The Death Collector (8 page)

After his meeting with Augustus Lorimore, George walked the long way home. The loss of his wallet had unsettled him, but he was more upset by the way he had been more or less turfed out of Lorimore's house.

He kept thinking of Lorimore's strange behaviour – his changes of mood and the insistence that George and he were entering into some business deal. But then he was a collector – George could attest to that – and he had been led to believe George was bringing him something for his collection. Though how a tiny scrap of paper could be of any real value, George had no idea. Perhaps he should ask Sir William Protheroe his opinion.

George did not receive many letters, and very few if any ever arrived by the second afternoon post. So he was intrigued to find a plain white envelope on his mat. It had been posted, he noted, in central London just a few hours ago. The address was written with neatness and precision. The handwritten letter inside was every bit as elegant.

Dear Mr Archer

I have through somewhat circuitous means come into possession of a wallet, which I believe you lost recently. I am afraid that any money that was in it has been removed, but, my father having suffered a similar loss, I thought you might appreciate its return.

I am happy to deliver it to you in person, being loathe to entrust your wallet to the postal service. Please let me know, at the above address, if this is acceptable and convenient. I deem it a favour if we could meet, albeit briefly, as I feel you may be able to help me in my quest to recover my father's wallet which was given to him by my late mother as a gift and thus has a sentimental value. I am generally free during the day.

Yours faithfully

E. Oldfield (Miss)

George read the letter through carefully, wondering briefly what sort of woman would use words like ‘circuitous' or ‘albeit'. Probably some middle-aged spinster, he decided. Still living with her ancient father and desperate for an excuse to talk to anyone outside their immediate circle of acquaintances. He was tempted to write back and ask that she simply post him his wallet despite her qualms.

But reading the letter again, he decided that he might as well meet the woman. Also, it was possible that the fragment of Glick's diary was still inside the wallet – the card with his own name and address evidently was. As he sat down to write a brief reply, it occurred to George that following his recent encounter with Augustus Lorimore, it was obvious that the man was extremely keen to get hold of the contents of George's wallet.

Was he being over-cautious, he wondered? Or would it be better not to invite the woman to his house or the Museum. He would rather that Lorimore did not discover he had his wallet back – with or without the diary fragment. It was unlikely he was being watched, but it was safer, he decided, to be cautious without need. He dipped his pen in the ink and started to write a reply to E. Oldfield (Miss).

Returning to the British Museum the next morning, George made a point of informing Mr Mansfield that he would work through lunch but take an hour mid-afternoon, if that was all right. As before, Mansfield seemed more than happy to oblige him, and George wondered when the man intended to break the news of George's offer of a new job, if ever.

George's work that morning was further interrupted by a visit from Sir William Protheroe, wondering whether Mr Mansfield had indeed yet broached the subject of his offer of employment. He did not seem surprised to hear that Mansfield had not.

‘I imagine he will put it off for as long as he can,' Sir William said. He seemed loathe to be more specific about the work until Mansfield had officially spoken to George.

When Sir William mentioned that he was in the process of examining Glick's diaries and researching the man's life and career, George was minded to describe his trip to see Lorimore. But he had not mentioned the surviving scrap of paper before, and he felt embarrassed at having to admit to its theft. Besides, he thought, the trip to meet Lorimore had been unrewarding at just about every level. So he said nothing.

Presently, Sir William bid George farewell and assured him he would once again press Mansfield to discuss George's career with him. George worked
solidly through the rest of the day, wondering again what working for Sir William would be like and what it would entail. The combination of work and thought meant that the day passed quickly.

There was a tea room on the Charing Cross Road that George knew. He sometimes went there for a break from work. He had suggested to Miss Oldfield that they meet at three, since the tea rooms were invariably over-subscribed for lunch.

In his letter to Miss Oldfield, George had described where he would be sitting and how he would be dressed. He managed to get the table he wanted, and kept his eye on the door as he sipped at a cup of Earl Grey. There was no shortage of ladies of a certain age in the tea room, but none of them, mercifully, seemed especially interested in George.

Imagining that punctuality might be a particular trait of the lady whose handwriting was so perfectly formed and whose vocabulary was so correct, George kept careful watch as the clock on the wall reached three. He allowed himself a small smile as the door opened to let in the sound of a distant church clock chiming the hour, and a woman with steel grey hair scraped back from her face. She looked round the tea rooms with small dark eyes. Her nose was a hooked beak jutting out from a severe expression. George was tempted to duck under the table, and hope she decided he had not come and move on.

But incredibly, when she looked at him across the room, her eyes showed no recognition or interest, and she passed quickly on to an empty table nearby.

Relieved, George reached to pour himself more tea.

‘Excuse me, but may I?'

There was someone standing on the other side of the table. A young woman was gesturing to the chair opposite. The light of the window was behind her, so George had to squint to try to make out her features.

‘I'm sorry,' he said as her face dipped into view. ‘I'm waiting for someone.' She had startlingly green eyes, he could now see. The ends of them curled slightly upwards, like a cat's.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I know.' She pulled out the chair and sat down.

Taken by surprise, George started to rise politely. He was not sure quite what to say, and anyway she was already telling the uniformed waitress she would have a pot of tea.

‘Well, it seems very nice here,' the young woman commented. ‘Oh, and before I forget,' she went on, apparently oblivious to George's discomfort and reaching into a small handbag, ‘here you are.'

George's mouth dropped open and the world round him seemed to take a tea break of its own. The young woman opposite was holding out a wallet – his wallet.

‘You are George Archer, aren't you?' she said when he made no move to take it. She started to put the wallet
away again. ‘Oh dear, I must have made the most embarrassing mistake, please forgive me.'

‘No, no,' George protested, finding his voice at last. ‘I am indeed George Archer and that is my wallet, and I'm extremely grateful for its return.' He took the wallet and opened it, keen to check that the diary fragment was still inside. ‘Thank you, Miss Oldfield.'

‘You are welcome, Mr Archer.' She watched as he pulled out the slip of paper, looked at it, and visibly relieved carefully returned it to his wallet before placing that inside his jacket pocket. ‘I am sorry that the contents are, I suspect, somewhat depleted. I did inspect the wallet to determine your name and address, of course. And I confess I found that piece of paper. From your evident delight at finding it, I assume it is important to you.'

She made it sound as if she was not interested. But George could tell from the way her eyes watched him over the lip of her teacup that Miss Oldfield was keen to know the truth. Her assessment of George's behaviour betrayed a keen intelligence as well as her obvious beauty. In fact, there was also something about her manner which made him instantly trustful of her, and he considered telling her everything. But anxious not to appear too eager, in case she misinterpreted his motives, he asked instead: ‘You said in your letter that your father had lost his wallet?'

She set down her tea cup carefully on its saucer.

‘That is so. A young boy, little more than an urchin, made it look as if he had accidentally collided with father in the street yesterday. He realised that his wallet was missing, and I chased after the boy and caught him.'

‘Did you really?' George was unable to hide his surprise at this, and hoped she might interpret it as congratulation. ‘Well done,' he added quickly.

‘I demanded he return father's wallet. Stupidly, I thought he had. But in fact, he gave me yours in its place.'

George nodded thoughtfully. ‘And did the police not find your father's wallet on his person?' She looked away, glancing round the tea rooms as if someone at another table might be better placed to answer the question. George gave a short laugh. ‘Surely you marched the young scoundrel off to the police?'

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?'