The Osiris Ritual

Chapter Twelve

THE CURSE OF THE SCREAMING MUMMY BY MR G. PUREFOY

DEATH AND DESPAIR SURROUND THE DISCOVERY OF THE MYSTERIOUS "SCREAMING MUMMY", AS LORD HENRY WINTHROP IS FOUND DEAD AT HIS ALBION HOUSE MANSION, ONLY TWO DAYS AFTER RECEIVING SOCIETY VISITORS FOR A GRAND UNROLLING PARTY. WHILST SCOTLAND YARD STRUGGLE FOR LEADS, TALK OF AN ANCIENT CURSE IS RIFE AMONGST THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION, NOW FEARING FOR THEIR LIVES. TURN TO PAGE 3 TO READ THE FULL STORY.

Newbury dropped the morning newspaper on the table with a hearty laugh, causing his housekeeper, Mrs. Bradshaw, to jump with a start and nearly miss the teacup she was pouring into, sloshing a smal amount of the pungent brown liquid into the saucer. Newbury eyed her warily as, clearly flustered by the experience, she swept the offending china up into her arms and left the room, her only acknowledgement of the entire incident a short "tut" under her breath as she stomped out into the hal way. Newbury couldn't help but smile.

Reaching for another slice of toast, he scanned the front of the newspaper again with a chuckle.

Purefoy had taken him at his word, anyway. When he'd told the boy to desist from sharing any details of the murder, or mentioning him or Charles by name, the reporter had evidently concocted some sort of elaborate story to explain away the lack of facts. Newbury wondered if the young man wouldn't be better off turning his talents to the writing of fiction. He clearly had an eye for it. Still, Newbury supposed it would sel newspapers, and besides, Purefoy had done him a favour. At least this way the public had something trivial and sensational to focus on, rather than dwel ing on the more disturbing fact that a rogue agent was on the loose somewhere in the city. If the real details of the case had been splashed across the front page that morning, he supposed he and Charles would have been hauled up before Her Majesty with any number of her own difficult questions. At least this way most people would dismiss the story as supernatural claptrap, assuming it was just another botched robbery, of the type they read about almost daily in the assorted national press. With luck, Purefoy's actions would enable him and Charles to continue unimpeded with their investigations. He made a mental note to thank the young reporter at the next available opportunity.

Newbury had left Charles in the doorway of the White Friar's the previous evening, having retired to the drawing room after dinner to enjoy a conversation and a pipe. It hadn't been late, but Newbury had known that, after the trials of his day, he would have been ill-advised to make a night of it. Sure enough, upon returning to his Chelsea home, he had slept for a good nine hours, and was currently sitting at his breakfast table in his red silk dressing robe, picking at the remnants of the morning's feast. He could always rely on Mrs. Bradshaw for a hearty breakfast, no matter what time of the day he actually found himself in need of it.

Pushing the newspaper to one side, Newbury turned his attention to the small silver tray of post that Mrs. Bradshaw had brought up with his tea. Idly, he flicked through the smattering of envelopes, ignoring anything that looked like correspondence from abroad. He was expecting a number of letters from Venezuela, pertaining to a private matter involving his deceased father, but he could deal with those later, when the whole Ashford matter had been resolved. Reaching the bottom of the pile, he gave a brief exclamation, pulling free a small white envelope that had been scrawled upon in black ink. The handwriting was scratchy and ill-formed. A large, oily thumbprint blighted the otherwise crisp envelope in one corner, and there was no stamp upon it, suggesting the letter had been sent round to the house via courier.

Leaning back in his chair, Newbury used the edge of his index finger to tear the envelope open and unfold the short note he discovered inside. As anticipated, it was a reply from his old friend Aldous Renwick, barely legible and smudged where Renwick had not waited for the ink to properly dry. He angled it towards the window so to see.

Newbury,

Come to the shop immediately. I have the information you require.

