The Death Collector (5 page)

It was not difficult to discover the address of Lorimore's offices. For one thing it was stamped on the frame of the Museum's goods lift which George had not realised was a Lorimore product. As soon as he took a break, George wrote Lorimore a short letter. Probably he would never hear back, but he owed it to Percy to try to contact the man. He gave his address as care of the British Museum, thinking this at least might impress and lend authenticity to his story.

Briefly, George explained that the Museum had
suffered a break-in that was being investigated by the police. He mentioned Percy's death, in case Lorimore and Percy had somehow known each other. He wrote of how the thieves had been after Sir Henry Glick's diaries, but had fled empty-handed after the volume they wanted had been burned. He asked Lorimore if he could help in any way, unsure really what it was that he expected of the man. As an afterthought, George wrote that he had the last surviving fragment of the final volume of Glick's diary in his possession.

‘It is not much,' he admitted. ‘Little more than a few words. But it may furnish some clue as to what the ruffians were after. If it can be of any help, I am more than happy to show it to you in return for your assistance in this matter.'

George sent his letter by the next post, expecting to hear nothing for several days and then probably a simple acknowledgement from one of Lorimore's staff.

The reply arrived at the Museum that afternoon by return of post. It was handwritten on paper headed with Lorimore's home address, and George read it three times.

Dear Mr Archer

Thank you for your letter pertaining to the unfortunate events of last night at the British Museum. Please accept my sincere condolences on the loss of your colleague.

I appreciate your writing to me so promptly, and would indeed be grateful for sight of the page fragment you mention at your earliest opportunity. I am at home today, and look forward to receiving you and arranging whatever ‘assistance' seems appropriate.

I am sure that we shall both benefit from this meeting which I know you will treat with the strictest confidence.

Yours sincerely

Augustus Lorimore

Doctor Archibald Defoe was a small man with a loud voice and an enormous beard. When he spoke, the sound seemed to be amplified by the mass of red hair round his mouth, and made more intimidating by his broad Scottish accent. His head was almost level with Sir William Protheroe's, but that was only because Protheroe was sitting at his desk.

In the corner of the room, Garfield Berry – young and lank, his dark hair slicked back – stood with ill-concealed fear and watched as Defoe leaned across Protheroe's desk to unleash his wrath.

By contrast, Protheroe seemed unimpressed. He was leaning back in his chair, turning gently to and fro as he waited for his superior to finish. The fact that he
was polishing his spectacles on a large white handkerchief made it even more apparent that he was not paying full attention.

‘And not only can I see no reason for you needing a second assistant, I cannot even begin to think where the funding would come from. Do you think I'm made of money, man?'

‘Evidently not,' Protheroe said quietly, putting his glasses back on.

‘In fact, I'm not entirely sure that you need Berry here, let alone another assistant. What are you doing that can possibly warrant such extravagance?'

Protheroe leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him. ‘If I may make two points,' he said. Defoe made a sort of snorting sound which Protheroe took to be permission to continue. ‘First, I believe my Department is the least expensive of any in the Museum.'

‘That's because you don't
do
anything!' Defoe roared, standing upright and folding his arms.

‘And second,' Protheroe continued without reaction, ‘what we do, and why we do it, is none of your business.' He paused just long enough for the parts of Defoe's face that were visible behind his beard to become the same colour as that beard. ‘I mean that in the politest way of course.'

‘A law unto yourself,' Defoe spluttered.

‘Not so. Just because you do not hold sway over my

Department's activities does not mean that no one does. As you well know, I answer to an inner committee of the Royal Society for what I do. Unfortunately, and I mean that in administrative terms, I rely on you and the Museum for funding to carry out that work. Funding that is generously given, but a less than generous amount. I now need to increase that amount to enable me to employ a second assistant to help Mr Berry.'

‘As if I have nothing else to do with the money,' Defoe said. But his voice was quieter now, and Protheroe sensed that he was making some headway at last. ‘It will take a while to find and allocate funding,' Defoe went on after a pause. ‘If it is possible at all.'

‘You're very kind,' Protheroe said smoothly.

‘But then I suppose it will take you a while to find a suitable candidate for the job. Whatever the job entails.'

‘Oh I don't think so,' Protheroe said. ‘In fact I have someone in mind. Since he already works here at the British Museum, it would be simply a matter of transferring him across to me. Together, I assume with his salary, though naturally we would want to increase that in line with his new duties. Whatever they may be.'

Defoe spluttered at this, and from the few words that escaped the beard Protheroe got the impression that he was far from happy with the idea of his approaching members of the Museum's staff and offering them alternative employment, even under the same roof.

But before the splutters and exclamations could be resolved into a coherent argument, Protheroe stood up. His mass of white hair quivered as he leaned across his desk. ‘I have approached the gentleman's superior and I may well ask you to expedite matters shortly if I don't get a favourable and timely response. Now if you will excuse me,' he said sternly to Defoe, ‘there is a matter that demands my attention.'

