The Death Collector Read online

She returned her attention to her tea. ‘No, actually.’ She took a sip, set down the cup, straightened it on its saucer. ‘I let him go.’

  Before George could reply, she was leaning across the table, her hands pushed out in front of her so that they almost sent her teapot flying. Her words came out in a rush. ‘Oh I was stupid to do it, I know. But I suppose I felt sorry for him. I mean it can’t be much of a life can it, for a lad like that. Having to steal to get the money for food, living out on the streets because his mother has passed away and he can’t find his father and sister. Living hand to mouth.’

  George sat back and folded his arms. He could not help but smile. ‘So you had quite a conversation with the young criminal then, before you set him free.’ He held up his hands to stop any protest. ‘You asked me about that slip of paper …’ He was leaning forward now, matching her pose. George wondered whether he should say nothing about the fragment of paper. But then again, just by having seen it Miss Oldfield might perhaps be in danger. Surely it was only right and proper at least to warn her of that possibility? ‘People have died, quite possibly because of that tiny scrap of paper,’ George said quietly. ‘I myself may be in danger.’

  They sat in silence for a moment after this. ‘My goodness, Mr Archer,’ she said at last, ‘you make it sound as if we are caught up in the events of a penny dreadful. I think perhaps you had better tell me your story.’

  She listened attentively as George spoke. It was, he found, a relief to tell someone finally about it. He started with the death of his poor friend Albert, who had died in his sleep – was it only last week? By the time he got to describe the break-in at the Museum and how the scarred man had lunged at him across Percy’s desk, Miss Oldfield was sitting with her eyes wide and her tea quite forgotten.

  He described how he had written to Augustus Lorimore, and told her of the strange reply he had received.

  ‘So you determined to go and see the man?’ she asked him.

  George nodded. He was feeling rather parched and asked her if she wanted more tea.

  But in reply, her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my goodness, look at the time,’ she cried nodding at the clock on the far wall. ‘I am supposed to be taking my father to visit his former parishioners this afternoon. He will be so cross if I am late.’ She took a final, swift sip of cold tea, grimaced, gathered her bag, and stood up. ‘He can’t manage on his own. He needs me to help him with almost everything these days, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That must be a burden,’ George said, standing up.

  She frowned. ‘I suppose so,’ she said quietly, as if the thought had never occurred to her. ‘But I must know how your story ends.’

  ‘If it has ended,’ George replied. ‘We could meet here again. Tomorrow perhaps?’

  ‘I can’t possibly wait that long to hear the rest of your adventures. Why not come to our house?’ she said. ‘Father won’t mind. In fact if you come after eight o’clock this evening he won’t even know – he needs his sleep. Oh, but it will all be quite proper, I assure you, Mr Archer,’ she quickly added. ‘I mean …’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘And I should be delighted to call on you and finish my story, so far as it goes. I have your address from your letter. But I must not keep you, Miss Oldfield, though I do have one small request.’

  She glanced at the clock again and frowned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘My friends call me George.’

  She regarded him sternly for a moment. Then she smiled. ‘Very well, George it is. My name is Elizabeth.’

  ‘May I call you Elizabeth?’

  ‘No,’ she said in a matter of fact voice as she walked past him and headed for the door. She paused and turned. ‘But you may call me Liz. I shall see you this evening, George.’

  Only after he had sat down, his head swimming with visions of Elizabeth Oldfield’s smile and the anticipation of seeing her again did it occur to George that his recently returned wallet was empty. He had no money at all.

  Feeling foolish and anxious, he finally summoned the courage to gesture to the waitress who had served them as she walked past. ‘Excuse me, but about the bill …’

  ‘That’s all right, sir.’ She barely paused on her way to another customer. ‘The young lady paid on her way out.’

  They grabbed him as he was working the side streets near Kensington Gardens. It was a good place to finish up the day, and as night fell Eddie often found useful pickings in the area as people hurried home. That was how the two men knew he would be there, of course. Someone who knew Eddie’s routine, such as it was, had told them – Smudgy Steve or Mike the Mouth. Possibly little Annie from the baker’s who sometimes gave him one of yesterday’s rolls.

  The first Eddie knew of anything amiss was when a pair of enormous arms wrapped themselves round him from behind and pulled him backwards. He kicked out at once, shouting and struggling. But one of the arms was positioned so that a huge, sweaty hand clamped over his mouth. Someone else was approaching him, and Eddie’s eyes widened. He hoped they would realise he was in trouble – help him or raise the alarm.

  The street was in shadow, the sun already below the level of the buildings. The lamps had been lit, and as he approached Eddie, his potential rescuer’s face caught the light. The man was smiling horribly, and Eddie could clearly see the thin, raised scar that ran down the whole side of his face. Scarface – the man who had been shadowing the old man Eddie had tried to help.

  ‘I thought it might be you, from the description we were given,’ Scarface said, grabbing Eddie’s thrashing legs and lifting him up. The two men carried Eddie off into a narrow alleyway. ‘So nice to meet you again. Eddie, isn’t it?’ His voice was rough as gravel.

  Scarface set Eddie’s feet down on the ground again, and the man holding Eddie from behind relaxed his grip slightly. Not enough for Eddie to have any hope of pulling free, but he could stretch round and see that it was ‘Sidekick’ – the man who had been with Scarface.

  ‘I’m sorry I got in your way,’ Eddie gasped as soon as the hand was removed from his mouth. ‘I can give you me day’s takings. To make amends.’

  ‘You hear that, Davey?’ Scarface ground out. ‘Very generous I’m sure.’ His face thrust close to Eddie’s, the scar gleaming. ‘But we don’t want money off you, oh no. You’ve got something far more valuable than money, haven’t you, Eddie the Dipper.’