AR

Short, but pointed. Newbury sighed. Another detour, but clearly one he could not avoid. If Renwick had put his finger on the mystery of the screaming mummy, it could help to make the circumstances surrounding Winthrop's death far clearer. Not only that, but it might explain Ashford's motive for enacting such a horrific execution in the first instance.

Newbury looked up to see Mrs. Bradshaw returning with a fresh teacup and saucer. "Ah, Mrs.

Bradshaw – perfect timing." He dropped the letter onto the table beside his plate. "I'l take my tea whilst I dress."

"Very good, sir." The housekeeper placed the china on the table and began pouring another cup.

Newbury stood, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "Thank you, Mrs. Bradshaw.

Another excellent breakfast." He collected his cup and saucer with a smile, and began making his way towards the hallway. Then, on second thoughts, he paused, hovering in the doorway. "Oh, and Mrs. Bradshaw? If I could prevail on you to send for a hansom forthwith, it would be very much appreciated."

The Scotswoman nodded with an exasperated sigh, and began noisily col ecting up the remaining bowls and plates without another word.

Laughing, Newbury sipped at his Earl Grey and made his way hastily to his room to prepare for the day ahead.

†

"Miss Hobbes. I daresay I did you a disservice yesterday, and I'm fearful I'm about to do it all over again." Newbury was framed in the doorway that separated his and Miss Hobbes's desks from the rest of the small office, still attired in his hat and coat. It was early, and he'd made his way directly to the museum after finishing his daily ablutions and dressing in his usual black suit. He offered his assistant an earnest look, awaiting her response.

"No need to apologise, Sir Maurice – I saw the morning edition of The Times. I gather you're contending with an ancient curse now, amongst other things?" She offered Newbury a wry smile.

She was dressed in a smart grey frock with a matching jacket, and her hair was tied back from her pretty face.

Newbury laughed. "Wel, quite so. You know how these things go: a murder in the night, an ancient curse before breakfast. All in a day's work." Veronica grinned. "In all seriousness, however, I find myself terribly preoccupied by this Winthrop situation. I believe it somehow ties up with that missing agent I was intended to meet at the station the other morning."

"So it's not a curse then?" It was clear she was toying with him.

"Not in the supernatural sense of the word, no. But it feels somewhat like a curse, I assure you."

He adjusted his collar ruefully. "I admit I'm finding it difficult to give my attention to anything else. I must attend to a small matter this morning off the Tottenham Court Road. Perhaps you could accompany me there, and then together we can go on to Soho and attempt to locate the lodgings of this 'Mysterious Alfonso' character?"

Veronica shook her head. Her expression grew serious. "I'm afraid there has been a further development since we last spoke. Another missing girl. 'This time I'm convinced there's a clear link between the disappearance and the theatre. The girl was last seen in attendance at the show, volunteering for the disappearing act. She hasn't been seen since, and she failed to return home that evening. There's little room for doubt."

Newbury looked thoughtful. "Yes, I see your dilemma. But I must insist, Miss Hobbes, that you do not, under any circumstances, confront this man on your own."

Veronica frowned. "Sir Maurice, I'm quite capable -"

"Yes, yes. I rather think it's not a matter of capability, Miss Hobbes, but one of safety. Whilst you are in my employ, you are in my care. I understand how frustrating it must be to have to sit by and wait for me to deal with this damnable Ashford thing, but really, I must insist that you will not commit yourself to any dangerous course of action in my absence."

Veronica had fire in her eyes, but she nodded in agreement. "I plan to visit the family of the missing girl this afternoon, to obtain a better understanding of the circumstances. I thought it wise to gather some further evidence, no matter how circumstantial, before we decide to tackle Alfonso himself, once again."

Newbury smiled. "An excel ent plan, Miss Hobbes." He paused. "Then perhaps, this evening, we could make an appointment to meet for dinner..? You could fil me in on your findings and we could plan ahead to our next encounter with the dubious magician."

"Very well." Her lips curled into a smile. "Where shall we meet?"

"I'll cal for you, at Kensington, around seven. Does that suit?"

"It does."

"Excellent. Then for now, I'll be on my way." He lifted his hat from his head. "Until this evening, Miss Hobbes."

