz went on. ‘And if they were interrupted or the contact was broken.’

‘What contact is this?’ Sir William asked.

‘I dunno,’ Eddie told him. ‘Think she’s going barmy.’

But George understood now. ‘If you just spelled out the middle part of his name,’ he said. ‘O R I M O.’

‘What you said that glass spelled out at the seance,’ Eddie said jumping about in excitement. ‘Albert Wilkes told you, his spirit told you. Like I said it would.’

‘Well, something did,’ Liz said. ‘Unless it’s just a coincidence?’

‘It sounds like a big coincidence,’ Sir William said. George explained quickly what had happened at the seance, and the older man nodded. ‘We live in strange times, Archer. Though of course it could be just coincidence.’

‘Don’t sound like coincidence to me,’ Eddie said. ‘Specially if this Lorimore lives in the lizard house where the monster is. The house where Wilkes was dragged off by Blade.’

‘Monsters or not,’ Sir William decided, ‘it does seem at least a possibility that Lorimore is indeed behind these macabre events. But we should be wary of jumping to conclusions without sufficient evidence.’

‘And I went to see him,’ George groaned. ‘I went and told him about the surviving fragment of the diary, and what I was doing. He knows everything.’

At that moment, in Sir William’s office at the British Museum, Garfield Berry was hunting through the papers on the desk. He found the notes from the examination that Sir William had performed on the body of Albert Wilkes, and quickly and efficiently set about making a copy.

When he was finished, he replaced the papers exactly as they had been. He put his copy in an envelope together with a short covering letter that explained that he had received the request and hoped that this was what was wanted. He also included the address of another employee of the Museum — a man called George Archer. It had not been difficult to get into Mansfield’s office and find the information he needed. Berry sealed the envelope and quickly wrote the name of the recipient on it: Augustus Lorimore.

Berry locked the office behind him with a duplicate key that Sir William knew nothing about. He did not expect Sir William back for a while yet, but he was still in a hurry. The man with the scar was waiting.

Mr Blade waited patiently and silently while Augustus Lorimore read Berry’s letter. Clutching the paper in spindly, spider’s leg fingers, Lorimore read it through twice. His lips twitched as he reached the end for the second time. Then he bunched the letter into a tight ball and hurled it across the drawing room.

Blade did not react. But he noted where the letter had fallen so he could recover and burn it later.

‘You wish me to deal with these people, now that we know where Archer lives, sir?’

‘I don’t care what happens to them, Blade.’ Lorimore turned away, studying the sightless birds that stared back at him from behind the glass. ‘Just so long as I get what I want, and they never interfere with my work again.’

‘I shall be happy to arrange that, sir,’ Blade assured him. He was smiling thinly, his mouth a knife-slash across his face. ‘It will be dark early this evening. We can move then, without fear of being seen.’

Lorimore turned back from the display case. ‘I can’t wait until this evening, you dolt.’ He nodded at the window on the other side of the room. A thin mist was already pressing up against it, filtering the pale winter sunlight. ‘The smog is thickening already. I’m sure your thugs can run fast enough to escape any interference. And in half an hour you’ll barely be able to see your hand in front of your face.’

There were springs and cogwheels and screws and oddly shaped bits of metal all over the table. Eddie watched with interest as George arranged the bits and pieces. He had a magnifying glass mounted on a metal bracket so he could see what he was working on. When Eddie tried to peer through, George pushed him out of the way with a grunt of annoyance.

‘What you making, anyway?’ Eddie demanded for the third time.

‘It’s only a prototype,’ George mumbled.

‘A type of what?’

George sighed and put down the tiny wheel he had been examining. He hunted for another with the tweezers, eventually selecting one that looked to Eddie to be identical to the first.

Liz had left them soon after Sir William Protheroe. That had been hours ago now. Eddie reckoned it must be getting on for lunchtime, but he was fascinated when George got out his collection of tools. They were so tiny — like proper carpenter’s tools, only much smaller. There were screwdrivers, knives, tweezers, clamps, and even a miniature saw.

‘You a jeweller?’ Eddie asked.

‘No,’ George told him. ‘I mend clocks and watches.’

Eddie had quite a collection of pocket watches stashed away. He considered offering them to George, but he might not approve. Anyway, most of them worked, if he bothered to wind them up.

‘I still don’t know what it is,’ Eddie said, watching closely as George started to assemble various components he had built into a single compact unit.

‘It’s for Liz — Miss Oldfield. She wants me to work out a mechanism for sending a silver ashtray flying across the stage.’

‘What stage?’

‘At the theatre. She indulges in amateur dramatics.’

George sat back and inspected his work. The spring was fixed between two metal plates. One kept the whole contraption stable on the top of the table. The other was fixed to the top at an angle. A small key emerged from the side of the device, and George wound it carefully. As he did so, the spring contracted and the top plate, which was slightly indented, lowered and levelled.