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  The Death Collector

  ( Department of Unclassified Artefacts - 1 )

  Justin Richards

  Justin Richards

  The Death Collector

  Chapter 1

  Four days after his own funeral, Albert Wilkes came home for tea.

  Even the dog knew there was something wrong. He was a mongrel called Pup, although it was many years since he had last been mistaken for a puppy. Stretched out in front of the fire in the living room, Pup raised his tired head. His ears were slicked back and his mouth curled away from yellowed teeth. Paws skittering on the wooden floor, the dog pushed itself backwards panting heavily. It never took its watery eyes off the figure in the doorway.

  Even the ear-splitting shriek from Nora Wilkes when she turned to see what Pup was afraid of did not break the dog’s stare at its late master. Woman and dog mirrored each other, transfixed, backing away from the nightmare that walked into the room.

  Albert Wilkes, oblivious to the reaction he had provoked, sat down at the small round table. Just as he had every evening for the last thirty years. He sat, silent and still, and waited for his widow to bring him his tea.

  When he had been alive, it was Mrs Wilkes who did most of the talking in the house. Albert had been content to nod and pretend to listen, to drink his tea and eat his dinner and sit in front of the fire reading until the small hours. Nora watched her dead husband, saying nothing. Yet he nodded and muttered and stared back at her through blank, dry eyes just as he always did when she was speaking.

  Without thinking, Nora Wilkes had put the kettle on. Her mind and body settled back into the familiar routine to prevent it from having to accept what she was seeing. But her heart was thumping in her chest and she could feel the blood rushing in her ears. Her hands were shaking as she stroked Pup, comforting him.

  Then another pair of hands reached out for the dog, reached out to cradle its whiskery head in an age-old routine. The dog yelped and backed away. Nora shrieked in fright. The spell broken at last, she ran from the room.

  Hands so cold and pale they were almost blue took Pup’s lead from a hook by the door. The dog cringed away as the lead was fastened to its collar. A croaky, rasping cough echoed round the room, sounding as if it should have come from the crackling fire rather than the throat of the man dragging the reluctant dog towards the door.

  Nora Wilkes sat on the floor of the small back room, her head in her hands, rocking gently to and fro as she cried almost without making a sound. The front door slammed shut, and she looked up.

  When all had been silent for a while, she slowly pulled herself to her feet. She edged back into the front room and looked round. The light had dimmed in the last few minutes but even so it was obvious that the room was empty. She would have liked to have dismissed the last hour as a delusion or dream — a nightmare. Except that the hook by the door was empty, and Pup was gone.

  She felt hollow inside, like her heart had been scooped out and thrown away. It was worse than when she had found him dead in the bed beside her — his mouth open as if caught in mid-snore. For years he had annoyed her with the sound of his snoring, and that morning it had been the lack of the sound that had made her suddenly cold with fear. She reached for a log to put on the dying fire.

  The fire threw up sparks and crackled as it accepted the wood. But before Nora could enjoy the benefit, there was a sudden loud hammering at the door behind her. Normally it would have made her jump. Now, she walked slowly to the door and opened it, not daring to think what she might find on the other side.

  The figure was tall but stooping, wrapped in a dark cloak. The firelight flickered across his wrinkled features. Nora crossed herself, realising that Death himself had come back for her Albert. But then the old man smiled thinly. ‘May we come in?’ and his voice was quiet and kind.

  The ‘we’ worried her. But his companion was a young woman, about eighteen years old. She was wearing a long, shapeless coat though her face was lively and pretty. The fire danced in her eyes and her blonde hair shone as they stepped into the room.

  The man was talking again, his voice cracked with age. ‘Horace Oldfield. The rector asked me to stop by if I had a moment. You know he is away this week?’

  Nora nodded quickly, though she had not known. In the better light she could see his clerical collar, and noted how frail and bent the old man was. The girl was holding his arm to help him stay upright.

