The Osiris Ritual

Chapter Twenty – Five

"So, what did Her Majesty have to say about it all?" Sir Charles Bainbridge took a large gulp from his glass of claret and leaned heavily on the dinner table, regarding Newbury. The two men had only recently finished their meal and Mrs. Bradshaw had yet to return to clear away the evening's debris.

Newbury shrugged. "Nothing, as yet. I'm seeing her tomorrow."

Bainbridge raised a knowing eyebrow. "Tomorrow? It's been, what, three days?"

"A day or two won't change anything, Charles. Her Majesty knows that." Newbury smiled.

Bainbridge sighed. "You'd do wel to remember that it's not our place to take the law into our own hands, Newbury. I mean, why didn't you cal me, man?" Bainbridge was adamant. "You went and put yourself, and Miss Hobbes, in great danger. I could have helped."

Newbury shook his head. "No, Charles. The Yard would have only got in the way. This was not an occasion for the police. It had to be handled differently. You must recognise that sometimes, we need to act outside the law."

"But Newbury, you're forgetting. I'm not only a policeman."

Newbury grinned, a twinkle in his eye. "You can take the man out of the Yard, Charles, but you can't take the Yard out of the man. You'd do well to remember that."

"Well, yes. Perhaps you're right." Bainbridge chuckled. "Dastardly affair, though. Do you believe that's the last we'l see of Aubrey Knox?"

Newbury's expression grew serious. He picked at the remnants of his pudding. "I believe so. I hope so. He looked quite dead when Ashford dropped him into the water."

"Quite.. quite. But they're saying they haven't been able to find the body, as yet."

"Charles, I'd be amazed if anyone could find anything in that dock, let alone a man's corpse. For all we know, it was caught up in the propeller of some passing steamship or other, dashed into a thousand pieces."

"Yes. I suppose you might have it, there." Bainbridge placed his glass on the table before him, and shifted position, leaning back in his chair. "But what about this.. Isis Ritual? What would have become of Knox if he'd managed to complete his machinations?"

Newbury shrugged, dropping his serviette onto the table and leaning forward to regard his friend. "The Osiris Ritual, you mean? Charles, I don't believe for one moment that it would have had any effect at all. That's what makes the whole episode even more grotesque. What he did to al those young women. He was extracting a hormone from their pituitary glands. But that, coupled with some esoteric ritual from Ancient Egypt? No. I believe it would have singularly failed to help him achieve his aim."

"Ah yes, his quest for extended life."

"I don't believe there's an answer, Charles. Knox was driven by an innate desire to live forever, and in doing so he surrendered what time he did have to this fol y. What a waste. We should use our time on this earth wisely, Charles. Ashford knew that."

"Indeed he did." Bainbridge looked momentarily forlorn. "So what of Miss Hobbes? I understand it was a grave injury she endured."

"Quite so. Have you been to see her?"

Bainbridge nodded. "Of course. She seems to be convalescing wel. No doubt she'll be back on her feet within a week or so. She has a strong wil, that one."

"That she does." Newbury felt tired. He studied the empty plate before him. "I feared for her, Charles. I feared for what might become of her, for the danger that my gallivanting has put her in.

This whole affair.." He sighed. "I don't know. I just had the sense that I was losing control."

Bainbridge nodded sagely, but didn't respond. After a moment, Newbury reached for his glass of wine and downed its contents in one long pul. He set it down again neatly before him. "Shall we retire to the drawing room, Charles? I'm feeling a need for my pipe."

Bainbridge grinned. "Excellent idea, old chap, excellent idea."

The two men abandoned the remains of their dinner and made their way through the large set of double doors into the drawing room. Newbury's clockwork owl sat on a perch in one corner, clicking its wings excitedly as they entered the room. A fire was burning low in the grate. Newbury felt immediately better. He strode over to the mantelpiece, col ecting his battered old tobacco pouch and pipe. "Pour us a drink, Charles."

Bainbridge approached the worn, mahogany drinks cabinet, from which he produced two tumblers and a decanter of the finest brandy. Removing the glass stopper, he sloshed a generous measure into each glass and then turned and handed one to Newbury, who accepted it grateful y.

Standing by the fire, his sharp features cast in relief, he looked almost statuesque, a picture of nobility. His proud, hawk-like nose, his olive eyes, his finely chiselled jaw line: they were as distinctive and unmistakable as any man in London. Yet there were dark lines beneath his eyes, dark lines that told of another life.

"You look tired, Newbury."

"I feel it, Charles."

"You need to go to her."

Newbury looked perplexed. "Who, the Queen?"

"Miss Hobbes."

Newbury placed his tumbler on the marble mantelpiece with a chink, and began stuffing the bowl of his pipe with his usual fine; aromatic shag. He didn't raise his eyes to look at his friend.

"Perhaps I do." He blinked, and then buried the storm of emotions he could feel wel ing up inside of him. He needed to avoid that particular conversation. "So, Charles. It seems you were right about Ashford. Tel me, what connection is there between you, and Mrs. Wil iam Ashford? I know about the house."

Bainbridge sighed and downed his brandy in one long draw. He reached into his pocket for his cigar case. "It's nothing untoward, Newbury. It's not what you might imagine."

Newbury shrugged. He looked up, meeting his friend's gaze. "I hadn't imagined anything, Charles. I'm in no place to judge.."

