The Osiris Ritual

Chapter Eighteen

Newbury ached with every fibre of his being. He'd taken a number of serious knocks during his pursuit of Ashford, particularly when he'd driven the tricycle down the stairwell in the Underground station, and he knew he was lucky to be alive. His knuckles were bleeding and he had a painful red burn on his left forearm, where a hot coal from the tricycle wreckage had scorched his flesh during the crash. He suspected other minor injuries, too, but he wouldn't have time to examine himself in the cheval glass for some hours.

And yet, for all that, he had failed to capture Ashford once again. He lambasted himself for the fact that the chase had resulted in nothing substantial. He supposed he was able to take some solace from the fact that he now had a better understanding of the man, even if it had left him feeling more confused than ever. The certainty he had felt earlier, the sinister character of Ashford that he had constructed in his mind, all of that had now dispersed, become disassociated with reality. Now, they were playing a different game altogether, and Ashford had shown his hand. Firstly, the rogue agent had refused to strike him during their battle on the tracks; aware, perhaps, of his own incredible strength, he had refused to risk Newbury's life with a direct blow. Secondly, at great risk to himself, he had thrown Newbury out of the path of the moving train. If it were not for that, Newbury would certainly be dead. It seemed to the Crown detective that Bainbridge had been right all along; that Ashford was not the kil er that Newbury had earlier presumed him to be. He had much to consider.

"Help me up there, lad." Newbury smiled gratefully as Purefoy offered his arm, enabling him to heave himself to his feet. His back creaked. He straightened up, groaning at his protesting muscles.

"What kept you?" he said, grinning.

Purefoy was stil trying to catch his breath. He shook his head at the other man's jibe. "I understand now, Sir Maurice, a little more of what you intimated at Lord Winthrop's house."

Newbury gave a curt nod. "Indeed." He brushed his unruly hair back from his face. "And I believe, Purefoy, that you could be a great deal of help in bringing this situation to a happy conclusion. Can I count on you?"

Purefoy's lips curled in a wry smile. "Absolutely."

Newbury glanced along the platform at the gathered crowd of people. Passengers were now disembarking from the stationary train, which was sighing loudly at the platform. The driver had climbed down from the engine and was on the tracks, examining the scorch marks on the tunnel wall, where Ashford's brass skeleton had been dragged across the tiles. He looked confused and not a little shaken by his experience. He couldn't seem to understand why there was no sign of a body on the rails.

Newbury knew that he needed to lose himself in the crowds, before people began to identify him to the authorities and it became too difficult to fade out of sight. He didn't have the time nor the inclination to answer the raft of irrelevant questions that would be put to him before he was able to prove his identity or all in the aid of Sir Charles. He clasped the reporter on the shoulder.

"Right, Purefoy. Let's get out of here."

They set off, forcing their way through the press of people. Newbury had a determined look on his face as he tried to ignore the flashes of pain from his sore limbs.

Mounting the stairs, they soon found their way out of the Underground station, passing the wreckage of the tricycle, which was now swarming with police constables and transport officials in neat, black suits. They were holding back the crowd of onlookers who had gathered around the wreckage, and talking to witnesses in hushed tones. Newbury recognised the woman who had helped him to his feet after the crash, and turned away, surreptitiously shielding his face from view.

Above the station, the street was dark and foreboding. Shapes hulked in the thick miasma, causing them to take on new roles; an avenue of trees became a row of forlorn soldiers standing to attention; a solitary flower-seller became an ethereal ghost, haunting the abandoned streets in search of fellow spirits. Newbury drew his jacket closer around himself, coughing a little on the syrupy vapour. He turned to the young reporter, who was loitering anxiously beside him, awaiting instruction. "Purefoy. I need you to fetch the police. Go directly to Scotland Yard and tell them that Sir Maurice Newbury has sent you to speak with Sir Charles Bainbridge. Charles is a good man. Fill him in. Give him al the details of what has occurred here this evening, and then have him send his men round to Arbury House. They need to secure Blake's apartment."

Purefoy smiled. "Of course." He hesitated for a moment. "Surely you're not going after Ashford again?"

Newbury grinned. He took his pocket watch from his jacket pocket and held it for a moment in the palm of his hand, studying the elaborate face. It was approaching seven o'clock. "Me? No, I have an appointment with a beautiful young woman."

Purefoy laughed. "Then may I suggest, Sir Maurice, that you first of all find an opportunity to change your attire."

Newbury glanced down to see that his suit was now torn and filthy, spattered with mud, grit and oil. His green eyes twinkled. "I think, my young friend, you make an excellent point."

Purefoy's advice, however, whilst perceptive, proved not to be timely. Newbury knew that if he were to take a cab to Chelsea he would miss his appointment at Kensington with Miss Hobbes. He was not prepared to leave her waiting for him once again. So instead, bedraggled as he was, Newbury had seen Purefoy into a cab, before hailing his own hansom and instructing the driver to ferry him directly to Miss Hobbes's apartments. She'd seen him in worse states than this, after all.

