The Osiris Ritual

Chapter Nineteen

When Veronica came round again, she felt sick with dizziness. The pain at the back of her head was like a hot lance inside her skull. She groaned and tried to move, realising with horror that her ankles and wrists had been bound. She opened her eyes and blinked, blearily as they adjusted once again to the dim light. She was slumped with her back to the wal, facing the door and the pile of corpses across the other side of the room. A figure was standing by the central table, hurriedly col ecting up the scattered ephemera that lay upon it and throwing it untidily into a medicine bag.

The man had his back to her. He was dressed in an immaculate grey suit with a crisp white collar. His hair was well kept and was beginning to turn a startling silver-grey, still spotted with freckles of light brown. He was tall and thin, just a little less than six feet.

The man turned to face her when he heard her shuffling. He had a handsome face with an aquiline nose, although it was marred by a deep, puckered scar that ran from his forehead, just above the left eyebrow, down across his left cheek, blighting his eye. The eye was milky and blind, the colour of London fog, although a series of tiny red lights around the cornea suggested the work of a master craftsman: the restoration work of Dr. Fabian, or one of his proteges. Otherwise, his skin was pale and unblemished, like a white mask. His fingers were long and bony. Veronica realised with shock that she recognised the man.

"Aubrey Knox," she croaked.

The man smiled almost imperceptibly. "That's Doctor Aubrey Knox to you, Miss Hobbes." His voice was like silk; smooth and warm and full of grace. He was impeccably well spoken, and every word had the ring of perfection. She knew he was an Eton man, and had once been the most charming of gentlemen. He clearly retained this affectation.

Veronica tried to sit up, but her bonds prevented her from gaining purchase on the tiles. She glowered at the villain who had trussed her up in such a manner. "So it was you. All along, it was you." Knox inclined his head in acknowledgement, a smile curling his lips. Veronica glanced at the pile of bodies in the corner. How cold must he be, how dead inside, that he could continue to work in the same room, even stand there smiling, now, all the while aware that he was responsible for those women's deaths? She could find no empathy for the man, no understanding of what might have driven him to this terrible series of acts.

She met his gaze. He appeared to be watching her with amusement. "What do you need them for? What is it you're trying to do?"

Knox's face changed, his mood darkening. He crossed the room to where she was bound and raised his arm, slapping her hard across the face with the back of his hand. Despite herself, Veronica cried out. She could feel tears welling in her eyes, and her cheek smarted painfully. She forced herself to look him in the eye, her expression defiant.

"Miss Hobbes, I'd have thought you'd know better than that. This is not some ridiculous penny dreadful that we're playing out. I'm not about to reveal all of my carefully laid plans to you, now that you're finally here and close to death. Suffice to say, that you will exit this world as ignorant as you are now, and I shall take some measure of satisfaction in that." Grinning, he turned, crossed the room to the long table and continued silently with his work. Watching him, Veronica realised that he was not indiscriminately taking everything from the workbench as she had at first assumed, but rather a selection of choice items, including the little vials of brown fluid and the ancient scrolls of papyrus.

Veronica bit her lower lip, searching for a reserve of strength. She twisted her wrists, trying to wriggle free, but the binds had been expertly tied. Likewise her ankles. She was deeply afraid of what the renegade doctor might do to her. It was unlikely, from what she knew of the man, that he would grant her a clean and simple death. She doubted that would be enough of an amusement for him.

Veronica had been warned about Knox, of course, in her briefings about Newbury, when Her Majesty and her closest aides had been at pain to describe the horrors that the man had committed in the name of progress, and their need to ensure that Newbury did not follow a similar path. Knox had become obsessed with the occult and a desire to achieve extended life, and he pursued the cause with little concern for morality or human suffering. He saw himself as a progressive, the man who would final y learn to wed science with the arcane. That path had led him away from the Empire, and despite the best efforts of Her Majesty and her extended network of agents, he had not been seen for over two years. He was a danger – yes -but he was also an embarrassment, a worm that had turned, a betrayer, deep in the bosom of the Empire. Victoria wished to make an example of him.