On the desk in front of Sir William was a pile of books. Although they were neatly arranged, several of the books were badly burned. Sir William did not wait for Defoe to leave before picking up one of the diaries and starting to read.

Jasper Mansfield, the curator who organised George's time and directed his work, seemed surprised that George had turned up for work at all after the events of the previous night. He made no objection to George leaving early and made it clear that if he needed a few days to recover from his experiences, that would also be no problem.

Mansfield was a portly man who wheezed when he had to move, which was infrequently. ‘You are quite happy with our Department?' he asked George, a bead of sweat running down from his hairline. It was the first time he had ever seemed concerned for George's feelings. ‘I would hate to think you might be considering
moving on, my boy.' He wiped distractedly at his cheek with a red, meaty hand.

Significantly, Mansfield still made no mention of any job offer from another Department, or of Sir William Protheroe. So George assured Mansfield that he had been given no reason to consider moving on just at the moment – which was strictly speaking true. His superior smiled broadly and continued quickly: ‘I know you work hard, my boy,' he said. He always called George ‘my boy' even though he could not be much more than ten years older than George himself. ‘And your efforts are always of the most diligent and highest quality. You're not a skiver like some I could mention. Take as long as you need, my boy. Within reason of course.'

George thanked him, glad not to have to explain why and where he was going. He did not understand Lorimore's reasons for wanting to keep the meeting secret, but he respected them nonetheless. Perhaps all would become clear when they met.

Lorimore's house was not far from Gloucester Road station, so George returned to the underground to make his journey. Coming out of the station, he paused for a minute to get his bearings. It was not a part of London that he knew, and as he stood on the pavement looking round for street names, someone bumped into him, making him take several steps backwards.

It was a lad of about fourteen, dressed rather scruffily.
His coat was scuffed and torn and his grubby cap was pulled down so low over his eyes that George was not surprised he could not see where he was going. The boy's trousers seemed to be held up with string in place of a belt, and what George could see of his face was a cheeky grin. A curl of black hair hung over the shadowed eyes, as if trying to escape from the cap.

‘Sorry, guv,' the boy said, before continuing quickly down the street. George watched him for only a moment, then returned his attention to working out which way he needed to go.

In the end he asked for directions. The newspaper seller outside the station was happy to help, until he realised that George was not about to buy a paper as well. Then his attitude cooled, and George quickly bade him goodbye.

He now had no trouble finding Lorimore's house. It was set back from the road behind huge iron gates, which stood open as if expecting him. There was a man standing just inside the gates, and he certainly was not expecting George. But once George had explained his business, and shown the man his letter from Lorimore, he was allowed to pass.

A gravel driveway wound its way from the gates up through extensive grounds. As he made his way along it George began to wonder if he had not come to some public park instead of a private house. But then the drive looped again, and before him was an enormous
four-storey house built of imposing red brick and pale stone.

The man who opened the door to George had been shoehorned into his dark suit. His neck bulged out over the stiff collar of his white shirt, though his face was in shadow and George could see almost nothing of his features. ‘Yes?' His voice was a low rasp of disapproval.

‘George Archer,' George said, trying to sound confident and unperturbed. ‘Mr Lorimore asked me to call.'

The man stared back at him for several moments as if he had not spoken. Then he stepped back inside and gestured for George to enter the wide hallway.

‘You'd better wait here, sir.' The last word sounded like an afterthought. ‘I'll see if Mr Lorimore is expecting you.'

The butler's footsteps echoed off into the house and George waited close inside the door. The hall was wider than the biggest room in George's house, and had more furniture crammed into it than George possessed in total. But he was too used to the impressive space and furnishings of the British Museum to feel intimidated. Instead he spent the time he was alone looking with interest at the display cases that lined one whole side of the hall.

The first few were disconcerting. They were glass-fronted, mounted on the wall. Glassy eyes stared out. They seemed to follow George as he walked slowly
along. From inside each and every case, a stuffed animal watched him. One was a fox, its teeth glinting sharply in the dark maw of its mouth. Then a family of mice, nestling in a home of straw. Cats, dogs, birds … All manner of creatures were frozen within the glass cages. Each and every one stared at George in an uncomfortably accusing manner.

The last animal was another bird, which strutted somewhat precariously inside its relatively large environment. It looked ungainly yet somehow assured. It had a bulbous body and head, with a feathery tuft for a tail. Its beak was hooked and on another bird might have looked savage and threatening. But here it merely added to the whole faintly ridiculous shape. George examined the creature through the glass, wondering where it might have come from. There was no label or clue on the case.

Soon, George was standing before the last display case. From here on down the rest of the hallway, the wall was lined with low, narrow tables, each holding a display. At first he had thought that these too were bizarre examples of taxidermy. On the first table stood a figure about a foot tall which stared out at the world as if daring anyone to approach. It was a monkey, standing on its hind legs and dressed in an army uniform, complete with cap. In its tiny paw, the monkey was holding a cigarette.