"Until this evening, Sir Maurice."

He turned as if to make an exit from the office. Then, recalling an errand, he stopped by the door and pulled a slip of cream-coloured paper from his pocket. He crossed to where Miss Coulthard was sitting behind a new, broad mahogany desk. She looked up from amongst unruly piles of paper.

"Sir Maurice?"

"Miss Coulthard. As busy as you are, I wonder if I may trouble you with one additional burden."

He held the piece of paper out between two fingers with a smile. Miss Coulthard accepted it, the hesitation evident on her face. She unfolded it and examined the contents. On it was scrawled a woman's name and the word "Cheapside" in Newbury's loose hand. "I need you to find an address for this woman, as soon as possible. She may have moved location at any point in the last five years.

Can you do it?"

Miss Coulthard nodded. "Of course."

Newbury grinned. "You real y are a treasure, Miss Coulthard. My thanks." And with that, he bid her good morning and took his leave.

Aldous Renwick's bookshop was, upon first appearances, not unlike any of the other small emporiums that were to be found amongst the winding side streets that branched off the Tottenham Court Road. It sat nestled between a smal general store and a haberdashery shop, its windows piled high with gaudy works of modern fiction, bound in leather or bright paper wraps. It was a cold, crisp morning, and Renwick had placed a small table outside of the door, a smattering of penny papers and cheap mystery stories on display, their covers fluttering in the light breeze. The legend above the door read simply: BOOKS.

Newbury had discovered the place many years ago, when engaged in the hunt for a rare Venetian treatise on the occult. A mutual acquaintance had tipped him off that Renwick may be able to source such a work, so, after due consideration, he had paid the man a visit. Renwick had found the book, too, along with many other archaic tomes in the intervening years, and although Newbury had paid dearly for them, he appreciated the discreet manner in which the man carried out his business. Renwick was one of the most learned men that Newbury knew, with a particular knowledge of esoteric literature, and as such Newbury had found numerous occasions to pay him a visit over the years. Today, it appeared, was one such occasion.

Stopping momentarily to glance at the cover of a tattered copy of the Union Jack, Newbury turned the doorknob with a gloved hand, al owing the door to creak open loudly on its hinges. He stepped over the threshold. Inside, the shop was filled with a cornucopia of books and periodicals, al piled high in huge stacks or pressed tightly onto bulging shelves of dark, heavy wood. There appeared to be no method in the way in which the various volumes had been scattered, chaotically, around the room, but Newbury had every suspicion that Renwick would be able to swiftly put his hand on any title that a given customer might request. Newbury, smiling, mused that the interior of the shop was ordered somewhat as erratically as its owner's mind, and that, in all probability, one was a close reflection of the other.

Newbury looked around for the man he had come to see.

The shop was devoid of life. There was a musty odour about the place, that Newbury immediately identified as that of old books, and he filled his lungs with it, enjoying the familiarity of it. He cal ed out. "Aldous? Are you there? It's Newbury here. I received your note this morning and came forthwith."

There was a banging sound from somewhere behind one of the bookcases. Newbury approached it, warily. Sure enough, there was a dul , repetitive thudding sound, like the turning-over of an engine, which seemed to be coming from the other side of the wall. "Aldous?"

The banging ceased, momentarily, and then was followed by a muffled shout, coming from the same direction. "I'll be out in a moment, Newbury. Bear with me." The voice was sharp and high-pitched. Newbury smiled. The banging returned, and whilst the other man kept him waiting, Newbury turned his attention to the spines of the nearest stack of books. Many of the titles were old, but distinctive and in excel ent condition. There was everything from a monograph on the nature of steam power in the horticultural industry, to Dickens novels, to bound col ections of Blackwood's Magazine, and more. It was a bibliophile's dream, but Newbury knew that, in reality, Renwick's real treasures lay in the back room, beyond sight of the casual book-buyer.

A moment later Newbury became aware of the sound of another man coughing, fitful y, and then the door behind the counter – previously concealed behind a col age of gaudy posters – swung open and Aldous Renwick stalked in, his hand outstretched in greeting.

