The Osiris Ritual

Chapter Twenty Two

Newbury slammed awake with a start. He was momentarily disorientated; he had no idea where he was. Slowly, the room began to resolve around him. A bookcase. A writing desk. A fireplace with a low flame, guttering in the grate. He felt dazed. He was in his drawing room.

After a moment, he realised there was someone standing beside him, calling his name. He looked round. It was Mrs. Bradshaw, her hands on her hips. He had the sense that she had been there for some time. "Good morning, Sir Maurice. Will you be taking breakfast today?" she asked in her dulcet, Scottish tones, when she noticed he was final y paying attention. She looked him up and down. "Whatever have you been up to for your suit to be in such a condition?" She said this with a weariness born of familiarity, of one accustomed to her employer's more bizarre pursuits. She expected no answer. If she were concerned for his health, she showed no signs of it.

Newbury took stock of the situation. He was lounging in a Chesterfield, still wearing yesterday's suit, which was torn at the knees and covered in grime from rolling around in alleyways, factory roofs and an Underground station. His elbows were scuffed, and his jacket was sliced across the front from the swipe of a sword blade. He had not yet attended to his toilet, either, meaning his face was still crusty with blood and oil. He realised he must have looked a pretty sight to his housekeeper.

There was a heavy weight on his chest. He looked down. A book. Meyer's Treatise on Futurism.

Beside his chair, on an occasional table, was a near-empty glass of red wine. He knew what else had been in that glass, too. Sighing, Newbury looked up into the impenetrable face of Mrs. Bradshaw.

"What time do you make it, Mrs. Bradshaw?"

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Time for breakfast, I should say, sir."

Newbury grinned. "Very well. I shall make haste to my rooms where I shall endeavour to make myself presentable. My thanks to you, Mrs. Bradshaw. I suspect I might have slept all day if it had not been for your timely interruption."

The housekeeper smiled without saying another word, and quit the room. Newbury listened to the tread of her feet as she descended the stairs to the kitchen below. Then, heaving himself out of his chair, his bones creaking after hours spent in a less-than-ideal posture, he repaired to his rooms to wash and dress.

After washing and cleaning his wounds – which, Newbury was surprised to discover, were more plentiful than he had imagined – he had partaken of Mrs. Bradshaw's excellent breakfast, before heading out to meet Miss Hobbes at the museum as they had arranged the previous evening.

As he trundled along in a hansom, Newbury considered the events of the theatre. After discovering that Knox had somehow managed to slip his bonds and escape the venue, Newbury, exasperated, had escorted Miss Hobbes to her Kensington home, where, after he had fil ed her in regarding the situation with Ashford, he had insisted she took the opportunity to gain an evening's rest. There was very little else that could have been achieved that night, and not being aware of the ful extent of Knox's plans, they were unable to predict his movements.

What was clear to Newbury was the fact that Knox had been hunting for the key to the Osiris Ritual. Winthrop's and Blake's deaths had been inconsequential to Knox; they were killed by virtue of the fact that they were in his way, regardless of the fact that they had been the ones to recover the artefacts he desired. That much was obvious. But had Knox been waiting for them to return from Egypt? Did he already have a notion of what the ritual involved? The girls had been going missing for weeks, if not months, before Winthrop's death. Newbury could only assume that they were somehow central to the execution of the ritual, that the secretion or hormone Knox had been extracting from their brains was an ingredient of the process. But Knox had the contents of the ushabti figures, the outline for the ritual. Everything was supposition until Newbury could study those contents himself.

Al of this had led Newbury to two conclusions. Firstly, that Knox was planning to enact the ritual, and soon, in the hope of artificially extending his own life. Secondly, that Knox was entirely insane. Neither revelation fil ed him with comfort. Newbury knew that he had to stop him. He doubted very much whether Knox would have anything left to offer the Empire, even in captivity, but he also knew it was his duty to bring him in alive. There were questions that needed answering.