The hansom clattered on through the effluvium-laden streets towards Kensington. The fog had descended swiftly, and looked set to entrench. Newbury watched through the window as figures flitted past, ghostly shapes in the hazy yel ow-grey, like spirits attempting to escape the miasma of the afterlife. Every building, every corner, the mouth of every alleyway; suddenly, in the sickly whitewash, they became the haunt of otherworldly things. Newbury imagined shapes in the fog, just as he had since he'd been a boy. Only these were no longer the lucid imaginings of a child. Newbury knew that out there, in the pale darkness, there were real monsters, both human and otherwise. He had the scars to prove it.

Newbury sighed, and leaned back against the soft leather of the seat. He hoped the fog would lift. If not, he was sure that Mrs. Bradshaw's respiratory condition would return. It had affected her badly throughout the winter months, and he was concerned for her wel being. Besides, he knew he couldn't live without the woman. She was a miracle. Unfazed, undaunted, she catered to his every whim. And she approved of Miss Hobbes. She hadn't stated it explicitly, but her affection for Veronica was clear for all to see. If nothing else, it gave Newbury hope for the future.

Newbury glanced again at his pocket watch. It was now ten past the hour. He imagined Veronica in her Kensington rooms, sat before the fire, awaiting his arrival. He suspected that, even now, she would be cursing him, in her own gentle way, for his tardiness. He would attend to her directly, and hoped to take a moment to relax a little before going on. He needed a brandy. He needed more than a brandy, but for now, a dose of alcohol would help to quell his burning desire for the poppy.

Tonight, he would give himself over to his assistant, enjoy the pleasure of her company and attend to the details of her own case, regarding the missing girls and the magician. After a drink and a wash, they would repair to another carriage, take the short journey to his Chelsea lodgings – where he would change into his evening wear – and together they would enjoy a fine meal at a restaurant on the Strand. He needed that.

Newbury's mind was still a whirlwind, as he considered the Ashford affair. He didn't fancy Purefoy for the crimes, and was now more resolute than ever that he should take the young man under his wing. He'd arranged to call for the reporter in the morning, with Miss Hobbes in tow. In the meantime, Newbury hoped that Charles wasn't being too hard on the young man.

He must have dozed off in the back of the cab, for what seemed like only a moment later, he was awoken by the brisk knock of the driver on the roof of the cab. He rubbed blearily at his eyes and sat forward, glancing out of the window. The hansom had come to rest outside Miss Hobbes's apartment. Newbury clambered out of the cab, paid the driver, and realised for the first time that he must have lost his hat somewhere during the excitement of the afternoon. Shrugging, he followed the path to the house and rapped loudly three times on Veronica's front door. Moments later he heard footsteps creaking on the loose floorboards of the hal. The door creaked open, enough for the slightest sliver of light, and the eye of Mrs. Grant, Veronica's housekeeper, appeared in the opening. It took a moment for her to recognise Newbury in such a dishevel ed state. When she did, the door was flung open widely and she was ushering him in, offering him platitudes.

"Oh my poor dear. Come on in. You look like you could use a pot of that Earl Grey you're always asking for. I keep some out the back for when you call."

Newbury smiled. Mrs. Grant was typically the most stoic of housekeepers, rarely finding the occasion to even smile or raise her eyes to greet Miss Hobbes's visitors. Something about the state of his apparel that evening had moved her, however. Either that, or there was already something more significant amiss. He smiled warmly. "Now, Mrs. Grant, fear not. I am quite well, really. But I am running rather late for an appointment with Miss Hobbes, who I gather had plans to meet me here this evening. Will I find her in the sitting room?"

Mrs. Grant frowned. She placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head in an exaggerated fashion. "Indeed not, Sir Maurice. Indeed not. Miss Hobbes has yet to return from the museum. I had hoped, upon seeing you, that you would be in a position to put my mind at rest regarding her good health." She looked him up and down once again. "I expected her over two hours ago, but I fear there has been no word."

Newbury nodded, thoughtful. "Hmmm. Well, I should not presume to fear too heartily, Mrs.

Grant. It's not a long time to be missing. Perhaps she has simply been delayed in this dastardly weather."

Mrs. Grant did not appear to be pacified by this remark. She nodded, but it was clear she was not persuaded. "I take it you plan to wait for Miss Hobbes, in that case, Sir Maurice?" She looked hopeful. He nodded absently, and then fol owed her into the sitting room, where she bid him to take a seat. "I'l just go and pop that kettle on the stove." She disappeared through a side door to the kitchen.