Bainbridge smiled; a world-weary smile. "Well, I don't believe that for a moment." He used his cutter to snip the end off his fat, brown cigar. "You see, things were different in those days. We al knew one another, like you and I. Now, I think myself lucky if I can spot another agent in the same room. Her Majesty keeps us all at arm's length. But in those days.. Well, suffice it to say that I knew Ashford wel, and I knew Catherine too. She used to get on wel with Isobel." Newbury nodded. It was rare that his old friend spoke of his late wife. "I think I told you that I was the one sent to talk to her after Ashford died. Or rather, as it transpires, after Ashford died for the first time. I could hardly bear it, Newbury. It was the first time. The first time I'd lost a friend like that, a friend in service. Yes, we'd lost policemen, and Catherine wasn't the first widow I'd had to break the bad news to. But this was different. Catherine was a friend. She cried on my shoulder, the entire night. She wanted me to help her tel the children."

Newbury could see that even the simple act of recounting the story was a painful exercise for his friend.

"I spent much of the night comforting her, and then managed a few hours of fitful sleep in the spare room. The next morning, I helped her to break the news to the boy. He was only three years old, Newbury. It broke my heart." Bainbridge paused, rasping a match across the rough strip on the back of the matchbook and bringing the flame up to the end of his cigar. He shook it out with a wave of his hand, taking a moment to puff on the acrid smoke. "It wasn't until afterwards that I became aware of their situation. She was destitute, and a Crown pension would be hardly enough to live on.

She had two children, Newbury, two beautiful young children, and her husband had given his life in the service of the Empire. What was I to do? I couldn't see her cast out or sent to the workhouse."

Newbury sucked thoughtful y on his pipe, stil standing by the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece with one arm. "So you took on the house in Bethnal Green. You paid the rent, and moved her in there with her family."

"I did. I'm not ashamed of it, Newbury. She's a good woman, and I never asked for anything in return. You should see her with those children."

"I did see her. So did Ashford. He knew, Charles. He knew what you had done for him. On his death bed he told me to thank you."

Bainbridge smiled. His voice was filled with sadness. "I should have liked to have said goodbye."

"Better that you didn't, Charles. I'm not sure you would have liked what he'd become."

Bainbridge plumed smoke through his nostrils. He regarded Newbury with a severe expression.

"I'm not sure any of us like what we've become."

Newbury nodded. He recognised the truth in the other man's words. He turned and retrieved his glass from the mantelpiece, taking a long, slow drink.

Bainbridge stood, collecting his empty glass from the arm of his chair. He returned to the decanter. Beside it, on the lacquered surface of the drinks cabinet, was a tall, ornate object, made of glass and bone, with a smal brazier on top, and a curling pipe that terminated in a matching bone mouthpiece, carved like the head of a dragon. "What is this, Newbury?"

Newbury looked sheepish. "A pipe, Charles. A new pipe."

Bainbridge caught his meaning. "For God's sake, Newbury! Haven't you realised that stuff is killing you? I'll not allow a friend of mine to succumb to a slow death by narcotics, least of all you."

"It helps me think, is all, Charles. There's nothing more to it."

"Like hell!" Bainbridge was red in the face. "You tell yourself that, Newbury, but in truth you're just like any of us, looking for a means of escape, something to hide behind. You've simply decided that this is your particular poison. And it is poison. You're killing yourself."

Newbury looked him in the eye. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I am looking for an escape. Then why is it you judge me so harshly?"

Bainbridge poured himself another large measure of brandy. "Because I don't want to be the one to put you six feet under. Because I know what it is you're doing, and I have no time for it. Why the hell should you be allowed to hide behind a veil of narcotics whilst the rest of us have to suffer regardless? We al have demons, Newbury." He placed the decanter back on the drinks cabinet. "For Heaven's sake, Miss Hobbes deserves better than that."

Newbury sighed. "You're right. Of course you're right. She deserves far better." It pained Newbury that he was the one who always put Veronica in harm's way. But she, in turn, was playing a game of her own, a game which he had yet to ful y understand. But what he did know is that he could not al ow her to become like Catherine: widowed young, abandoned. He understood why Bainbridge felt the need to protect that woman, to save her and her children from the workhouse, to offer her a better life. He was giving her the life that Ashford could not, but he was also giving her the life that he wanted. That was what Bainbridge was hiding behind. He craved normality. He longed for ignorance. The life of an agent was lonely, and it was lonely for a reason. He would do what he could for Miss Hobbes, but the kindest thing, he knew, was to do nothing. Charles was right.

She deserved more than he could give her.

Newbury's pipe had gone out. He looked around, catching sight of a small carriage clock on a bookcase, surrounded by heaps of notebooks and journals. The night was stil young. "I say, Charles.

We're terribly maudlin this evening. What do you say to a trip to the White Friar's? A game of billiards and some banter."

Bainbridge smiled, his whiskers twitching amicably. "You know what, Newbury, that's the best idea I've heard in days."

"Come on then, old man." Newbury placed his pipe careful y on the mantelpiece. "Let's forget about the past for a while, and the future. Let's revel in the present."

Bainbridge nodded. "But first," he raised his glass, "the brandy."

Newbury chuckled and did the same. "Yes, indeed. The brandy."