Newbury considered their encounter at the theatre. The experience of meeting his predecessor had shaken him, more than he cared to admit. The man was cold and calculating, yet there was a cool intelligence there, too, an understanding of the world and the way that it worked. He was charming, resourceful, a master manipulator. He knew how to twist things to his own ends. Newbury knew that he had al owed the rogue doctor to get under his skin.

And where did that leave Ashford? The man was still rogue, too, still loose in the city and working to his own set of directives, ignoring the imperatives of the Crown. Newbury's mission had not changed, then. Ashford stil needed to be brought in, even if he wasn't the vicious murderer that Newbury had originally mistaken him for.

That only left Miss Hobbes. What had she been trying to tell him down in that dank cellar? He thought he knew, of course, thought he understood the implication of her words.

She knew Knox. At least, she knew of Knox. There could be very few ways in which she had come across that information, and she had divulged far more than she could have possibly learned from the man himself in such a short space of time. He felt torn. What had she been keeping from him? And for how long? The notion tied a knot in the pit of his stomach. If he couldn't trust Veronica…

Yet, how could he doubt her integrity? She had saved his life on numerous occasions. She knew everything about him. And besides, she was more to him than simply an assistant. She was.. important to him. Yet he could not stil the sharp sense of disquiet that had settled upon him, and throughout his breakfast he had replayed the events of the previous evening, over and over in his mind, trying to recall the exact look on her face, the precise tone of her voice. There was definitely more to it than a slip of the tongue. But what? He was not yet sure.

Whatever the case, he feared causing an imbalance in their relationship. He resolved to manage the situation careful y. He would not confront her outright. That, he thought, could bring about only disaster. He needed more time to ponder on the consequences of what she had said.

First, though, he needed to act on the information she had given him. He needed to find Aubrey Knox. Knox was the key. And Newbury had no idea where to start.

Around two hours later, a smartly dressed Newbury, clean shaven and bright with energy, opened the door to his office at the British Museum and stepped inside. He fil ed his lungs, with the familiar smell of the place. For all of his adventuring, Newbury enjoyed the calm respite he found here, the sense of stillness in a world so usually filled with chaos. He glanced around. Both Miss Hobbes and Miss Coulthard were sitting at their desks, studiously engrossed in their work.

"Good morning, ladies." Newbury removed his hat. "Do I smell a fresh pot of Earl Grey brewing in the pot?" He beamed at Miss Coulthard, who was quick to acknowledge his request, shuffling off towards the stove to fetch him a drink. Newbury crossed the room without removing his coat, and stepped through the partition to the smal er office where Veronica was working. "Miss Hobbes. Are you quite wel?"

Veronica looked up at him, pushing her papers to one side. "I am quite well, Sir Maurice."

Newbury lowered his voice, glancing back at Miss Coulthard, who was still busying herself at the stove. "It's only.. after yesterday's ordeal, I questioned -"

"- There is no question." Veronica interjected. "Real y, I am quite well."

"I am most pleased to hear it. Then we shall fortify ourselves with Miss Coulthard's excellent brew, before setting out in search of our villain."

Veronica furrowed her brow. "Have you a notion, then, of where to begin our search for Knox?"

She was toying absently with her left wrist, where a red mark belied the fact that, just a few hours earlier, she had been viciously bound.

Newbury nodded, slowly. "Perhaps. I stil believe that Ashford could hold the answer. But first, there's someone I'd like you to meet." He looked round to see Miss Coulthard approaching, clutching a large silver tray. "Thank you, Miss Coulthard. If you would be so kind as to set that down on my desk." He began unbuttoning the front of his topcoat.

Miss Coulthard placed the tray on the rather cluttered desk as directed. Then, turning to Newbury, she reached into the pocket of her blouse and withdrew a smal, neatly folded piece ol paper, which she held out to him. "The information you requested, sir."

Newbury's emerald eyes flashed in recognition. "Ah, marvel ous! My thanks to you, Miss Coulthard." He took the note and slipped it careful y into his trouser pocket without unfolding it.

"You're most welcome, sir. I also have a message from Sir Charles. He requests that you pay him a visit at Scotland Yard at your first convenience."

"I shal take it under advisement, Miss Coulthard. Thank you."

