Free The Death Collector by Justin Richards Page A

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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 – andthat 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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜But nonetheless disturbing.’
    â€˜Indeed, sir. There is an old white-haired gentleman that has apparently been asking questions.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What do you suggest, sir?’
    â€˜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 –’
    â€˜Yes, and I fear I have already used some