The Osiris Ritual nahi-2

by George Mann

  Beneath the waist, however, Mr. Calverton was more machine than man. His legs had been replaced by gleaming brass contraptions that parodied their biological counterparts, pistons spitting furiously in the thighs, servos grinding in the knees.

  Mr. Calverton cocked his head as if to acknowledge Amelia, but otherwise remained mute.

  There was a long, silent pause, before he edged forward with the wheelchair, his pointed metal feet scraping on the flagstones. The servos squealed and whined as he slowly descended the ramp. When he reached the gravel path, he rolled the wheelchair forward, as if gesturing for Amelia to take a seat. She noticed he was wearing white gloves.

  Amelia felt a shiver run along her spine. There was something about the man, something she'd seen in her visions, but was not yet able to place. He had a story. A story that had not yet come to an end. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know what that end might be.

  Dr. Fabian seemed to notice Amelia's alarm, and put a steadying arm around her shoulders.

  "Come now, Miss Hobbes. There is no need to be afraid. Mr. Calverton will see to your every need."

  Trying not to grimace, Amelia allowed herself to be led forward towards the entrance. Mr.

  Calverton came forward to greet her. She studied his blank expression, realising that it was this, more than anything, which had inspired her sense of unease. She was unable to read his face. She had no idea if, behind that plain, porcelain visage, the man was smiling or frowning at her. His eyes seemed vacant. Dead. Suddenly, she felt a longing for her old room, back at the sanatorium. She closed her eyes and tried to suppress her fears.

  Dr. Fabian gently placed his hands on her arms and lowered her into the wheelchair. Amelia gave him a brisk nod of acknowledgement, and then together, the small party wound its way slowly inside the stark edifice of the Grayling Institute.

  Inside, the reception hall retained many of its original features: the bold, galleried staircase, the glassy marble floor and the high, decorative ceiling. Rooms and passageways branched off from the hallway all manner of illogical directions, like arteries winding away from a heart. It was quite different from the sanatorium, and briefly, Amelia allowed herself a smile. Perhaps she had been hasty. Perhaps her earlier hopes had been right. This was a place to heal.

  Dr. Fabian led them away down a small passageway to the left of the staircase. The space had obviously been converted from old servants' quarters, and now, Amelia realised, the rooms that stemmed off from the main corridor had been remodelled as apartments for the patients. The wheelchair creaked as they rolled on along the corridor, the sound of Mr. Calverton's clicking feet a constant distraction.

  Presently, Dr. Fabian came to a stop. He gestured through an open doorway on the right-hand side of the corridor. Mr. Calverton brought the wheelchair to a stop. Dr. Fabian coughed into his fist.

  "These shal be your rooms, Miss Hobbes, for the duration of your stay. I hope you find them to your liking." He stepped to one side, allowing her a clearer view. Amelia gasped. The apartment consisted of two rooms, linked by an internal door, with tall sash windows that looked out upon the perfectly manicured gardens at the rear of the old mansion. Topiary sculptures described creatures from ancient mythology, and birds wheeled in the sky above a glittering lake. The rooms themselves were panelled in dark oak and well furnished. A four-poster bed filled the antechamber, and in the large drawing room an ornate marble fire surround dominated one wall, a low fire crackling in the grate.

  Two armchairs, a chaise longue and a sideboard completed the arrangements, and an ancient portrait hung on the far wall, showing a regal-looking fellow in plate armour, standing beside an immense globe.

  Amelia began to climb out of her wheelchair, but Dr. Fabian waved her to remain seated, instead ushering Mr. Calverton to wheel her forward into the room. "Really? This is really where I shall stay?"

  Dr. Fabian's lips curled. "Indeed it is, Miss Hobbes. I am sure you will be comfortable. Now," he stepped back, as if suddenly galvanised into action, "we shal take our leave. No doubt you're tired after your long journey. Perhaps this evening we could dine together, and I could tel you a little more of our work here at the Institute?"

  Amelia nodded. "I'd like that very much."

  "Excellent! I shal return to escort you to dinner at seven o'clock. In the meantime, your belongings wil be delivered shortly. Good day to you, Miss Hobbes."

  "Good day to you, Dr. Fabian." She glanced, warily, at the other man, who stood to one side, regarding her, unblinking. "And to you, Mr. Calverton." The masked man remained silent, turning to stomp unceremoniously from the room. Dr. Fabian gave a curt bow, and then also took his leave, pul ing the door shut behind him.

  Amelia gazed longingly out of the window. Then, surprised, she turned back to regard the door as she heard a key pushed into the lock and bolts slide shut in the doorframe. The doctor had locked the door behind him. Why should he do that? She wheeled herself over to the door and tested the handle. It was locked firm. She was trapped.