  ‘I used to be the vicar of St Bartholomew’s, not far from here. Until I was forced to retire.’ He seemed to realise that the girl was holding him and struggled without success to tug his arm free. ‘My daughter, Elizabeth,’ he explained, as if to excuse her.

  Nora found her voice at last. ‘I’m sorry. Please sit down.’ She was surprised how calm she sounded. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? The kettle’s on. My husband has just …’ She stopped, pulled up abruptly as she realised what she had been about to say. How natural it would have sounded. How ordinary to say that Albert had taken the dog out.

  ‘We know,’ Oldfield said sympathetically, sitting down where Albert Wilkes had sat for his tea year after year. ‘He passed away last week, I understand. Very tragic.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You have our sympathy, doesn’t she, Elizabeth?’

  The girl said nothing, holding her father’s hand across the small table as she sat opposite him. But her emerald eyes were full of pity and feeling as she looked at Nora.

  And then, only then, did Nora collapse to the floor, sobbing and crying for her dead Albert. Desperate for him to come home again, no matter how he stank of the earth and reeked of decay.

  It was early evening and the light was fading. The sun was giving up its last attempts to break through the smog that shrouded London, and everything was washed in a grubby haze. Eddie Hopkins leaned against a wall, feeling the cold roughness of the crumbling brickwork through his shirt. He watched the people on Clearview Street, assessing them with a young but professional eye.

  It was not a good area for him to be looking for work — too quiet by half. He worked better, and safer, in the rush and bustle of more crowded streets. He preferred his ‘clients’ to be ostentatious and wear their wealth on their sleeve — or rather, in easily accessible pockets. A dilapidated carriage went by, the horses looking old and tired. A group of children ran past, laughing and joking. One of them stuck his tongue out at Eddie. Eddie ignored him. Just a kid. Eddie himself was nearly fifteen. Or almost nearly.

  Then he saw the old man with the dog. He watched the figure shuffling awkwardly along the pavement — head down, jacket caked in dirt, hands twisted into claws and every movement an effort. An easy target, Eddie thought as the man went slowly on his ponderous way. The dog wouldn’t be a problem.

  But as he passed, Eddie caught a whiff of him. The air was heavy with coal smoke and smuts from Augustus Lorimore’s nearby foundries. It had an acid tinge to it. But even so, Eddie could almost taste the smell that was coming off the old man. A cloying, slightly sweet smell that spoke of decay and neglect. A graveyard stench.

  As he walked, the old man kept his head down. It swayed gently from side to side with each heavy step. What Eddie could see of his face was lined and saggy. The face was angled so that Eddie could not see the man’s eyes, just the shadowy outlines of the sockets. Like the blank eyes of a skull.

  The dog was straining at its lead, as if trying to escape. It struggled and pulled and yelped, but the old man refused to quicken his pace.

  Eddie turned away. As he turned, he saw that he was not the only person interested in the old man. Though they were on the other side of the street, two men were following him. They were walking too slowly to be as casual and at ease as they tried to appear. And
their eyes were fixed on the old man. Even through the gathering gloom, Eddie could tell that they meant the man no good.

  Of course, Eddie would have been happy to relieve the old man of his money. But the methods the two men opposite might employ would be far less gentle than Eddie’s quick dip and away. Their hands were already clenched into meaty fists. Their eyes were dark and narrowed and focused with violent intent. As they began to cross the road, Eddie could see that the larger of the two men had a pale scar running down the length of one side of his face. It started above his eye and disappeared under his chin. None of what Eddie saw boded well for the fragile old man, and although it was none of his business, Eddie was annoyed.

  The man with the scar was speaking quietly to the other as they crossed the road. They both ignored Eddie as they walked past him. But he caught a few words, spoken by the scar-faced man to his sidekick in a surprisingly cultured voice: ‘… went the wrong way. It isn’t working, and we need to …’

  Eddie stepped back into the shadows to let the two of them pass by, then followed. He pulled his cap down low over his eyes, hiding his face. He straightened up and made a show of staggering drunkenly along the pavement, weaving back and forth. Catching up with them, he stumbled into the smaller of the men from behind, knocking him sideways.

