‘It is the job of the Department, of myself, to acquire and research such artefacts, to discover what they really signify — while knowing that my work may never be made public.
‘So why am I telling you this? For two reasons. First, believe it or not, the work of our small Department is on the increase. Now more than ever science seems to throw up things it cannot — will not — understand. As a result I find myself in need of a second assistant to help Mr Berry. It strikes me from what I know of your work, Mr Archer, and from what I have been told by others, that you would be ideally suited for the position. If you are interested. If not, then so be it. I have told you of my secret Department and its work, but no matter. Even if you wanted to make my work public, which I doubt, who could you tell who would believe you? But I think you would find the work rewarding — financially and intellectually.
‘The second reason I am telling you this relates to Sir Henry Glick’s diary. It seems that tonight someone has gone to great lengths to acquire the final volume of the diary. It may turn out to be nothing to do with my Department at all, but since I have been in some small way involved, I should like to know why.’
Sir William was looking at George carefully, his expression grave. ‘And I think,’ he finished, ‘that you would like that same question answered, would you not?’
Again and again George went over the conversation in his head. Again and again he replayed Sir William’s words. The notion of the Department of Unclassified Artefacts was at once both intriguing and a little frightening. And to be offered a job there … George eventually dropped into a fitful and restless sleep as the first hint of dawn was washing across the sky outside.
By eight o’clock, George was awake again, and he felt as though he had not slept at all. The events of the previous night and Sir William’s words all seemed a blurred dream, and it was only when he opened his wallet and carefully drew out the ragged slip of paper from inside that he really believed that those things had actually happened.
Lorimore — he knew the name, he was sure. All the way to the British Museum, he tried to recall where he had come across the name. It worried him on the walk to the underground station. It rankled as he stood on the crowded, smoky platform waiting for the train. It was at the forefront of his mind as he sat inside one of the tiny carriages and hurtled through the dark tunnels. But by the time he arrived at the Museum, he had remembered, and he wondered how it had taken him so long. Augustus Lorimore — the industrialist. He owned a string of factories and workshops, financed experimental development work, supplied the latest technology to Her Majesty’s government, and was quoted as an expert almost daily in the papers and engineering journals.
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.’