  Frustrated, Amelia considered her situation. The lavishly furnished room, then, was nothing but a lavishly furnished cell. What was this place? It certainly didn't seem like a hospital. And what of Mr.

  Calverton? What affliction had he endured to wind up in such a way? Amelia gave an involuntary shudder. Perhaps, with him wandering the premises, it was better that the door to her room was locked after all.

  Easing herself out of the chair, Amelia crossed to the chaise longue and took up a position at the foot of the window. She watched the birds dancing in the sky above the lake, and hoped it would not be long before her sister, Veronica, was able to pay her a visit.

  Epilogue

  The morning was crisp and chil, and the sun had yet to poke its way through the hazy layer of yellow fog that still clung to the tree-tops and surrounding buildings, cloaking everything in a fine, gossamer web.

  Newbury watched his breath plume in the frigid air. The cold was penetrating, bone deep, and he longed for the comfort of his Chelsea drawing room and the roar of an open fire. It was early – too early – and he had not slept. In truth he'd been unable to sleep properly for a week, not since the events in the Archibald Theatre and his conversation with Veronica in Knox's makeshift laboratory. He'd managed to lose himself in laudanum-inspired dreams, draped on the daybed in his study, but sleep – real sleep – had continued to elude him. Instead, he'd been reduced to lying on his bed, staring not at the ceiling but at an elaborate reconstruction of events, as conjured by his mind's eye. He kept replaying their conversation, over and over, attempting to tease meaning out of half-remembered looks and hastily spoken words. What had Veronica been trying to tel him? He thought he knew, now. The evidence was incontrovertible: her knowledge of Knox had helped to bring a swift conclusion to the case. But if he was right, why on earth would she reveal the truth to him in such an opaque fashion? What else was there that he stil did not know? There had to be another dimension to it, something that was staring him in the face.

  Newbury hated the thought that he was working in the dark, and also that he was forced to resort to such clandestine activities as loitering outside her apartments and following her across town. The emotional conflict was enough to make his stomach churn. But he needed to know if he could trust her.

  Still, he had little time to consider the implications now. He'd been following Veronica for over an hour, first by hansom cab, and then, for the last mile, on foot, ever since she'd abandoned her transport and taken instead to the footpath. He watched her slight figure sway from side to side with every footstep as he kept pace, careful to remain out of sight. It was clear she was still suffering with her damaged shoulder; her gait was a little awkward and she held her upper body stiffly, like a soldier, erect and alert. He knew if he asked her, later, she would tell him she had remained at home, convalescing under doctor's orders.

  Ahead of them loomed the splendour of Buckingham Palace, towering out of the mist like a grey monolith. There c
ould be no mistaking her destination.

  Hanging back, Newbury watched Veronica approach the gates. To his surprise, she was acknowledged immediately by the guard, who pul ed the iron portal open and admitted her to the Palace grounds without a word. Newbury crossed the road and fol owed her progress through the tall railings, catching glimpse after stuttering glimpse as she strode, purposefully, across the courtyard. Newbury could see she was heading around the side of the building. He stopped in the shadow of an ash tree, watching, waiting, his heart in his mouth.

  Moments later, he watched as she stopped before a familiar door and rapped loudly, three times. He heard the wooden panel slide open, and imagined Sandford, the agents' butler, peering out. A second later the panel clicked shut and the door swung open. Veronica disappeared inside.

  And there he had it.

  Veronica Hobbes: agent to the Queen.

  Newbury felt a growing sense of tightness in his chest, like a dead weight had been laid upon him, forcing the air out of his lungs. So he'd been right. Veronica worked for the Queen. The duplicity made his head spin. To what end had it been kept from him? Did Charles know? He'd suspected it since their conversation in the cellar, but to have it confirmed.. He was surprised by the bizarre sense of vertigo he felt, standing there in the cold morning in the shadow of a tree.

  Newbury didn't want to acknowledge what he knew in his heart to be true. Veronica had been employed by the Queen to spy on him, to monitor his actions and report back to the Palace. Even now, he could hear Charles's words, echoing around inside his head. "The Queen is worried.. Even the best of men are fallible."

  Victoria was concerned he would turn out like Knox. He cursed under his breath. He didn't know where this left him, with the Queen, with Veronica. The feelings she'd intimated.. had they even been real? A ruse to draw him closer? The implication was too awful to bear.

  Sighing, Newbury turned and walked away into the hazy morning. He could be at Johnny Chang's place within the hour, chasing the dragon, losing himself in the sickly-sweet vapours. The pull of it was like lightning in his veins.

  Gathering speed, he allowed himself to be swept up in his cravings. He was tired, and after all, he had a great deal to consider.

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