Read Online Necroscope: Harry and the Pirates: and Other Tales from the Lost Years by Brian Lumley - Free Book Online Page B

perhaps indicating one in particular—the last one—a mere squiggle of ink at the bottom of the scrawled column. And:
    “Ah yes! Here he is!” he said.
    “And that’s him?” said Harry, staring harder. “This other person, the one who was here before me? He signed himself in?”
    “Indeed,” the curator answered. “Oh, yes! Just as you must sign. But alas I was careless and never inquired as to his full name, and he only signed his initials: ‘G.M.’ ”
    Harry at once thought:
Greg Miller!
And wondered,
So then, if it really is my G.M. what did he discover here, if anything?
While out loud he asked: “What’s the date? And do you think you could describe him?”
    The date was some fifteen months ago—shortly after Greg Miller had been released from nearby Sedgefield Hospital’s secure mental facility—and yes, the curator was able to describe the researcher, a description which fitted Miller to a tee. . . .
     
    “The first time he was here,” the old man said, “he spent two, perhaps three hours, then left in a hurry seeming very excited. The next week he was locked in up here all day on two consecutive days. I haven’t seen him since then, but he left the place as you see it now. He kept a purple manuscript folder or portfolio containing some loose leaves, and a notebook with scribbled details of anything interesting that he came across during his research. I know this for a fact, because I looked in occasionally and saw him at work. When he’d finished here, I found that he’d taken his notebook with him but abandoned the folder. It’s still here; I found it just a few weeks ago and I believe I put it somewhere safe in case he should come looking for it. If memory serves it still contains some of the material he was researching: mainly some old pamphlets by regional authors, a few loose leaves of scribbled notes, and some Second World War newspaper cuttings. But damn the man, why couldn’t he just put everything back where he’d found it? For the Good Lord knows
I
haven’t had the time!”
    “You say this documents folder is still here?” The Necroscope glanced this way and that all about the cluttered archive, trying to spot something coloured purple. “But can’t you remember where you put it? It could be very important—and not just to me. I thinkit likely that a great injustice has been worked upon someone, and I’ll do what I can to put things right.”
    The curator stared at him for long moments, then said, “In which case I can only try to do my best, too. So then . . . where
did
I put the thing?” He got stiffly to his feet, joining Harry in gazing all about the room. But a moment later: “Ah!” he said, snapping his fingers, “But of course! Where else would I put it in order to separate it from the clutter?” And reaching beneath the table he opened a drawer. Sure enough, a heavy purple cardboard folder—more properly a reinforced documents case—was in the drawer, and the old man lifted it out into view.
    The Necroscope could scarcely contain himself; he reached across the table . . . but the curator held up a hand. “First you have to sign my register,” he said, “and then I’ll leave you to it. And if what you’re looking for is here, perhaps you’ll take time later to explain all of this to me?”
    “Well yes,” Harry answered. “Perhaps I will.” But when the old man passed the book across the table to him, the name Harry added to the list before dating the entry was “John Smith.” It was a small but probably prudent deception.
    “Good!” said the curator, without checking the entry. “Now I’ll lock you in. The button under the light switch will summon me. When you’re done, or before I lock up for the night, whichever is first, I shall let you out. So then . . . good luck!”
    With which he left, closing the door behind him, and Harry heard a key turning in the lock. . . .
     
    First the Necroscope examined a half-dozen sheets of