The Osiris Ritual (23 page)

Newbury sighed, and leaned back against the soft leather of the seat. He hoped the fog would lift. If not, he was sure that Mrs. Bradshaw’s respiratory condition would return. It had affected her badly throughout the winter months, and he was concerned for her wel being. Besides, he knew he couldn’t live without the woman. She was a miracle. Unfazed, undaunted, she catered to his every whim. And she approved of Miss Hobbes. She hadn’t stated it explicitly, but her affection for Veronica was clear for all to see. If nothing else, it gave Newbury hope for the future.

Newbury glanced again at his pocket watch. It was now ten past the hour. He imagined Veronica in her Kensington rooms, sat before the fire, awaiting his arrival. He suspected that, even now, she would be cursing him, in her own gentle way, for his tardiness. He would attend to her directly, and hoped to take a moment to relax a little before going on. He needed a brandy. He needed more than a brandy, but for now, a dose of alcohol would help to quell his burning desire for the poppy.

Tonight, he would give himself over to his assistant, enjoy the pleasure of her company and attend to the details of her own case, regarding the missing girls and the magician. After a drink and a wash, they would repair to another carriage, take the short journey to his Chelsea lodgings —

where he would change into his evening wear — and together they would enjoy a fine meal at a restaurant on the Strand. He needed that.

Newbury’s mind was still a whirlwind, as he considered the Ashford affair. He didn’t fancy Purefoy for the crimes, and was now more resolute than ever that he should take the young man under his wing. He’d arranged to call for the reporter in the morning, with Miss Hobbes in tow. In the meantime, Newbury hoped that Charles wasn’t being too hard on the young man.

He must have dozed off in the back of the cab, for what seemed like only a moment later, he was awoken by the brisk knock of the driver on the roof of the cab. He rubbed blearily at his eyes and sat forward, glancing out of the window. The hansom had come to rest outside Miss Hobbes’s apartment. Newbury clambered out of the cab, paid the driver, and realised for the first time that he must have lost his hat somewhere during the excitement of the afternoon. Shrugging, he followed the path to the house and rapped loudly three times on Veronica’s front door. Moments later he heard footsteps creaking on the loose floorboards of the hal . The door creaked open, enough for the slightest sliver of light, and the eye of Mrs. Grant, Veronica’s housekeeper, appeared in the opening. It took a moment for her to recognise Newbury in such a dishevel ed state. When she did, the door was flung open widely and she was ushering him in, offering him platitudes.

“Oh my poor dear. Come on in. You look like you could use a pot of that Earl Grey you’re always asking for. I keep some out the back for when you call.”

Newbury smiled. Mrs. Grant was typically the most stoic of housekeepers, rarely finding the occasion to even smile or raise her eyes to greet Miss Hobbes’s visitors. Something about the state of his apparel that evening had moved her, however. Either that, or there was already something more significant amiss. He smiled warmly. “Now, Mrs. Grant, fear not. I am quite well, really. But I am running rather late for an appointment with Miss Hobbes, who I gather had plans to meet me here this evening. Will I find her in the sitting room?”

Mrs. Grant frowned. She placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head in an exaggerated fashion. “Indeed not, Sir Maurice. Indeed not. Miss Hobbes has yet to return from the museum. I had hoped, upon seeing you, that you would be in a position to put my mind at rest regarding her good health.” She looked him up and down once again. “I expected her over two hours ago, but I fear there has been no word.”

Newbury nodded, thoughtful. “Hmmm. Well, I should not presume to fear too heartily, Mrs.

Grant. It’s not a long time to be missing. Perhaps she has simply been delayed in this dastardly weather.”

Mrs. Grant did not appear to be pacified by this remark. She nodded, but it was clear she was not persuaded. “I take it you plan to wait for Miss Hobbes, in that case, Sir Maurice?” She looked hopeful. He nodded absently, and then fol owed her into the sitting room, where she bid him to take a seat. “I’l just go and pop that kettle on the stove.” She disappeared through a side door to the kitchen.

