The Death Collector (6 page)

But it was not a stuffed animal. George could see
now that it was made of wood and metal. A superb sculpture that caricatured the form of the real animal and emphasised the more human aspects. The figure stood on a small plinth, and in the plinth George could see a keyhole. An automaton he realised – once wound up the monkey would perform some trick or go through a series of predefined clockwork actions. He forgot his unease at the stuffed animals, and began to look forward to meeting Augustus Lorimore.

‘It was constructed by a Frenchman called Thierry.' The voice was taut and nasal and quiet. It startled George.

He turned quickly to find a man standing beside him. The man was almost as tall as the butler, but incredibly thin. His suit fitted his skeletal form immaculately. His neck was sinewed, and the skin of his face was stretched like parchment over the bones so that the shape of his skull was distinctly visible. He was, George supposed, in his fifties. His hair was the colour of newly wrought iron. His eyes were almost the same colour, and seemed to burn with intelligence and passion.

‘Mr Lorimore?' George guessed.

‘Mr Archer,' Lorimore replied. ‘They executed him, you know.'

‘I'm sorry – who?'

‘Thierry.' Lorimore was holding a key. The tiny piece of metal was almost lost in the man's long bony fingers
as he slotted it into the plinth and turned it carefully. ‘He was a murderer, of course,' Lorimore added as he wound the mechanism. ‘But you would think that the ability to produce something as beautiful as this, as elegant and engineered …' He clicked his tongue, feeling round the base of the automaton for a switch or lever. ‘Well,' he continued as he stepped back, ‘you would think it should count for something, wouldn't you?'

‘Er, yes,' George agreed, although he was not at all sure that he did. His attention focused on the monkey as its head turned and it looked around. Perhaps it was checking to see if anyone was watching, because then it raised its paw furtively to its mouth as if dragging on the cigarette. The mechanism was smooth and quiet, George noted.

‘There is a facility,' Lorimore said, his voice quiet so as not to disturb the monkey, ‘to light the cigarette, and also a wick inside the body. Then it blows smoke out of its mouth, to complete the illusion. It was a gift from Lord Chesterton, delivered only this morning. I am, I confess, still intrigued by its workings.'

As he spoke, the monkey looked round again. As if startled, its eyes widened with a click, and the paw holding the cigarette disappeared behind its back. A moment later, the other arm shot up and the monkey snapped a smart salute. George laughed out loud at the absurdity and cleverness of it.

‘You too are impressed, Mr Archer,' Lorimore
observed. ‘That is good. Very good. Now,' he held his arm out to allow George to precede him along the hall, ‘let us discuss business.'

‘I'm not sure it's really business,' George said as they walked slowly to the end of the hall. He was walking slowly so he could look at the other tables they passed. Each one had on it an automaton. Some were crude and simple – a musical box with a large key, for instance. Others were every bit as intricate and sophisticated as the monkey – a tiny carriage; skaters on a frozen lake of glass; a lady in a crimson, velvet dress – George could not guess what the mechanism did, but she looked perfectly sculpted and beautifully lifelike.

‘Everything comes down to business,' Lorimore told George as they entered a large drawing room.

But George hardly heard him. It was as if the displays in the hall were merely the overture to a grand opera that opened out in the drawing room. The walls were all but covered with more display cases – animals, birds, unfathomable shapes floating in tanks of viscous liquid. Two sofas were arranged facing each other in the middle of the room, almost lost amongst the clutter. Beyond them, a large carved tiger was bearing down on the figure of a man who was trying to push it away. Every level surface seemed to have on it a metal or wooden model or apparatus.

‘I apologise for the distractions,' Lorimore said,
smiling at George's evident fascination. ‘A hobby of mine, I confess. I am a collector as well as an enthusiast. Flora and fauna, automata, historical books and papers … They all interest me.'

‘I understand the fascination with automata,' George said. He bent down to examine a device that fed ball bearings down a chute after which they were channelled into different runs marked off with numerals. ‘From what I understand, your factories produce industrial versions of machines almost as impressive and clever as these?'

‘Almost?'

Perhaps there was a hint of annoyance in Lorimore's tone, but if there was, George did not hear it. He was tracing the possible paths of the tiny metal balls. ‘Is this a clock?' he asked, realising how the mechanism must work.

‘Indeed it is. You can tell that from looking at it?' There was no anger now, but surprise and perhaps a little respect.

George shrugged. ‘That's the business I'm in.'

Lorimore nodded. ‘And talking of business …' He motioned for George to sit on one of the large sofas that was almost lost in the huge room. He himself sat opposite, his hands resting on his bony knees, so that he looked like a spider hunched up ready to spring. ‘What is it exactly that I can do for you?'

‘It's very good of you to see me, and so promptly,'
George said, uncertainly. He was not really sure what Lorimore could do. ‘Did you know Percy Smythe?' he asked.

Lorimore shook his head. ‘No.'

‘He suggested you might be able to help.'

Lorimore raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? He was the man who died last night, is that right?'

‘He was murdered.'

‘Indeed.' Lorimore was regarding George carefully. ‘I have to confess I am now even more at a loss as to exactly what you expect from me. You offer to let me have a scrap of Glick's diary. The final scrap, or so you claim. Yet I have no idea what you are asking for in return.'

