The Ghoul of Christmas Past

him. We could all hear the shouting. It wasn’t like we wanted to but noise travels in this place.’
‘What did the professor say, exactly?’
‘That he agreed with Robert and it had to be an inside job but that since no one came or went and he was the only guard on duty that night, it had to be him that stole it.’
Michael screwed up his face. ‘But that doesn’t make any sense.’
George gave a half shrug. ‘I guess Professor Loughborough figured that the best way to cover up the theft was to pretend to be the one to discover it.’
Michael could see a bunch of holes in that theory big enough to drive a truck through, but he didn’t bother to continue questioning the man from the ticket booth. It was now past closing time and George probably had a wife waiting somewhere who would be pleased to see him. Michael did too for that matter, though he was fairly certain his sherry glass would be empty.
He turned back the way they had come. ‘Thank you, George. You’ve been most helpful and have given me plenty to think about.’
‘I have?’ George sounded like he didn’t know what that might be.
Michael nodded anyway. ‘Perhaps we should both head back to the doors, so I can leave, and you can finish for the day.’
Making their way back the way they came and going slow, for George was not a speedy walker, Michael poked his nose at some of the other displays they passed. He’d been singularly focused on the way in, paying little attention to any of it, but now he stopped to take it in. Behind glass panels, and carefully lit with dim watt bulbs, were pages handwritten by the great man himself. His diaries were also on display, so too items such as pipes and favoured items of clothing. First editions of his books which had to be worth an absolute fortune. Michael paused by one display.
‘How often are these cabinets cleaned?’ he wanted to know.
George blinked. ‘Cleaned? I couldn’t say. They look like normal cabinets, but I know they are not. They …’
‘They are part of a very expensive controlled humidity environment,’ said a voice from out of the blue. It came from ahead of them, though Michael did not see who had spoken for another half second. A tall, thin man with round glasses came toward them out of the dim passageway, continuing to speak as he did, ‘One advantage of that, is they very rarely require cleaning because the air is filtered in and carries next to no dust.’ He was in his fifties, Michael judged, and had an air about him that suggested he was an athlete of some kind, a cyclist maybe. The man kept coming, stretching out his hand to greet Michael. ‘Professor Loughborough. I’m the curator here.’
Michael took the man’s hand, squeezing it tightly. ‘Michael Michaels.’
The professor turned toward the nearest cabinet, one containing several books. ‘The air inside the cabinets has to be kept at a carefully managed temperature and moisture level to maintain the books, and many other artefacts, in the best possible condition. They have enormous historic significance – Dickens was arguably the best author ever to walk the Earth, but even those who might argue would accept that he is among the greats and was most certainly the greatest of his era.’
Michael offered no argument.
The professor turned his attention to the man from the ticket booth. ‘George, what are you doing back here? You should have finished and gone home already. Edith will be waiting for you.’
‘Yes, Professor,’ George replied with a dip of his head. ‘I was just showing this gentleman to the exit.’
The museum curator placed a friendly hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘That’s okay, George, I have it from here. A merry Christmas to you and yours. I’ll see you in a few days.’
‘Yes, sir. Merry Christmas to you too.’
George hurried away, but Michael Michaels stayed where he was, staring into the cabinet. Before the professor could speak again, Michael went to look in another.
‘Is there something amiss, Mr Michaels?’ the professor wanted to know.
Michael didn’t answer straight away because he was trying to work out if he was right or not, and if he was, what that then might mean.
‘Mr Michaels,’ the professor prompted him, his voice now containing a slight air of impatience.
Michael judged that the man was getting close to advising that the museum was officially shut and to ask him to leave so he surprised him with a question of his own. ‘Why did you fire Robert Whittaker?’
The museum curator was caught off guard, but only momentarily. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded to know.
Michael pressed on, walking toward the professor with purposeful strides. ‘That is not an answer,’ he pointed out.
The professor looked like he was about to argue but caught himself before he started. A small smile crept onto his face. ‘Shall I call the police? Or will you leave peacefully, Mr Michaels? The museum is closed, and you have no further business here.’
Michael Michaels stared up at the taller man for a few seconds, thinking through his options. ‘I’m deciding,’ he told the curator when it looked like he was going to ask the question again.
‘Is everything all right, Professor?’ This time the voice was that of a security guard who Michael judged was probably performing a routine walkthrough simply because he knew his boss was in the building. Once the professor left it would be TV on, shoes off, and feet up.
Only a blind man would fail to see the tension between Michael and the professor, so the guard came to stand beside his boss, both now looking at Michael Michaels.
‘Still deciding?’ asked Professor Loughborough with a small smile.
Michael came a step closer to him, demonstrating