  Sidekick pushed Eddie roughly away as he hurried past, but Eddie caught his sleeve. Anything to slow him down.

  ‘Sorry, guv,’ he said, his accent thick and his words slurred. ‘Didn’t see you dawdling there, and that’s the truth, sir.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Sidekick pulled away.

  Eddie made to grab his sleeve again and continue with his apology. Scarface’s index finger jabbed into Eddie’s chest before he could move.

  ‘Enough,’ the man said, his scarred face suddenly close to Eddie’s. Then it was gone, and the two men were hurrying away after their prey.

  Eddie crossed the street, and ran after them on the other side of the road. He could have overtaken them easily, but he kept a short distance behind, watching. The indistinct shape of the man and his dog appeared out of the evening. But Scarface and Sidekick made no attempt to catch him up. They turned into a wider road, with houses on one side set back from the street behind iron gates and long driveways. The other side of the road was a high, solid, unbroken wall. Behind the wall, Eddie thought, would be a small area of parkland — countryside surviving in the heart of London as part of some private estate belonging to someone rich. Some way ahead he thought he could see a set of enormous gates, a pale gravel driveway snaking beyond. But the mist was closing in and it was difficult to be sure.

  Eddie returned his attention to Scarface and Sidekick. They were almost level with the gates as they followed close behind the old man and his dog.

  When they made their move it was sudden and swift. Eddie darted across the road, but he knew he would be too late. The dog was gone — lost in the foggy night with a volley of barks and yaps as it fled down the road, its lead trailing behind. As before, the old man seemed totally oblivious. His stooped shadow merged with the silhouettes of the men as they took his arms, turned him sideways, dragged him away.

  He seemed to put up no fight at all — not even a plaintive cry for help. Running as fast as he could, Eddie saw why they had chosen this moment. They were outside the high, imposing wrought-iron gates. In the middle of each, what looked to Eddie like a lizard’s head was fashioned out of the ironwork. The design echoed the creatures that stood guard on the stone gateposts — a large statue of a lizard rearing up on each side of the entrance. Eddie could imagine a long forked tongue ready to lick out at anyone who tried to enter without permission.

  One of the gates was open, and the men dragged the old fellow through it, kicking it shut behind them. The gate squealed on its hinge, then clanged into its fellow. The stone lizards ignored the intruders.

  Eddie was angry with himself. He should have realised what was happening. He should have helped earlier. He could have shouted a warning to the old man, or got the two thugs to chase him instead. Without planning what he would do, without wondering if it was a good idea, without thinking of the possible consequences, Eddie shoved the gate open again and squeezed through into the grounds of the house beyond.

  Ahead of him, he could hear low voices, the scrunch and drag of feet on gravel. What sounded like heavy breathing, but must be just the wind in the trees. The drive was unlit, and curled away through a small wooded area. Somewhere at the end of it would be the house — huge and imposing, belonging to someone very rich. There would be servants and lights. The thugs would want to finish with the old man out of sight from the main road, but before they were within view of the house. If he cut through the trees, Eddie thought …

  A layer of thin fog wreathed the trees, making it even darker. Skeletal branches whipped at Eddie as he pushed past them. The damp coldness clung to his skin and bit through his clothes. It seemed as though the trees were breathing, whispering, turning to follow his every move. Then, suddenly, Eddie emerged on to open grass. In the hazy dark distance he could see smeared patches of light — windows of the house.

  The sound of breathing was still there. Louder now, it seemed to come from all around him. And something else — a clanking, metallic noise — huge, oily and industrial. Eddie could smell the tang of machine oil, the warm smog of steam. He could see almost nothing now as the mist rose over his eyes, the smog of the city was closing in, the clouds thickening the night around him. A ball of fog blew across Eddie’s face like smoke. He coughed and waved at it. Realised that it was not cold as it should be. It was warm — like a hot breath.

