The Osiris Ritual

Chapter Eleven

You're late." Bainbridge's bushy grey moustache twitched as Newbury approached his table, a severe look on his face. "It's only by the good grace of Foster that I managed to get in at all." He indicated the butler on the door, who was standing by the door jamb, an implacable look on his face.

"I'm not a member here, you know. I wish you'd had the foresight to -"

"Not now, Charles."

Bainbridge frowned. "What do you mean, not now? What the devil have you been up to, man?"

He lowered his voice so as, not to be overheard. "Indulging in that blasted vice of yours, judging by the look of you. It's a despicable business, Newbury. You look terrible." He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, studying Newbury's face as he awaited a response.

Newbury waved his arm and dropped into a chair opposite his friend. There was resignation in his voice. "As I said – not now, Charles." He looked up and caught the attention of one of the waiters, who stepped forward, smiling, to take an order of drinks. "Usual, please, Williams." He glanced at Bainbridge's empty glass. "And whatever Sir Charles is drinking."

The waiter offered a polite nod of his head. "As you wish, sir." He retreated to the bar to place their order.

The White Friar's was a gentlemen's club on Arundel Street, and a second home for Newbury, who often visited the place to conduct meetings, dine with associates or friends and to otherwise escape the oppressive pressures of his life as an agent of the Crown. The club itself was a haven for literary types: writers, artists and intellectuals, and frequently Newbury left the establishment feeling invigorated, as much due to the stimulating conversation as the fine selection of brandy. The dining room, in which he had found Charles, was a smallish room, panelled in dark oak and furnished with a smattering of round tables, which were each large enough to accommodate five or six people at a time. A fire roared in the grate on the far side of the room, causing shadows to dance haphazardly over every surface like mischievous pixies, and the murmur of conversation from the adjoining lounge was a constant background hum. The room was fil ed with the pleasant scent of roasting meat, wafting through from the kitchen.

It was quiet that evening, however, and aside from Charles and himself, there were only two other diners making use of the room, huddled over a table in the corner, deep in the midst of some deep, philosophical debate. Or so Newbury liked to imagine. Other than this, a small army of waiters and servants kept a watchful eye on the patrons, keen to cater to their every whim.

Newbury ran a hand over his face. He looked at Bainbridge from beneath hooded eyelids. He was coming down from his opium high. "You can save the lecture for another day, Charles. I apologise for my tardiness."

Bainbridge leaned across the table towards him, toying with his fork. "Newbury." His voice was firm. "You're the only friend I have left in this Godforsaken city. I won't lose you, not to something so ridiculous as that dreadful Eastern weed."

Newbury smiled, a sad, knowing smile. He stared at the fire. When, a moment later, he looked back at Bainbridge, he didn't meet the other man's eye. "What are you drinking?"

Bainbridge sighed. "A tolerably good Cognac. But my bel y is in dire need of sustenance. Let's order some ruddy food."

Newbury grinned. "Yes, in a minute. I need to talk to you first."

Bainbridge looked concerned. "What's happened, Newbury?"

Newbury unfolded his napkin and, placing it on his knee, looked up at his friend. "Don't be alarmed, Charles. I need some more information regarding William Ashford, is all. I've been wondering: what became of his family after he died?"

Bainbridge shrugged. "They were moved. To a house near Cheapside. Dreadful place. It was one of the worst things I've ever had to do, Newbury, tel ing that woman her husband had been kil ed, and then, to compound it, that she and her family were being uprooted as a consequence. She broke down on my shoulder. Begged me to let her keep the house. But I had my orders." He fingered the rim of his empty glass. "Now, to learn that it was all a lie. Well, it casts things in a different light, doesn't it?"

Newbury furrowed his brow. He'd rarely seen Bainbridge in such a reflective mood. "I'm sure those things were done for the right reasons, Charles. It's been five years." He paused to accept his brandy from the waiter. "Do you think Ashford will go looking for them?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"I suppose that's what I'm getting at I imagine that's as good a place as any to start my search."

Bainbridge shook his head. "No. You mustn't, Newbury. Don't go dragging up the past. Ashford may well be looking for his family – and I feel sorry for the man, I truly do – but the last thing his wife needs is to know that he's been alive al this time, turned into some sort of half-mechanical monster. Besides, he'll never find them. And even then we're assuming that the family is stil there, in that Cheapside hovel. As you say, it's been five years. They've probably moved on." He lowered his voice. "God knows, I hope they have."

Newbury took a pul on his brandy. He felt fingers of warmth spreading down through his chest as the alcohol banished his chill. It was clear that something about this case had touched a nerve with his friend. "Very well, Charles. I'll look elsewhere -for now. It may not be necessary to search him out, anyway."

Bainbridge leaned back in his chair. He took up the dinner menu. "How so?"

"I believe I find myself in the midst of a game of cat and mouse, and I'm unsure which of us is enacting which role – the hunter or the hunted."

Bainbridge looked up from the top of his menu. "Stop speaking in riddles, Newbury."

Newbury laughed, for the first time that evening. "I have reason to believe that Ashford has been fol owing me. I encountered him in the street earlier this evening, but he gave me the slip."

"What? Where?" Bainbridge was frowning.

"Not far from here, as I made my way over to meet you. I had the curious notion that I was being fol owed, but for quite some time I was unable to ascertain by whom. I thought it may have been.. wel, I thought it may have been my mind playing tricks on me."

"But it was Ashford?"

"I believe so."

"Wel, why the devil should he be fol owing you?"

"A good question, Charles, and one for which I intend to find an answer. With any luck, this may not turn out to be the protracted affair I had initially feared." Newbury regarded the menu on the table before him. "Venison and creamed potatoes, I should say."

" Well, just be careful, Newbury."

Newbury offered his friend a sly look. "Of the venison?"

Bainbridge shook his head, exasperated. "Look, the Ashford I recal was a decent man, but having seen Winthrop today.. I don't know any more. Just look after yourself. I'll help however I can."

"So, you've changed your mind about the nature of our suspect, have you, Charles? Does that mean Wilfred Blake has an alibi?" Newbury offered the Chief Inspector an amused grin.

Bainbridge nodded. "Indeed. And a solid one at that. He was in the company of a lady, dining out in ful public view. He cannot be considered a suspect for the murder." He sighed again. "It looks like you may be right about Ashford, unless we have a-foreign agent in our midst, someone who knows our ways."

"It's possible. But unlikely, I think. The simplest explanation is often the correct one, Charles, and here we have a rogue agent loose in London, and a corpse with all the hallmarks of a swift, purposeful execution. I do not think it is too much of a stretch to assume that we know the identity of our quarry, if not his motivation."

"Perhaps." Bainbridge drummed his fingers on the table. "Now, however, I believe I must eat, or I shall waste away to nothing and you shall have to find yourself another dining companion."

"Wel, that, of course, would never do!" Newbury, laughing, turned and gestured for the waiter, Williams, to return to their table to take their order. His stomach was growling, and his head was final y beginning to clear. Soon, he'd need sleep. But first, he needed food, drink and the company of a good friend.