Veronica watched him warily. Knox had almost finished gathering up the scattered artefacts and papers into his bag. He glanced over his shoulder at Veronica, a wry smile on the curve of his lips.

"So, tel me of Sir Maurice. I understand he's quite the dashing man about town?" Veronica remained silent. Knox laughed. "I understand also that his taste for narcotics is dwarfed only by his taste for occult literature. I should dearly like to meet the fellow." This was a taste of the charming Knox again, the gentleman. Veronica understood that he lived by a code. But unlike Newbury it was a code of his own devising, and not one instil ed by an innate sense of right and wrong. It was a code driven by insanity and a desire for self-perpetuation. Watching him now, Veronica could hardly believe the stunning outburst of violence he had demonstrated just a short while before. Her cheek, however, was a stinging reminder. She glared at him.

"Sir Maurice is twice the man you ever were, and twice the agent too."

Knox laughed. "What loyalty the man inspires! How interesting. One imagines he keeps you by his side like a pet dog, there to compliment his ego with doe-eyed looks and pretty frocks.

Personally, I imagine you to be far prettier on the inside." He paused. "I should enjoy examining your brain." Knox moved around the table to place his medicine bag by the door. "I'm sure it would pain Sir Maurice terribly to know of your current predicament, my dear Miss Hobbes. Indeed, if I had more time, perhaps I could have made more of the circumstances. A shame." He gave a smal, polite cough into his fist. "I must admit that, in the end, I'm disappointed, Miss Hobbes. I'd heard great tales of your derring-do, of your fiery passion. I'd been led to believe that you were perhaps even a worthy opponent. Regrettably, I find you ful of righteous indignation. You are nothing but another insipid young woman, a prim and proper society girl, who finds herself afraid and out of her depth.

What has become of the young woman who aided in the retrieval of the Persian Teardrop from Milan? Who I brought an end to the kil ing spree of the Liverpool Witch? Pushing papers behind a desk in a museum? What would your sister Amelia say of your decline?" He shook his head.

"Victoria used to know better."

Veronica attempted to lurch forward, but succeeded only in toppling onto her side, prone on the floor. "Do not speak of my sister." The words were weighted with vehemence.

Knox was laughing now. "Idle threats, Miss Hobbes. Idle threats. It surprises me that Amelia did not find it appropriate to warn you of this little encounter. Does she not speak to you of the future?"

Veronica's eyes widened. How did this man, this terrible man, know so much about her and her sister? She watched him as he crossed the room, col ecting the elbow-length leather gloves from where they rested on the workbench. His eyes flashed, and Veronica knew that her time was almost up. With al her might she struggled against the bonds that held her. But she knew it was useless.

Knox had her now, and before long, she would be consigned to the sorry heap in the corner with the other dead girls. She wondered whether she, too, would have a smal hole burrowed through the centre of her forehead. The thought made her shudder. She was close to panic, her soundless lips frozen wide with fear.

Knox pulled one of the gloves over his wrist and wriggled his fingers dramatically. Just as he was about to fol ow suit with the other hand, there was a loud crash from somewhere above them.

Knox looked up, as if he somehow expected to be able to see through the ceiling to whatever it was that had made the noise above. Veronica assumed it must have been Alfonso, treading on the creaking boards of the stage. Knox, however, became suddenly flustered. He peeled the glove from his fingers and threw it instead on the table, a frustrated look on his face. There was another bang and a muffled shout. Veronica was unable to identify the words, or the voice. But something about the situation had startled Knox. His plans had changed.

Knox snatched up a dirty rag from amongst his belongings and approached her. His expression remained fixed. He intended to gag her. Veronica forced her jaw shut and turned he r head away from him. But to Knox, evidently an old hand, it was a matter of moments before he was able to force his lingers roughly inside her cheeks and prise her mouth open long enough to shove the rag inside. She did her best to spit it out, to push it out with her tongue, but it was no use. She choked back its oily, dirty fibres.

Knox offered her one last, sneering look, his milky-grey eye flicking over her face, then turned and stepped through the door disappearing into the passageway beyond.