  Moonlight struggled through the thinning cloud. The fog evaporated. The metallic clanking echoed through the night close beside Eddie, and he spun round. It sounded like chains rattling down at the docks. It sent a shiver of fear through his whole body, but it did not even begin to prepare him for what he saw.

  A massive head roared out of the darkness high above him, steam blowing through the enormous mouth — like a dragon. The clanking was the snapping of its jaws and warm liquid dripped off the sharpened points of the teeth, raining down on Eddie. The beast’s dripping saliva stained his clothing and burned his terrified face. The nightmare creature roared like a train hurtling into a tunnel and clouds of hot breath erupted into the air around Eddie.

  He saw it only for a moment before it was lost in the swirling steam and the blackness of the night. But that was more than enough. He was already running, the old man forgotten. Eddie pushed through the clutching trees, smearing the viscous liquid across his face as he choked back tears of fright. Running for his life.

  Chapter 2

  The British Museum was closed, and the early evening was to George’s mind the most productive part of the day. It was a quiet time when he could get things done before he got too tired or hungry.

  Most people liked to get off home. But there were a few, like George, who continued working into the evening. Albert and Percy down in documents had always favoured the end of the day rather than an early start. Sir William Protheroe, the elderly man who had paused to watch George at work, seemed to be the same. George had noticed him several times — had even exchanged the odd word or two out of politeness. He had assumed that Sir William had no idea who he was, so when the man greeted him by name, George was taken aback.

  ‘Working late again, Mr Archer?’ Despite his lined face and white hair, Sir William’s voice was strong and confident. His eyes were bright with intelligence behind the round lenses of his spectacles. He whipped them off, polished them on a grubby handkerchief, then replaced them. ‘It sounds to me, young man, as if one of that clock’s cogwheels is stripped,’ he said. Before George could answer, Sir William went on: ‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to have a word. Tell me, has Mr Mansfield spoken to you yet?’

  Jasper Mansfield was the curator George worked for. He had not spoken to him for over a week. So George shook his head, wondering what the man was
talking about.

  Sir William sighed. ‘Typical. Head in the sand, I suppose. I shall have to ask him again, no doubt.’

  ‘Ask him? About what?’ He said it before he could stop himself, so George quickly added: ‘Sorry, sir. I hope that isn’t an impertinent question.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Sir William told him with a smile. ‘After all, it’s your career.’

  ‘I — what?’

  ‘I have asked Mr Mansfield if he will allow you to come and work for me.’

  This was news to George. He stared at Sir William. ‘For you?’

  ‘In my Department. I need someone you see. Too much work, too few people. You’ll like it, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir William …’ He seemed to be apologising all the time, George thought vaguely. But then he had not realised that Sir William was a Curator. Important, yes — but George thought he knew who the Curators were for all of the Museum’s Departments. ‘Er, what is your Department?’

  ‘Ah, well, we shall have to see what Mansfield says before I can tell you that.’

  George frowned — what could he mean? But Sir William had already turned and marched off into the depths of the Museum.

  George watched him disappear, then returned his attention to the clock. Horology was his business — cataloguing and maintaining the clocks in the department. It had been his life for several years now — since he had left school and finished his brief apprenticeship at Chandler’s Engineering. He was sitting at a table in amongst the displays. There were rooms where he could work away from the exhibits, providing useful solitude during the day when the Museum was open. But when it was all but deserted, whenever possible, George preferred to be with the clocks.

  He loved to hear the familiar, comforting sound as they beat out the seconds around him. Every tock, every tick wore away at the mechanisms and brought them closer to needing repair, just as every beat of George’s own heart brought him closer to his own maker. There was something regular, dependable, predictable about clocks which George preferred to the eccentricities and randomness of people.