George was as confused as Lorimore now. ‘I have a piece of the last page of the diary, yes,' he admitted. ‘But I mentioned that only in passing. I thought you knew Smythe somehow. He told me you could help.'

‘Help?'

‘Help me find the people who killed him, the person responsible,' George said. He could feel his eyes pricking as the image of Percy's dying moments welled up in his memory. ‘That's what I assume he meant.'

Lorimore's mouth moved as if he was literally chewing over what George had told him. ‘Well,' he decided, ‘perhaps if you allow me to see this page fragment, I might have a better idea of how your friend
thought I could help.' He stood up and held out his hand. ‘May I?'

‘Of course.' George too stood up, reaching into his inside pocket. ‘I have it here. In my –' He broke off, patting at his jacket in a sudden panic, reaching into each of the pockets in turn. ‘My wallet.' He could feel the colour draining from his face and his stomach seemed to drop away as if he was falling from a great height.

Lorimore's long fingers snapped impatiently, like gunshots. ‘Well?'

‘My wallet,' George repeated. ‘My wallet's gone.' He was checking his trouser pockets now, although he never kept his wallet anywhere but in his jacket. ‘I can't find it.' He looked at Lorimore for help, aware that his mouth was open and his face pale.

Lorimore sighed, his whole frame moving with the sound. ‘How much?' he asked.

George blinked. ‘I'm sorry?'

‘How much do you want?' Lorimore had no trouble finding his own wallet and opened it for George to see. He riffled through the folded bank notes inside.

‘It's all right,' George said, thinking he must be offering to pay for his cab or train home. ‘I'll manage.'

The large man's eyes narrowed. ‘For the page,' he hissed angrily. ‘How much do you want for the page from Glick's diary?'

George shook his head in confusion. ‘I don't want
anything. I just want my wallet back.' He could not have left it at home – he had needed it to pay for the underground. ‘Don't you understand?' George said, close to panic, ‘I don't have the page.'

Lorimore all but ripped notes from his own wallet. ‘Fifty,' he snapped.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘All right – a hundred.' His eyes were wide with anger and passion. ‘Name your price.'

George just stared. Part of his brain was struggling with the fact that the man was willing to pay a fortune for a scrap of burned paper. Another part was trying desperately to work out where his wallet had gone. His mind was retracing his journeys that day at high speed – to the Museum, out again to the underground, arriving at Gloucester Road station unsure of which way to turn …

‘That boy,' he realised. ‘He must have taken it. When he bumped into me.'

‘Boy?' Lorimore demanded angrily. ‘What boy?'

‘There was a boy.' George tried to replay the events in his mind's eye. ‘I thought it was an accident, but he must have meant to walk into me. Then in the tangle, as I stumbled, he took my wallet. My money.'

‘Confound your money,' Lorimore's face was close to George's and the transformation was terrifying. His lips had curled away from his teeth and his eyes were red with anger. ‘Describe the boy,' he snarled,
grabbing George suddenly by the lapels of his jacket. ‘If there was one.'

‘Of course there was.' Lorimore let go of George and turned away. He was breathing less heavily now, more in control. George was relieved that the man seemed to have recovered his composure. He did his best to describe the boy, in faltering nervous tones. He recalled the grubby clothes, the cheeky expression, the comma of dark hair emerging from under the cap …

Lorimore nodded as if George's description was quite in order, and encouraged by this George asked cautiously: ‘So, can you help me, sir?'

Lorimore frowned. ‘What?' he seemed puzzled by the question.

‘Can you help me find out who was responsible for my friend's death?'

A nerve ticked under Lorimore's left eye as he regarded George across the room. Then he walked quickly over to the fireplace and touched a button – a bell. ‘I am afraid not,' he admitted as he turned back towards George. ‘I really have no idea how – or why – your poor friend believed I could help you. I am sorry if I appear brusque, but you will understand that the possibility of seeing a page of Glick's diary was …' The nerve ticked again as he sought for the right word. ‘Intriguing,' he decided. ‘Please do not let my disappointment unsettle you.' He forced a thin smile.

The manservant was already standing in the doorway. Clearly, George was being invited to leave.

‘Not at all. Thank you for your time,' he muttered, feeling his own disappointment keenly.

Lorimore waved a hand dismissively, not even bothering to look at George. He paced up and down, his head lowered, deep in thought.

The butler led George back past the automata and the display cases to the front door. He said not a word as he opened the door and let George step out into the cold of the day. All the while he kept his face turned away, his features obscured, as if trying to avoid letting George see his face.

George was annoyed – angry at his wasted journey and Lorimore's dismissal of him. Angry at himself for losing his wallet and not even noticing. Before he knew it, George had walked the length of the drive. He passed the man at the iron gates and turned out on to the main road, only distantly aware of the carved lizards on the gate posts watching him through sightless stone eyes.

Gloucester Road was busy and noisy. Horse-drawn carriages clattered across the junction with Cromwell Road. Pedestrians struggled through the crowds. Shopkeepers watched from under their awnings and called out to any passer-by who looked like a potential customer.

The secret was to keep moving. Eddie knew the area better than the cabbies – all the side streets, all the possible escapes. He walked slowly, pausing only briefly before running across the road. A cart driver shouted at him to mind out of the way. Eddie didn't care about that, but he did mind that the man he had been following heard the warning, and stepped briskly aside. It meant that Eddie missed him, missed the opportunity to brush past and slip his hand into the man's jacket.