Free The Death Collector by Justin Richards Page B

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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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 visitto 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.
    â€˜And then I got your letter,’ he finished.
    â€˜Yes,’ she said. ‘The question, I suppose, is what do we do now with this fragment of paper?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Who is it?’ George whispered.
    â€˜Well, it isn’t your scar-faced man,’ she told him. ‘Areformed 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.
    â€˜Look,’ the boy said, ‘you’ve got to help me.’
    â€˜Us, help you?’ George said from behind Liz, the disbelief evident in his voice.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜What’s his fault?’ Liz asked.
    â€˜They’re after me, that’s what. Going to kill me too, if I don’t give them what they want.’
    â€˜And what’s that?’ George demanded.
    â€˜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