and Percy turned up the wick.
‘So what are they?’ George asked, pointing to the notebooks.
‘Diaries. They were bequeathed to the Museum recently and unexpectedly. Found when Sir Henry Glick’s house was finally cleared out. There are over a dozen and I am not yet half way through them.’
George shook his head. ‘Glick — never heard of him. Was he famous?’
‘I suppose not,’ Percy admitted, raising an eyebrow at George’s ignorance. ‘He was a scientist. A geologist mainly, but with a keen interest in fossils and the origins of life.’
‘And he kept a diary.’
‘Indeed. Very useful too. He describes his theories, keeps sketches and diagrams. Even pressed flowers.’
‘Albert would have loved that.’
‘I’m sure he did.’ Percy nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I think he was enjoying his work. Except …’
George waited. But when Percy said nothing more, he prompted him: ‘Except what?’
‘Oh nothing. Just some nonsense he was telling me that last morning. Another of his jokes, perhaps.’
‘Oh?’
Percy ran a hand over his smooth scalp. ‘He said that someone had approached him with an offer. For the diaries.’
George frowned. ‘What sort of an offer?’
‘Money, I assume. I didn’t really pay much attention. He said someone wanted to get hold of the diaries. I suggested he tell them to wait until they were catalogued and on display or lodged in the Library. Then they could see them. But he implied they wanted to keep them, and that there was some urgency. Even the trustees cannot sell off items from the Museum, Albert knew that. And this knave, whoever he was, must have known that was the case too.
‘Joking, perhaps,’ George agreed.
‘Albert or the person who approached him?’ Percy shook his head. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. And we can’t ask him now, can we?’ Percy got to his feet and took his jacket off the back of the chair. ‘You’re right, it is time I was getting home,’ he decided.
‘I can wait if you like. If you want company while you finish.’
Percy smiled. ‘Thank you, but I have done enough for today. We can walk together.’
They made their way carefully through the semi-darkness of the office. There was a noise coming from outside, from the corridor that led to the main entrance. A bang, like a door being shoved open, and then running feet.
‘What’s going on?’ George wondered.
‘Goodness only knows,’ Percy said without apparent interest. They were almost at the door when he turned back towards the desk at the far end of the room. ‘I forgot to extinguish the lamp.’
‘I’ll get it,’ George volunteered, already picking his way back through the stacks of books and papers.
Which was why he was not standing with Percy at the door when it crashed open.
The first man through the door and into the office was enormous — his frame almost blotting out the light from the corridor beyond. The man who followed him was only slightly smaller. The door caught Percy on the shoulder and sent him reeling backwards. He gave a cry of pain and surprise, trying to catch his balance. But before he could manage, the large man stepped forward and smashed his fist into Percy’s face — sending him spinning backwards. Percy’s feet collided with a stack of books and he fell heavily. Even from across the room, George could hear the crack as Percy’s head smashed into the edge of a low table.
George had no time to react. Already both the intruders were striding across the room towards him. He backed away, knocking over a stack of papers. He was not afraid to put up a fight, but he doubted he could take on both the men. And he was worried about Percy — now lying still amongst the manuscripts and books at the other end of the room.
‘Where is it?’ the big man hissed. His face was glowing in the lamplight as he leaned across the desk. A pale white scar cut like a shadow down the whole of one side of his face, pausing only to let his bloodshot eye stare out at George.
‘What?’ George replied, his voice hesitant and taut with nerves. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Could be anywhere,’ the other man answered. He kicked at a pile of books, sending them sliding across the floor. One volume flapped open, its pages bent and torn. ‘Look at all this stuff.’
‘We don’t have time to go through this lot,’ the big man decided. Unlike his comrade he sounded educated and refined, almost deferential. But then he lunged suddenly across the desk, arms out, reaching for George.
George stepped back again, feeling his feet tangle with books and papers. The man’s stubby fingers closed just in front of this throat.
‘Where is it?’ the man demanded again. His face was twisted into a snarl of rage, and with a single savage movement, he swept the desk clear. The various piles of books toppled, papers sliced through the air. The oil lamp crashed to the floor, spilling a pool of fire across the bare wooden boards. ‘Where is Glick’s diary?’
George swallowed, staring into the flames as they raced through the pool of liquid and attacked the nearest papers. In seconds, books were burning too — the volumes from the desk curling and blackening as the flames set to work.
‘Right now,’ George said slowly, his throat dry and scratchy as the smoke clawed at it, ‘Glick’s diary is on fire.’
For a single second the two intruders stood absolutely still, staring into the gathering flames. Then they both hurled themselves at the fire, reaching in for the burning books, cursing as the fire bit and spat at them. George left them to it, watching them reach in and pull out the volumes one by one as he himself edged quickly round the other side of the desk and ran to where Percy was lying.
‘It’s the last volume we want,’ the larger man was saying. He tossed several of the notebooks aside. ‘The one that he never finished.’ He kicked papers and books out of the way of the flames in an effort to stop it spreading.
The other man was riffling through another volume. He dropped it when he saw there were no blank pages at the end.
George spared them little more than a glance. He knelt down beside Percy, shuddering at the sight of the gash across his head. He almost cried with relief as Percy moved, and a groan of pain emerged feebly from his lips.
‘They want Glick’s diary,’ George said quietly. ‘Are you all right?’
Percy’s eyelids flickered in response. His whole body seemed to be shivering in the firelight. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a whistle.
‘Peelers!’ One of the men shouted urgently. They both dropped the books they were holding, and ran for the door.
‘Hold on,’ George said. ‘Help’s coming.’ He cradled Percy’s head in his lap, not knowing what else to do. Percy was staring up at him, his eyes wide but unfocused. George felt he should try to keep him talking until someone came to help. Keep him conscious. ‘Why do they want the diary?’ he said. ‘Why the last volume? Do you know?’
Percy swallowed, his whole body shifting slightly with the effort. His lips quivered. ‘Lori …’ he gasped.
‘What?’
‘Lorimore,’ Percy managed to say. ‘They — help … Or …’
‘Or? Or what?’
But that was not what Percy was trying to say. He shook his head slightly as he forced out the words: ‘Augustus Lorimore.’
His whole body arched in a sudden spasm. Then he slumped down heavily, and was still. George slowly took his hands from under Percy’s head. To his surprise he saw that they were dark and wet.
Someone else was crouched down beside George and Percy. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone.’ George wondered how long Sir William Protheroe had been there with him, holding Percy’s hand — or rather, George now saw, his wrist.
‘There’s no pulse,’ Sir William said. ‘I am so sorry.’ He straightened up. ‘I found the guard at the entrance unconscious, so I blew his whistle. The policemen from D Division who are supposed to patrol the Museum have