Aldous Renwick was one of the most unusual characters that Newbury had the pleasure of calling a friend. He bore all the hallmarks of a caricature. He was rough around the edges: unshaven, with a wiry, bristly chin, a wisp of chaotic white hair, and yellowed fingers from the excessive smoking of cigarettes. He had a tendency to wear a worn leather smock over a stained white shirt, open at the collar, and his left eye had been replaced by a remarkable mechanical device that whirred and clicked disturbingly when he looked around. It was not as elegant as something designed by Dr. Fabian, but then Renwick was only a civilian, after all, and clearly valued function over the aesthetic. Newbury had no idea if the false eye was elective, or the result of some earlier, undisclosed adventure. Whatever the case, Newbury had long wondered over the sanity of his friend, and was as yet undecided as to whether the man was actually mad, or simply had a degree too much insight into the darker side of the human psyche.

He came forward to meet Renwick, clasping his outstretched hand in his own. "Good to see you, Aldous. How the devil are you?"

The bookseller chuckled, his good eye twitching with an alarming nervous tic. "A darn site better than Lord Henry Winthrop, from what I gather!"

Newbury sighed. "Well, I don't think I can contest that." He met the other's gaze. "I received your note."

Renwick studied him, his strange mechanical eye whirring in its socket. It protruded from the empty cavity with the look of a magnifying glass, not unlike the sort of tool used by jewellers to examine precious stones. But this device, Newbury k new, was wired directly into Renwick's brain.

Absently, he wondered if this had been the cause of his nervous tic, or worse, his generally neurotic demeanour. A glass plate fixed into the end of the device turned slowly as the mechanical eye drew its focus, and deep inside, down in the dark depths of Renwick's skul , a pinprick of orange light wavered and blinked as information was transmitted to his visual cortex. Al of this had been explained to Newbury, of course, some time ago, but it never failed to both fascinate and unnerve him, on every occasion he spent time in Renwick's company.

"The note. Yes. Lots to discuss." Renwick wheezed noisily and raised his fingers to his lips, as if expecting to find a cigarette smouldering there. He looked disappointed when he realised there was not. He looked back at Newbury. "Tea?"

"Yes.." He hesitated. "Well, actual y – it depends. What exactly do you mean when you say

'tea'?"

Renwick laughed; a dry, crackling laugh. "Don't worry, old friend. I know you too well by now to offer up any of my usual concoctions. I have a tin of Earl Grey in the back room. Let me finish up in the workshop and I'l set a kettle on the stove."

Newbury grinned. "My thanks, Aldous."

The other man rubbed his hands on the front of his apron. He nodded. "I'll just lock up the shop.

You go on, through here.." He turned and pushed on the concealed door, which swung open once again, and ushered Newbury through to the back room.

Newbury stepped over the threshold, taking care not to miss his footing on the step down. The large room on the other side of the door was cast in a dim half-light, the only illumination coming from a flaming Bunsen burner and a strange glass orb in one corner, which flickered with a violent storm of bright electrical currents. On the workbench in the middle of the room, a series of bulbous glass flasks and connecting rods had been set up, and an unusual pink liquid was bubbling over the Bunsen's flame, the vapours being siphoned off into another nearby flask. The dul thudding noise continued, and Newbury realised that the device responsible for the sound -a large iron box on the floor, with two protruding levers, a trail of thick cables and an unmarked dial – was a generator of some description, powering the electrical orb in the corner. Aside from this, other bizarre, assorted props were heaped in piles upon the floor or stacked haphazardly on the shelves that lined every inch of available wall space: unusual masks, vials filled with unaccountable specimens, strange African idols and assorted components from any number of mechanical devices. Newbury smiled. It reminded him somewhat of his Chelsea study, although here there was a far greater selection, in far greater disarray. Yet it was the other contents of Renwick's shelves that held the real attraction for him. Here, in the back of this small shop, was perhaps the finest collection of occult and esoteric literature ever amassed under one roof. The library far diminished Newbury's own, not insignificant, col ection. He'd spent hours here before, browsing the shelves, amazed at the rare editions that Renwick had somehow been able to amass. There were copies of an ancient Hermetic treatise thought lost in the sacking of the library at Alexandria, rare Venetian tracts on summoning evil spirits, and details of arcane rituals attributed to the lost druidic tribes of Prussia. It was a delight to behold, and one of the best-kept secrets in the Empire. Unlike the more sedate tomes that lined the shelves in the front of the shop, of course, these exquisite volumes were not for sale. But, as Newbury had learned over the years, Renwick was a genial fellow, and for the right person asking the right question, he could be a marvellous repository of rare and unusual knowledge.