"Very good, sir." Miss Coulthard returned to her desk, and before Newbury had finished removing his winter layers, she was already back to work.

Grinning, Newbury draped his coat across his desk and placed his hat beside it. Then, reaching for the steaming teapot, he turned to Veronica. "Tea?"

George Purefoy's apartment was above a tailor's shop in Ladbroke Grove, which boasted two large bay windows, each filled with displays of exquisite dinner suits, hats, gloves and canes.

Newbury knew the reputation of the place. All of the assorted paraphernalia desired by a society gentleman could be found inside. Newbury usual y took his business to Bond

Street, but he was sure that Charles had recommended this particular establishment on more than one occasion. The legend above the door read: J. SIMPSON ESQ., GENTLEMEN'S OUTFITTERS.

The city was still buried beneath a thick blanket of yellow fog, which showed no sign of abating during the coming morning. Nevertheless, a light was on inside the shop, and through the window, Newbury could see the dark shapes of figures shifting around, going about their daily business. To the left of the shop's frontage was a nondescript green door. This, Newbury fathomed, would likely be the door to Purefoy's apartment.

Despite Veronica's protestations, Newbury had insisted upon taking a steam-powered carriage across town, keen to ensure that no further time was lost. She had taken the opportunity to make a sly comment about tea, suggesting that perhaps, if he were so anxious for them to be on their way, they might have forgone the morning brew, but Newbury had only laughed dismissively and hailed the cab. Ritual was important to him. It gave him time to think.

After helping Veronica down from the carriage, at which she glared in disdain as she dismounted, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the throbbing engine, Newbury approached the door.

He removed his glove and rapped loudly with the brass knocker. Beside him, Veronica shivered in the cold.

A few moments passed in silence. There was no answer from the apartment above. Newbury knocked again, and then stepped back into the street, glancing up at the windows. Stil nothing. No cal from inside, no sign of movement at the windows. With a growing sense of unease, Newbury tried the handle, and found that the door was unlocked. It swung open to reveal a steep, carpeted staircase leading up to the apartment above.

Newbury crossed to the foot of the stairs. "Purefoy? Are you there, Purefoy?"

Then, with a look of horror, Newbury noticed something on the bottom step. He dropped into a squat, examining the tread. "Oh no…"

Veronica stepped forward, trying to make out what he'd seen. "What is it?"

"Blood. A footprint." Newbury's voice was barely a whisper. Feeling sick to the stomach, and praying that what he had feared had not suddenly become a reality, Newbury bounded up the stairs two at a time. There were more footprints in evidence further up the stairwell; a man's shoe, caked in blood, had passed this way only a handful of hours before. The imprints were stil wet and sticky on the pale green carpet.

At the top of the stairs Newbury found himself presented with three white, panel ed doors. He chose the one to the right, judging this one would lead him to Purefoy's sitting room. He turned the handle, pushing his way inside. The sight that greeted him was enough to make him cry out in anguish and fal to his knees. He hung his head. He was too late.

Purefoy's corpse had been laid out on the sitting room floor to form the shape of a human star.

Around him, his butcher had drawn a series of large, concentric circles, each of them divided into precise intervals. Within these intervals he had carefully drawn a series of inscriptions, diagrams and runes, each of them bearing its own dark, esoteric meaning. It was incredibly elaborate.

Purefoy himself had been stripped naked. His bel y had been rent open with a long, deep gash, and his bowels and intestines had been spil ed out onto the floorboards. His intestines had been stretched out around him and pinned within the circles to form a horrific spider's web of flesh, a web in which Purefoy himself had been caught, trapped at its centre like a fly awaiting its inevitable fate.

Inside the abdominal cavity of the dead man, Newbury could see that the killer had placed a series of small tributes: a holly leaf, the broken remnants of an ushabti figurine, a small, rolled fragment of linen inscribed with some archaic scripture, and a single tarot card, bearing the image of a goblet, overflowing with water: the ace of cups.

The look on the boy's face was one of wonder, as if he had not yet come to terms with what had been about to happen to him, as if his reporter's instincts had remained engaged until the last, his curiosity somehow outweighing his fear.