  Eddie swallowed. ‘Have I?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Davey – the man holding him – said with a high-pitched chuckle. ‘Much more valuable, that’s right Mr Blade.’

  Something caught the light as Scarface drew it out of his jacket. A knife. He angled it so that the reflected light shone in Eddie’s eyes. ‘Bet you’re wondering why I’m called Blade,’ he said. The knife moved slowly closer to Eddie’s eyes. ‘Maybe you think it’s on account of the scar?’ And closer. ‘Or perhaps you think it’s because I’m so good with the knife.’ Closer still.

  The knife stopped just shy of Eddie’s left eye. It was so close he could see the tiny flat dot of its point.

  ‘But you’d be wrong,’ Blade said. ‘It just happens to be my name.’ The knife drew back, accompanied by Blade and Davey’s laughter. ‘Like Draper or Smith, it seems I’m named after my trade.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Eddie asked. His voice was husky and his mouth dry.

  ‘Trade is a good word. ’Cos that’s what we want. In return for your life, or at least your good looks such as they are, you give us something. How’s that?’

  ‘Anything.’ He tried to pull away but the arms still held him tight. ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘See?’ Blade snapped at Davey. ‘I told you he was a smart boy.’ He reached out suddenly for Eddie, and Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to feel the prick of the knife on his face at any moment. But instead, Blade put his hand on Eddie’s cap and rubbed it round his head, ruffling his hair. Then he slapped Eddie on the cheek. ‘Good boy.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You lifted
a wallet from a Mr Archer yesterday.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Eddie conceded. ‘I lift lots of wallets.’

  ‘Well this one, we want. Or rather, something that’s in it.’

  ‘What?’ Eddie asked. He could read well enough to know which wallet had been Archer’s. But why did they want the man’s wallet – there hadn’t even been much money in it. Just some loose change, a business card and a burnt scrap of paper. Hardly worth the effort, in fact.

  ‘Well, that’s for us to know and for you to mind your own business about.’

  Eddie nodded slowly. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I got his wallet – Mr Archer – I lifted it yesterday. Still got it in fact. Nice leather one. Got nothing but a few coins and a pocket watch today, so I kept his wallet till I find something better.’

  Davey let him struggle free enough to pull the wallet from his trouser pocket. He held it out to Blade, who snatched it at once.

  With Davey leaning over Eddie’s shoulder to watch, Blade opened the wallet and checked inside. ‘It’s empty,’ he snarled, throwing it to the ground in anger and reaching for Eddie’s throat with both hands.

  ‘No,’ Eddie insisted. ‘No, it ain’t. There’s a scrap of burned paper inside, I saw it. Tucked away in the lining.’

  Blade halted. ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll show you. Here let me show you.’ So it was the burned paper they wanted, was it? But why? Eddie made to pick up the wallet, and Davey let go of him, watching closely. Eddie held up the wallet – the wallet he had taken from the old clergymen on the Gloucester Road and swapped for Archer’s. He felt inside. ‘Here it is, you see?’ He pulled out his hand, then gave a gasp of annoyance. ‘Oops,’ he said loudly, ‘dropped it. There – quick, before it blows away.’

  Both men looked. They were not fooled for long, but it was long enough for Eddie. He was already running, the wallet jammed back into his pocket and his lungs bursting with the effort as he ran for his life. He could hear the sound of the men behind him – feet on cobbles, shouts of anger, threats …

  As he ran, Eddie’s mind too was racing. What could he do? Where could he go? They were desperate to find the scrap of paper, that was clear. So desperate that they would be after him again, they wouldn’t easily give up. But what sort of scrap of paper was that important to anyone? Next time he might not escape so easily. Next time, Blade might bring the knife that bit closer to his face. Next time …

  Half an hour later, Mr Blade’s employer listened to his report without comment.

  ‘But we’ll find him, sir,’ Blade concluded. ‘He can’t stay hidden for long, not with all the contacts and sources we have. We’ll find him.’

  His employer nodded. ‘See that you do. With this and the mess at the British Museum I am not in the mood for any more mistakes.’ He was angry and disappointed, but it would do no good to get upset with Blade. The man had at least established who the boy was and that he knew about the fragment of Glick’s diary. If he did not still have it he would know where it was. In any case, Blade knew better than anyone the fate that awaited those who failed his master – and that was the best incentive that there could be.

  The full moon shone in through the glass roof of the laboratory, augmenting the artificial light that illuminated the huge wooden work bench and the gears and cogs and components that were set out meticulously across it. The bare, pale flesh of a detached human arm seemed almost luminescent in the moonlight. The bottles of blood and jars of tissue reflected the glow.

  The man rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and reached his bony hand deep into a tank of viscous liquid, feeling round inside. ‘Mrs Wilkes, I gather, is telling some rather improbable stories,’ he said to Blade.

  ‘Indeed sir, so I gather. They’re saying in the local pub that her dead husband went home and demanded tea and fruitcake. A somewhat fanciful account.’

  ‘But nonetheless disturbing.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. There is an old white-haired gentleman that has apparently been asking questions.’

  ‘Just so long as he gets no answers,’ the man replied sharply. ‘Ah!’ His hand closed on the thing he was hunting for, felt it give under the slight pressure of his fingers. He reached in with his other arm and cradled the grey mass of tissue carefully as he lifted it clear of the tank. ‘This man might believe the stories, however improbable. He might think to investigate further if only to disprove them.’

  ‘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 th
ey 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.’

  Chapter 6

  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.