Renwick stepped through into the room and clicked the door shut behind him. He looked around absently for a moment, and then crossed the room, pushing past Newbury unceremoniously, and set to work putting a kettle on the smal stove.

Newbury examined the back of the door, which was carved with all manner of intricate runes and wards. He recognised a number of them. The six-fingered hand in a circle was intended to prevent witches crossing the threshold. He shook his head. The room, like Renwick, was the embodiment of a contradiction. The juxtaposition of the progressive science – the generator, the electrical orb, the artificial eye – seemed to sit il beside the more supernatural preoccupations that seemed to concern the man. Science and the occult. In truth, Newbury had no real notion of where one stopped and the other began.

Clearly Renwick was intent on exploring that boundary, and judging by the protective wards he had chiselled into the doors, walls and floor, he was taking no risks, either.

Renwick set the kettle to boil, and then turned and waved Newbury in the direction of a chair, which was covered in a heaped pile of papers. "Take a seat, man. You may be here for some time."

Newbury smiled, and bending low, scooped the debris from the seat and placed it by the foot of the chair in a neat pile on the floor. He lowered himself into the chair, dropping his coat over the back and resting his hat on the white porcelain head of a phrenology bust that sat on a low table beside him. He watched Renwick as the other man crossed to his still, used a pair of tongs to remove the flask of bubbling pink liquid from the heat, and poured a measure of the stuff into a blue coffee cup, before returning the vessel to the flame. He blew gently on the hot liquid, and then took a long draw, swal owing it down with a hearty gasp. He placed the empty cup on the workbench beside him, and turned to Newbury. "Right. Your screaming mummy."

Newbury chuckled. He had no idea what the pink concoction contained, but he was sure it had a large measure of alcohol in it, whatever else. He met Renwick's strange, glowing gaze. "So tell me, what have you found?"

Renwick's mechanical eye seemed to refocus on the Crown investigator. His other eye continued to twitch nervously. "I believe I know the identity of your mysterious dead man. A priest, who served the Pharaoh Thutmose I at Thebes, around fifteen hundred years before Christ."

"Go on."

"His name was Khemosiri, 'the black Osiris'. You do know the story of Osiris, don't you, Newbury?"

Newbury shrugged. "I have a rudimentary understanding of the myth. But go ahead – enlighten me." He sat back in the chair, intrigued, his fingers forming a steeple on his lap.

"Osiris was the king of the Land of the Dead. He stood in judgement over the dead, having supplanted the god Anubis as the overseer of the afterlife. To an Ancient Egyptian noble, the afterlife was everything: the chance to live forever beyond the physical world. Osiris was the god who straddled the two realms, who ultimately decided their fate. He enabled their resurrection after mummification." Renwick paused as he col ected his tongs and poured himself another measure of the pink liquid. He nursed the coffee cup in his hands as he continued. "Osiris was unique in the Egyptian pantheon, however. The myth tells of how he was murdered by his brother, Set, first drowned and then cut into thirteen pieces and scattered throughout Egypt. Osiris's wife, Isis, was able to find twelve of these parts, however, and with a singing spell she learned from her father she was able to effect a resurrection. The lovers enjoyed congress, in which their son, Horus, was conceived, and shortly after Osiris died once again and became king of the Land of the Dead."