Newbury paced the room. What had become of Veronica? He recalled their conversation of earlier that day, during which she had informed him of her intention to visit the family of the most recent missing girl. But that had been hours ago. Surely, she must have returned to the office at the museum following her interview? He frowned. He feared he knew all too well what may have become of his assistant. Whilst he had appealed to her sense of duty and asked for her commitment that she would not venture to the Archibald Theatre alone to confront Alfonso, he had every suspicion that she had done exactly that. Whilst he was occupied chasing Ashford across the rooftops of Regent’s Park, Veronica had most likely taken matters into her own hands. Why else would she not be here to meet with him. Newbury knew she had been waiting to speak with him regarding the matter, and she would not have been late for some trivial reason. Indeed, more likely she would have sent word ahead if she had found herself delayed.

Perhaps his night of relaxation would have to wait. He quit the sitting room, walked the length of the hallway until he reached a door that he presumed led to the kitchen, and then cal ed for Mrs.

Grant. After a minute, she appeared at t he door, looking a little perplexed. “The tea wil be with you presently, sir.”

“Ah, no, thank you, Mrs. Grant. I have a sudden notion of where I might find Miss Hobbes.” The housekeeper’s face lit up. “If I dare put a stop to your tea-making, I’ll take my leave, see if I can’t track her down and put your mind at rest.”

Mrs. Grant smiled gratefully. “Thank you, sir.”

Newbury bid her good evening, leaving instruction that, should Miss Hobbes return home in his absence, he would call for her the following morning at the office. Then, buttoning the front of his mud-streaked jacket, he left the house and went in search of transportation to Soho and the Archibald Theatre, where he hoped that Miss Hobbes had not put herself unduly in the path of danger.

The theatre was shrouded in darkness when Newbury hopped down from the cab a short while later. Upon seeing the bil s pasted in the windows, announcing that the show had been cancel ed, Newbury almost stopped the cab driver as he trundled off down the road, thinking that perhaps his intuition had been proved wrong on this occasion. Then, knowing that he would be unable to rest without first establishing Miss Hobbes’s safety, he decided to investigate further. A cancelled show would not have been enough to halt his headstrong assistant.

He tried a door and found it locked. Then, upon trying another, he was surprised to find it open.

Evidently someone had been neglectful of their duties, or else the theatre was indeed inhabited that evening. Newbury crossed the large foyer in the dark, looking for signs that Veronica may have passed that way. There was nothing. The place was deserted.

Mounting a short flight of steps, Newbury pushed aside the curtain and entered the auditorium proper. Here, things were very different indeed. The only light was coming from a bright electric lamp on the stage, illuminating a grisly diorama, of a type that, unfortunately, he was finding himself growing increasingly accustomed to. The body of a man — Alfonso, no less — was spread-eagled on the stage, one of his own sabres protruding rudely from his chest. Beside him, a small round table had been overturned, spil ing its contents, and a top hat lay discarded nearby. Surrounding the body was all the assorted paraphernalia of the show, most of it undisturbed. He had no idea what had occurred here, but he sincerely doubted Veronica could be responsible for such a brutal act. As passionate as she was about discovering what had happened to the missing girls, she would never lower herself to this. If she had come here, it would have been to apprehend the man, not to murder him in cold blood.

Hesitantly, taking care to ensure there was no one watching in the shadows, Newbury passed down the long flight of wooden steps between two rows of seats and made his way slowly towards the stage. He hopped up and crossed to where the body lay waiting. It was an appal ing scene. The man’s face was struck with terror, frozen in the throes of death. He looked battered and bruised, as if he’d put up some resistance. There was little blood, but Newbury assumed the blade had struck right through the man’s chest, piercing his back, so that the blood would have seeped out beneath him, probably dripping through the cracks between the floorboards. He tested the hilt of the weapon. It was stuck fast. Alfonso had been run through with such vehemence that the tip of the sword was buried deep it the wooden stage below. It was clearly a sadistic death, executed with great pomp. It was as if the theatrical nature of the setting had informed the manner of the death; the body had been left here on display, for show. Nevertheless, there was reason behind it, too.

Whoever had done this had been anxious to ensure the magician would not be getting up again.