It was immediately obvious to Newbury what had occurred. Aubrey Knox had attempted to divine the future in the reporter's guts.

Newbury heard Veronica's footsteps on the landing behind him, and he turned to try to stop her from entering the room. But he was too late. She saw everything. He saw her gag reflexively and turn away from the scene.

There was blood everywhere, of course; thick and cloying. It filled Newbury's nostrils, seeming to penetrate everything. But under it all there was another smell, the familiar stench of rotting flesh.

Ashford had been here too.

Newbury felt a fury welling up inside of him, a burning rage deep in the pit of his belly. Knox would pay for this. He would pay dearly for it. There was one thing that Knox cared for above all else, one thing that drove him onwards, the very core of his being: his own life. Newbury would take that from him. He realised this as he rested there on the threshold of Purefoy's sitting room, eyeing the devastation before him. The boy was dead, kil ed only for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, for being on the periphery of something that he didn't even understand. Al of that potential, all of that enthusiasm, had gone, stolen in a moment for nothing but Knox's wicked gratification.

Dark thoughts bubbled into Newbury's head. He would see justice done. Even if it meant that he had to become like Knox to do it. He would find Knox. And then Purefoy would be avenged.

Standing, Newbury looked back at Veronica on the landing. "He's toying with us."

Veronica coughed. "Knox, you mean?"

"Yes. What threat could Purefoy have possibly proved to the man?"

Veronica shook her head. She swal owed. "No, Sir Maurice. The pattern is the same as before.

He's tidying up loose ends, leaving no stone unturned. He must have been aware of Purefoy's involvement."

Newbury nodded but didn't say a word. He stepped into the room, closer to the body. He looked down, his eyes limned with sadness.

"What does it all mean?" Veronica called from over his shoulder. She was hovering in the doorway, unwilling – or unable – to enter the room.

Newbury hesitated. "He.. he was attempting to divine the future. Many of the ancient rituals involve disembowelling cats, dogs, or flightless birds. He chose to use Purefoy."

"My God.." Veronica's voice was full of pity.

"He must have been disturbed. By Ashford, I mean. Otherwise I can see no reason why he would have left these items in such a way."

"Why? Do they tell you something?"

"Perhaps." Newbury studied the objects that were resting inside the carcass of his young friend.

Veronica shook her head. "We're running out of time. His next move wil be to disappear, to go to ground."

Newbury shook his head. Stooping, he gingerly removed the tarot card from the bloody mess on the floor. "No, Miss Hobbes. He's not going to ground. It seems old habits die hard. He's going to water."

Veronica stared at him, wide-eyed. "What, the docks?"

Newbury nodded. "The ace of cups. Water. That's where they found Ashford's body last time, isn't it? By interrupting Knox, Ashford has done us more of a favour than he could possibly imagine."

His eyes flashed with steely resolve. "We have Knox's trail."

Veronica straightened her back. "Shall I fetch the police?"

Newbury was studying Purefoy's face. His head snapped up at Veronica's words. His voice was forceful. "No. No police. Not even Charles. We finish this alone." He saw Veronica shudder at the cold timbre of his voice. She looked at the horrifying remnants of Knox's ritual.

"Will it work?"

"What, the divination? No."

Veronica shook her head. "No, not that. The Osiris Ritual. Will it work?"

Newbury sighed. "There are more things in this world of ours than I can possibly explain, Miss Hobbes. But it didn't help Khemosiri, and I doubt it wil help Knox."

"All the same.." Veronica let her sentence trail off.

Newbury offered her a weak smile. "Al the same.. " He dropped the tarot card to the floor beside the corpse, and then turned and disappeared further into the apartment, returning a moment later with a large white sheet he had clearly stripped from Purefoy's bed. He knelt beside the body, laying the makeshift shroud neatly over the dead man to hide the ruination. Lastly, before covering Purefoy's face, he used the tips of his fingers to draw the reporter's eyelids closed.

Then, resolute, Newbury took Veronica by the arm and marched her out of the apartment, with only one goal in mind: revenge.