"Fascinating. A resurrection spel. And so the mummy -

Winthrop's mummy – was known as 'the black Osiris'?"

"I believe so, if it is indeed him. Khemosiri has long been considered apocryphal, a footnote in the story of Thutmose I; a cautionary tale, if you will, to ensure adherence to the core belief system of rebirth in the afterlife." Renwick crossed the room to one of his tall bookcases, removed a dusty cat's skull from where it was resting in front of a neat row of books, and pul ed down a leather-bound volume. He flicked through it purposeful y, and then, finding the page he was looking for, crossed the room and handed it to Newbury. "Here. This is the only contemporary reference to Khemosiri that survives."

Newbury examined the page. It was a copy of a long document written in hieratic script. The accompanying footnote explained it was the record of the trial of a priest, found in the tomb of an Egyptian noble at the turn of the nineteenth century. Newbury handed the book back to Renwick.

"What does it say?"

"It basically sets out the case against one of Thutmose's priests, who is accused of blasphemous behaviour, for attempting to extend his life in the physical world and avoid the judgement of Osiris.

It claims he had perfected an 'Osiris Ritual', a means by which to effect this longevity, but all records of the actual ritual are lost." Renwick shrugged. "It seems this particular priest wasn't a true believer in the eternal resurrection of the spirit. Either that or he didn't want to give up al his earthly possessions."

Newbury smiled. "So what happened? What makes you think there is any connection between this story and the mummy lying in Winthrop's dining room?"

"Ah.. wel that's due to the punishments that were enacted upon the priest, and the description you gave me of the casket. The document here lists the horrifying sequence of measures that were carried out to ensure that the priest suffered a very ful and real death, in both the physical world and the afterlife. He was essentially obliterated from history." Renwick looked up at the sound of the kettle whistling on the stove. He set the book down on the arm of Newbury's chair and made his way over to where he'd laid out a teacup and strainer. He continued talking as he worked.

"First of all, the man was stripped of his true name, and all records of this name were purged, from his house, his family, and his temple. They even, destroyed a royal stele that mentioned the priest by name. No stone was left unturned. Without a name, an Egyptian soul was not permitted to cross into the afterlife, you see. It was only after his death that others began to refer to the now nameless man as Khemosiri."

Renwick coughed loudly, fetched around for his pouch of tobacco – which he found amongst the flasks and vials on the workbench – and began rolling himself a cigarette. Then, after allowing the tea a sufficient time to brew, he handed Newbury his cup of Earl Grey, the cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. "Next he was sentenced to be mummified alive, his body preserved as a warning to those who may have been harbouring similar notions or persuasions."

Newbury shook his head. "You should see the expression on his face, Aldous. It's like nothing I've ever seen before. He must have suffered terribly."

"I don't doubt it." Renwick's face was grim. "Do you know what they did to people during the mummification process?"

"Yes, I'm quite wel aware of the procedure." Newbury frowned. "I can imagine what they did to him. It's barbaric."

"Hmmm. Well, that wasn't the end of it. The list goes on. It was decreed that once the priest's name had been erased and the mummification process was complete, a curse was to be written upon the linen bandages that covered his body, and he was to be interred in a black and gold casket, which itself would be painted with wards and warnings. His tomb would then be hidden at an undisclosed location so that thieves would not accidental y stumble upon the cursed remains."

Newbury sat forward in his chair. "That matches the description of the mummy almost perfectly. I think you're right. I think you have our man. How the devil did you put your finger on it?"

Renwick grinned. His glass-fronted eye shimmered in the harsh electrical light of the orb. "A half-remembered tale, is al. Your letter provoked a memory. I found the book and, upon rereading the hieratic script, realised Khemosiri was your man."

"I wonder why Peterson didn't see it."

"What, at the British Museum! Newbury – as I mentioned, Khemosiri is a footnote, a reference in a long-forgotten document that most professionals would dismiss as naught but fiction. Only specialists such as you or I, with a deep interest in the occult, would place any value in such a story, and not for its historic significance, either."

