The Osiris Ritual nahi-2

by George Mann

  "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 wou
ld 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.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Veronica bobbed up and down in her seat, lightly, as the hansom cab bowled onwards across the city. Newbury watched her from the other side of the cabin. Her head was turned away from him, looking out of the window, and he admired her profile. There was no mistaking her beauty.

  What was more, she had flowered in the few months since he'd known her, growing in confidence.

  He followed the line of her jaw, admired the way in which her glossy brunette hair curled behind one ear. To Newbury, she was a near-perfect example of womanhood. He watched her strain to see through the fog, blinking, as if the action would help to shift the cloying grey vapour within which they were travelling.

  Yet, for all that, Newbury had never felt so far removed from her. Their relationship seemed somehow fractured, distant. Her actions towards him had not altered, of course. But he knew more, now, knew that she was holding something back from him, something fundamental. His fury at Purefoy's death had not abated – if anything, it was growing more and more forceful with every passing minute – but neither could he shake the horrible sense of betrayal in the pit of his stomach, even for Purefoy. Unwelcome questions raised themselves in his mind. If she had acted sooner, if she had warned him about Knox, would Purefoy stil be dead? Could she have saved him? Had she known about Ashford all along? Where had she got the information about Knox? All of these questions needed answers, but the very act of asking them was at odds with how he felt about the woman. In questioning her, he risked losing her altogether. And for now, he felt he knew which of the two options represented the lesser evil.

  Veronica turned towards him, snapping him out of his reverie. "Sir Maurice, I thought we were heading to the London Docks?"

  Newbury nodded, slowly. "We are. But first, I must make a brief stop." Veronica frowned. "I believe I know where to find Ashford. I must talk with him."

  Veronica nodded, sagely. "Very well." The moment stretched, and they stared at each other in silence, neither one of them wishing to be the first to look away. After a while, Newbury turned to glance out of the window. He had the terrible, dawning sense that everything was unravel ing around him.

  Presently, the hansom trundled to a stop in the foggy wilderness of Bethnal Green. Newbury rose to his feet. "You wait here, Miss Hobbes. I shal return momentarily." He clicked open the door and stepped down into the quiet street beyond. It was still early, and this peaceful residential street had not yet ful y awoken to the morning. Newbury took a, small cream-coloured card from inside his jacket pocket and unfolded it, revealing an address written in Miss Coulthard's neat copperplate.

  He checked the address against the house in front of him. It was similar, in many ways, to Newbury's own residence: a small end-terrace house, with two prominent bay windows, one on either of the two floors; a small front yard, with potted plants; and a panel ed front door, painted in royal blue. A waist-high railing ran around the front and side of the yard. The mouth of a dimly lit alleyway separated the house from the next long terrace about six feet to the right.

  It seemed to Newbury like rather an affluent dwelling for a widow on an agency pension.

  Nevertheless, this was clearly the address that Miss Coulthard had discovered for him. Slowly, Newbury approached the building. For a moment he stood before the door, considering whether to rap the brass knocker. Then, changing his mind, he edged round to stand before the window, peering into the living room beyond. The room was lit brightly by a gas-lamp and was well stocked with furnishings: sideboard, two armchairs and a daybed. A large fireplace dominated the room, although its grate was cold and unlit. On the floor, a pretty woman in her late twenties, with strawberry blonde hair, was sitting with two children, playing a game with counters. A boy, of around eight years, and a girl, slightly younger, who were clearly brother and sister, and Newbury smiled as he watched their faces light up whilst they laughed and carolled with their mother. He didn't turn his head as, in a low voice, he began to speak. "You'll have to give yourself up soon, Ashford. Al of this running around is doing neither of us any good. I'm supposed to take you in myself, but I'm too busy with this blasted Knox business. I'm about to head to the London Docks to find him before he disappears again." He turned his head slightly, to watch Ashford emerge from the shadows around the side of the building. The other man's red eyes were piercing in the gloom. "I know you'll do the right thing."

  Ashford lowered his hood, and once again, Newbury was appalled by the yellowed, rotting pallor of his skin and the disfigurements that Dr. Fabian's machinery had inflicted upon him. His black cloak was now shredded and hanging loose around his shoulders, exposing the mechanical pump in his chest, and Newbury could see where his encounter with the train in the Underground ha
d scorched the flesh at his elbows, revealing the brass joints underneath. The tubing that curled between his head and chest flexed as he moved.

  Newbury pitied Ashford, then, not for what had become of him, but rather for the impact it had had on his life; left out in the cold, Ashford was separated from his wife and children by only a thin pane of glass. But that pane of glass represented a yawning chasm, a barrier that Ashford was forever unable to cross. It must have been torture, to stand watching his wife and children and be prevented from reaching out for them, from holding them, from being a husband and a father to them. But Newbury knew that, to those children, their father was dead, and this thing would stand before them only as a monster, a creature drawn from their darkest nightmares. Ashford knew it too. He had spared them that horror.

  The former agent turned to regard the joyful scene inside the house. Newbury was unable to read any emotion on his grim visage, but he was now sure that, somewhere, it stil resided deep inside the man. "Thank you, Newbury." Ashford's voice chimed out in-his grating, metallic tone. "I will do the right thing."

  Newbury gave a curt nod, and then turned, making his way along the short path towards the waiting carriage, leaving Ashford alone to contemplate his nightmare. Just as he reached the railing, however, Newbury heard Ashford cal out behind him. "Newbury." A brief pause. "Methuselah."

  Newbury turned, a quizzical expression on his face, but Ashford had already gone, melted away into the foggy morning.

  Newbury coughed, absently, as he helped Miss Hobbes to dismount from the hansom a short while later at the London Docks. The sun had done its work and burned away much of the morning fog, transforming it into thin wreaths of mist that still clung, determinedly, to the masts of the innumerable vessels that cluttered the harbour. The docks were teeming with boats of al shapes and sizes, from steamships, to yachts, to schooners, and the quayside, in turn, was bustling with life.