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.
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
‘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.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Protheroe said smoothly.
‘But then I suppose it will take you a while to find a suitable candidate for the job. Whatever the job entails.’
‘Oh I don’t think so,’ Protheroe said. ‘In fact I have someone in mind. Since he already works here at the British Museum, it would be simply a matter of transferring him across to me. Together, I assume with his salary, though naturally we would want to increase that in line with his new duties. Whatever they may be.’
Defoe spluttered at this, and from the few words that escaped the beard Protheroe got the impression that he was far from happy with the idea of his approaching members of the Museum’s staff and offering them alternative employment, even under the same roof.
But before the splutters and exclamations could be resolved into a coherent argument, Protheroe stood up. His mass of white hair quivered as he leaned across his desk. ‘I have approached the gentleman’s superior and I may well ask you to expedite matters shortly if I don’t get a favourable and timely response. Now if you will excuse me,’ he said sternly to Defoe, ‘there is a matter that demands my attention.’
On the desk in front of Sir William was a pile of books. Although they were neatly arranged, several of the books were badly burned. Sir William did not wait for Defoe to leave before picking up one of the diaries and starting to read.
Jasper Mansfield, the curator who organised George’s time and directed his work, seemed surprised that George had turned up for work at all after the events of the previous night. He made no objection to George leaving early and made it clear that if he needed a few days to recover from his experiences, that would also be no problem.
Mansfield was a portly man who wheezed when he had to move, which was infrequently. ‘You are quite happy with our Department?’ he asked George, a bead of sweat running down from his hairline. It was the first time he had ever seemed concerned for George’s feelings. ‘I would hate to think you might be considering moving on, my boy.’ He wiped distractedly at his cheek with a red, meaty hand.
Significantly, Mansfield still made no mention of any job offer from another Department, or of Sir William Protheroe. So George assured Mansfield that he had been given no reason to consider moving on just at the moment — which was strictly speaking true. His superior smiled broadly and continued quickly: ‘I know you work hard, my boy,’ he said. He always called George ‘my boy’ even though he could not be much more than ten years older than George himself. ‘And your efforts are always of the most diligent and highest quality. You’re not a skiver like some I could mention. Take as long as you need, my boy. Within reason of course.’
George thanked him, glad not to have to explain why and where he was going. He did not understand Lorimore’s reasons for wanting to keep the meeting secret, but he respected them nonetheless. Perhaps all would become clear when they met.
Lorimore’s house was not far from Gloucester Road station, so George returned to the underground to make his journey. Coming out of the station, he paused for a minute to get his bearings. It was not a part of London that he knew, and as he stood on the pavement looking round for street names, someone bumped into him, making him take several steps backwards.
It was a lad of about fourteen, dressed rather scruffily. His coat was scuffed and torn and his grubby cap was