Newbury looked doubtful. "What? You believe that Khemosiri really did find a means of extending life beyond the natural span of a man?"

Renwick laughed. "Of course not. I believe that he believed he had. And others believed him, too. The Pharaoh, of course, and the priests that committed him to such a terrible fate. But more than that. He was said to have a coterie of followers, others who subscribed to his beliefs, who aided him in his bizarre practices. When the military men purged his home, they found no records, no trace of the so-called 'Osiris Ritual'. No one knows for certain, but it's thought that his followers had secured his secrets, and that they were buried with him, hidden, somehow, inside his tomb. His followers planned to resurrect him, to give Khemosiri new life, just as the original Osiris had been brought back from the dead by his beloved Isis. But most of that is nothing but speculation and myth. We have no proof either way."

"Other than a corpse that proves that they did not achieve their goal."

Renwick laughed. "Quite so." He took a long draw on his cigarette, watching the smoke plume lazily around him as he exhaled. "That wasn't the point I was getting at, though."

Newbury nodded. "Indeed. I understood your reasoning. If there were others who believed in the ritual then, there may be others who believe in the ritual now."

Renwick's lips curled in a satisfied smile. "Exactly so. The man who killed Lord Winthrop may have been looking for the secrets of the ritual. I doubt very much that Winthrop himself had an understanding of what he'd found."

"No. He didn't." Newbury leaned back in the chair, resting his chin on his fist. It was impossible to second-guess Ashford's motives. He'd spent five years living a half-life in St. Petersburg, kept alive by the machines that Dr. Fabian had instal ed inside his broken body. Had he turned? Was he working for the Russian government? Or had he spent the time looking for ways to regain the life he'd once had, turning to the occult in desperation? Perhaps he thought this "Osiris Ritual" would somehow restore his body to its former state. Only finding him and bringing him in would provide Newbury with the answers.

Newbury looked across at Renwick. "Do you know of anyone else who might have a notion of this link? Between Winthrop's mummy and the tale of Khemosiri, I mean."

Renwick looked thoughtful. He considered his answer for a moment. "No. I might have named you, if the circumstances had been different. But I can think of no other, in London, at least, who would have access to the necessary texts. It's not the sort of thing one would happen across in an academic journal." He paused, rapping his knuckles on the workbench. "You might consider discussing the matter with Wilfred Blake, one of the men who aided Lord Winthrop during the expedition. I doubt he'll give you anything new, but I understand he has an appetite for al things mystical."

Newbury raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?" That certainly shed a different light on the man he'd seen arguing with Winthrop during the unrolling party. Perhaps his ironclad alibi wasn't as secure as it had at first appeared to the Yard? He'd taken the liberty of obtaining Blake's address, along with those of the other members of the expedition, from Charles the previous evening. He'd been considering paying Blake a visit that afternoon, and it now appeared he had another good reason to do so. He downed the remains of his tea and leaned forward, placing the empty cup and saucer on the workbench. "Thank you, Aldous. I believe you've been of great service to me today."

The other man chuckled, sprinkling the ash from the end of his cigarette carelessly onto the floor. "Never any trouble, old man." He sighed. "There is one thing you could do for me, though."

"Name it."

"Can I see it?"

Newbury smirked. "I'm sure it can be arranged. Just as soon as Winthrop's funerary arrangements are finalised."

Renwick nodded in appreciation.

Newbury stood, col ecting his coat and hat. On an afterthought, he turned towards Renwick.

"What of Aubrey Knox?"

Renwick seemed to freeze on the spot. He turned slowly to offer Newbury a wary look. "What of him?"

"He casts a long shadow, is all."

Renwick looked somewhat relieved. "Knox is gone, Newbury. He's not mixed up in this. If he were, I'd smell it."

Newbury gave one short nod of acknowledgement. "Thank you once again, Aldous. I can find my own way out."

Renwick was already fumbling with his tobacco pouch, intent on rollihg himself another cigarette. He didn't look up again as Newbury, bracing himself for the cold, clicked the inner door shut behind him and took his leave.