Newbury paced the room. What had become of Veronica? He recalled their conversation of earlier that day, during which she had informed him of her intention to visit the family of the most recent missing girl. But that had been hours ago. Surely, she must have returned to the office at the museum following her interview? He frowned. He feared he knew all too well what may have become of his assistant. Whilst he had appealed to her sense of duty and asked for her commitment that she would not venture to the Archibald Theatre alone to confront Alfonso, he had every suspicion that she had done exactly that. Whilst he was occupied chasing Ashford across the rooftops of Regent's Park, Veronica had most likely taken matters into her own hands. Why else would she not be here to meet with him. Newbury knew she had been waiting to speak with him regarding the matter, and she would not have been late for some trivial reason. Indeed, more likely she would have sent word ahead if she had found herself delayed.

Perhaps his night of relaxation would have to wait. He quit the sitting room, walked the length of the hallway until he reached a door that he presumed led to the kitchen, and then cal ed for Mrs.

Grant. After a minute, she appeared at t he door, looking a little perplexed. "The tea wil be with you presently, sir."

"Ah, no, thank you, Mrs. Grant. I have a sudden notion of where I might find Miss Hobbes." The housekeeper's face lit up. "If I dare put a stop to your tea-making, I'll take my leave, see if I can't track her down and put your mind at rest."

Mrs. Grant smiled gratefully. "Thank you, sir."

Newbury bid her good evening, leaving instruction that, should Miss Hobbes return home in his absence, he would call for her the following morning at the office. Then, buttoning the front of his mud-streaked jacket, he left the house and went in search of transportation to Soho and the Archibald Theatre, where he hoped that Miss Hobbes had not put herself unduly in the path of danger.

The theatre was shrouded in darkness when Newbury hopped down from the cab a short while later. Upon seeing the bil s pasted in the windows, announcing that the show had been cancel ed, Newbury almost stopped the cab driver as he trundled off down the road, thinking that perhaps his intuition had been proved wrong on this occasion. Then, knowing that he would be unable to rest without first establishing Miss Hobbes's safety, he decided to investigate further. A cancelled show would not have been enough to halt his headstrong assistant.

He tried a door and found it locked. Then, upon trying another, he was surprised to find it open.

Evidently someone had been neglectful of their duties, or else the theatre was indeed inhabited that evening. Newbury crossed the large foyer in the dark, looking for signs that Veronica may have passed that way. There was nothing. The place was deserted.

Mounting a short flight of steps, Newbury pushed aside the curtain and entered the auditorium proper. Here, things were very different indeed. The only light was coming from a bright electric lamp on the stage, illuminating a grisly diorama, of a type that, unfortunately, he was finding himself growing increasingly accustomed to. The body of a man – Alfonso, no less – was spread-eagled on the stage, one of his own sabres protruding rudely from his chest. Beside him, a small round table had been overturned, spil ing its contents, and a top hat lay discarded nearby. Surrounding the body was all the assorted paraphernalia of the show, most of it undisturbed. He had no idea what had occurred here, but he sincerely doubted Veronica could be responsible for such a brutal act. As passionate as she was about discovering what had happened to the missing girls, she would never lower herself to this. If she had come here, it would have been to apprehend the man, not to murder him in cold blood.

Hesitantly, taking care to ensure there was no one watching in the shadows, Newbury passed down the long flight of wooden steps between two rows of seats and made his way slowly towards the stage. He hopped up and crossed to where the body lay waiting. It was an appal ing scene. The man's face was struck with terror, frozen in the throes of death. He looked battered and bruised, as if he'd put up some resistance. There was little blood, but Newbury assumed the blade had struck right through the man's chest, piercing his back, so that the blood would have seeped out beneath him, probably dripping through the cracks between the floorboards. He tested the hilt of the weapon. It was stuck fast. Alfonso had been run through with such vehemence that the tip of the sword was buried deep it the wooden stage below. It was clearly a sadistic death, executed with great pomp. It was as if the theatrical nature of the setting had informed the manner of the death; the body had been left here on display, for show. Nevertheless, there was reason behind it, too.

Whoever had done this had been anxious to ensure the magician would not be getting up again.

Newbury glanced around, squinting in the harsh electric glare of the stage lamp. It was clear there had been a scuffle of some kind, from the way the table had been overturned, but it didn't look as if Alfonso had been given much opportunity to defend himself. Newbury noted with interest that a smal hatch lay open on the stage, just near to where the table now rested. He moved closer to take a look.

Two hinged flaps had dropped aside, giving way to a fair drop. He looked around for any trigger that may have caused the hatch to spring open. Perhaps the body was resting upon a pressure plate of some kind? He peered into the opening. There was clearly a large space beneath the stage, which he realised had been purposefully built to accommodate it. It occurred to him, with a grim smile, that this was how the magician had effected the disappearing act. Bizarrely, in death, Alfonso was finally giving away his secrets. If Veronica had seen this, then perhaps she had followed the mechanism underground. That would be as good a place as any to make a start.

Intrigued, and not a little disturbed by the sight of yet another body, Newbury set out to search for his wayward assistant.