Newbury glanced around, squinting in the harsh electric glare of the stage lamp. It was clear there had been a scuffle of some kind, from the way the table had been overturned, but it didn’t look as if Alfonso had been given much opportunity to defend himself. Newbury noted with interest that a smal hatch lay open on the stage, just near to where the table now rested. He moved closer to take a look.

Two hinged flaps had dropped aside, giving way to a fair drop. He looked around for any trigger that may have caused the hatch to spring open. Perhaps the body was resting upon a pressure plate of some kind? He peered into the opening. There was clearly a large space beneath the stage, which he realised had been purposefully built to accommodate it. It occurred to him, with a grim smile, that this was how the magician had effected the disappearing act. Bizarrely, in death, Alfonso was finally giving away his secrets. If Veronica had seen this, then perhaps she had followed the mechanism underground. That would be as good a place as any to make a start.

Intrigued, and not a little disturbed by the sight of yet another body, Newbury set out to search for his wayward assistant.

When Veronica came round again, she felt sick with dizziness. The pain at the back of her head was like a hot lance inside her skull. She groaned and tried to move, realising with horror that her ankles and wrists had been bound. She opened her eyes and blinked, blearily as they adjusted once again to the dim light. She was slumped with her back to the wal , facing the door and the pile of corpses across the other side of the room. A figure was standing by the central table, hurriedly col ecting up the scattered ephemera that lay upon it and throwing it untidily into a medicine bag.

The man had his back to her. He was dressed in an immaculate grey suit with a crisp white collar. His hair was well kept and was beginning to turn a startling silver-grey, still spotted with freckles of light brown. He was tall and thin, just a little less than six feet.

The man turned to face her when he heard her shuffling. He had a handsome face with an aquiline nose, although it was marred by a deep, puckered scar that ran from his forehead, just above the left eyebrow, down across his left cheek, blighting his eye. The eye was milky and blind, the colour of London fog, although a series of tiny red lights around the cornea suggested the work of a master craftsman: the restoration work of Dr. Fabian, or one of his proteges. Otherwise, his skin was pale and unblemished, like a white mask. His fingers were long and bony. Veronica realised with shock that she recognised the man.

“Aubrey Knox,” she croaked.

The man smiled almost imperceptibly. “That’s Doctor Aubrey Knox to you, Miss Hobbes.” His voice was like silk; smooth and warm and full of grace. He was impeccably well spoken, and every word had the ring of perfection. She knew he was an Eton man, and had once been the most charming of gentlemen. He clearly retained this affectation.

Veronica tried to sit up, but her bonds prevented her from gaining purchase on the tiles. She glowered at the villain who had trussed her up in such a manner. “So it was you. All along, it was you.” Knox inclined his head in acknowledgement, a smile curling his lips. Veronica glanced at the pile of bodies in the corner. How cold must he be, how dead inside, that he could continue to work in the same room, even stand there smiling, now, all the while aware that he was responsible for those women’s deaths? She could find no empathy for the man, no understanding of what might have driven him to this terrible series of acts.

She met his gaze. He appeared to be watching her with amusement. “What do you need them for? What is it you’re trying to do?”

Knox’s face changed, his mood darkening. He crossed the room to where she was bound and raised his arm, slapping her hard across the face with the back of his hand. Despite herself, Veronica cried out. She could feel tears welling in her eyes, and her cheek smarted painfully. She forced herself to look him in the eye, her expression defiant.

“Miss Hobbes, I’d have thought you’d know better than that. This is not some ridiculous penny dreadful that we’re playing out. I’m not about to reveal all of my carefully laid plans to you, now that you’re finally here and close to death. Suffice to say, that you will exit this world as ignorant as you are now, and I shall take some measure of satisfaction in that.” Grinning, he turned, crossed the room to the long table and continued silently with his work. Watching him, Veronica realised that he was not indiscriminately taking everything from the workbench as she had at first assumed, but rather a selection of choice items, including the little vials of brown fluid and the ancient scrolls of papyrus.

Veronica bit her lower lip, searching for a reserve of strength. She twisted her wrists, trying to wriggle free, but the binds had been expertly tied. Likewise her ankles. She was deeply afraid of what the renegade doctor might do to her. It was unlikely, from what she knew of the man, that he would grant her a clean and simple death. She doubted that would be enough of an amusement for him.