The Osiris Ritual (26 page)

He crossed to the workbench, where a smattering of artefacts was stil in situ: a few drawings, some scraps of paper covered in scrawled hieroglyphs and the broken shells of three ushabti figurines. Newbury’s eyes widened as he recognised the items. He stared at the table for a while, before picking up the remnants of one of the statues. “This is one of the pieces I saw at Lord Winthrop’s house, at Albion House! Have you seen them? They’ve been broken in two. Knox was after the contents. My God.” His voice was a low growl. “It was Knox all along.” He cast the broken idol back on the tabletop. “The Osiris Ritual. That’s why he’s here, in London.” He turned to her.

“Miss Hobbes, that mummy, the screaming mummy that Winthrop found in Thebes. It’s the remains of an ancient priest, a priest who was mummified alive and cursed by the Pharaoh for attempting to extend his life in the physical world. I’ll wager these idols contained the secrets of his discoveries, that these poor girls gave their lives to provide some sort of ingredient for the ritual.” He slammed his fist on the workbench. “And here I was chasing Ashford halfway across London. Ashford would most likely have led me to Knox, given half a chance. It all makes sense now. Ashford saved my life earlier today. He may be rogue, but he’s not a kil er. He’s out for revenge. He wants Knox.”

Veronica sighed. “I should have realised. If I’d helped you. . if I’d been there. Knox was always your man, Sir Maurice. He was always obsessed with extending his life. It’s the motivation that drives him, that gives him purpose. Alfonso was just a cover, a means of obtaining the girls. Knox is the key to all of this, to Winthrop, the mummy, and to the girls.” She indicated the other gruesome occupants of the room with a wave of her hand.

Newbury, however, was wearing a mystified expression, and seemed unable to take his eyes off her. She realised, in a panic, that she had said too much. Did he know? Had she given it away? Had she said it on purpose? She wanted so much to tel Newbury the truth, had she revealed the information about Knox as a means of setting him on the right trail? No. She had done it because the information was fundamental to the case. Newbury needed to know that Knox was responsible for the deaths, and that Ashford — presumably the missing agent that Newbury had been fol owing —

was not. She had done it for the good of the Empire. Or so she wanted so much to believe. But somehow she still felt hollow inside.

Unsure what else to do, she joined Newbury at the table and began sifting through the remaining papers, looking for anything that might help her to explain her outburst. She felt her cheeks flush hot and red, and silently cursed herself for her actions. Newbury appeared to accept this without comment. He moved around the table, continuing to sort through the remaining pieces of ushabti.

Veronica was struck by a sudden flash of inspiration. “The bag!”

“What bag?”

“The bag by the door. The medicine bag. Knox was sorting through the items on the table here, stuffing them into his bag: vials full of liquid, papers, artefacts. Clearly the results of his experiments.

He must have what he needed.”

Newbury turned, looking for the bag. “What — where is ‘ this bag?”

“There, by the door. I saw him set it down before he left.” Veronica turned to see there was no bag. She shrugged. “He must have taken it with him when he left.”

“Hmmm. We’ll find it up there, by the stage, no doubt. It’ll be al the evidence we need to link Knox to the murders.” He studied Veronica intently. “Can you walk?”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite well.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sir Maurice. .” Her voice was stern. Newbury met her gaze. He nodded once, and then extended his arm. She took it grateful y.

“Come on. Let’s find that bag and go and fetch the police. It’s time to get Charles here.” They left the dank cel ar, stepping out into the passageway, along which Newbury guided Veronica carefully, allowing her to lean on him as he edged his way through the warren. It was long and narrow and must have wound halfway under the theatre. Veronica had no real notion of where they were in relation to the auditorium above.

After a short while, their feet scuffing on the rough stone floor, Newbury dipped his head under a stone archway and took a left turn, leading her to a wooden door. He had obviously come this way earlier. “Through here.” He ushered her through to the wooden stairwell beyond. She mounted the bottom step.

Newbury cleared his throat, causing her to pause and look back. “Veronica,” — she noted the use of her first name — “can you face him? After all of this, I mean.”

“Who, Knox?”

“Yes. He’s quite incapacitated, of course. But if you’d rather leave by another exit, I wouldn’t think anything less of you.” He looked concerned. “I could see you to a carriage?”

“Sir Maurice, I appreciate that, very much. But it won’t be necessary. I’m quite ready to face him again.”

“As you say.”

The stairs creaked as they made their way slowly towards the light. A moment later they emerged, squinting, from a small wooden trapdoor just off to one side of the stage. Veronica blinked, blearily, as her eyes adjusted to the sharp electric light, after hours spent in the gloomy depths of the basement. She righted herself on the stage, and then turned to watch Newbury pul ing himself out of the opening. She offered him a hand as he steadied himself. She could see where a large red carpet had been rolled away to reveal the secret trapdoor. The cellar in which Knox had set up his temporary workshop had once been a storage room for props, she supposed, or else a space for the actors to rest or effect a quick change of costume as they traversed the tunnel beneath the stage, quitting the boards at stage right, only to reappear a short while later at stage left. Now, she shuddered as she considered the sinister purpose to which Aubrey Knox had put it to use.

Newbury strode forward onto the stage, stopping to sweep up one of the swords from Alfonso’s rack. Clearly, he was not underestimating the resourcefulness of the rogue doctor. A little further across the stage, near to the hatch into which Veronica had tumbled a few hours earlier, Alfonso the magician lay dead. His arms and legs were both outstretched, describing a bizarre star shape, and his chest was covered in a dark crimson stain. His jaw was open, slackly, and his eyes were staring at the rafters.

“Oh God,” was al she could murmur. She had seen so much death that day already. Despite Alfonso’s terrible role in Knox’s plot, despite what he had done to her, she could not feel relief at the sight of his rigid corpse. That was too much. She averted her eyes.

“Veronica! Here!” She turned to see Newbury throw the sword down upon the stage in frustration.

She ran to his side. “What is it?”

“Knox. He’s gone.” He indicated the row of seats just to the left of the stage. “I left him here, pinned to the chair, a blade driven through his hand. I trussed his other with my neck tie. How the devil did he get away?”

Veronica glanced around, looking for any indication that the man may stil be in the theatre.

“He’s long gone. And no doubt his medicine bag has gone with him.” He turned to Veronica, and she could see the anger burning behind his eyes. “You were right. He’s clearing out. He has what he wanted, and now he’ll disappear, just like he did all those years ago. I underestimated him. I’m a ruddy fool.”

Veronica sighed. She couldn’t bear to see Newbury torturing himself in such a manner. “You saved my life. That has to count for something.”

His face softened. “Miss Hobbes, it counts for everything. But it doesn’t alter the fact that I allowed him to escape.”

Veronica put her hand on his arm. “Let’s check the rear exit.”

Newbury nodded. It was clear he did not expect to find anything. He fol owed behind Veronica, alert, as she crossed the stage and took the steps down to the main auditorium, two at a time. They passed close by the seat to which Knox, until recently, had been bound. Veronica could see where the blade had pierced the seat back, shredding the fabric and staining it with dark blood. Now, both man and sword had gone. Newbury’s black tie lay discarded on the floor, stil knotted. He didn’t pick it up.

Together, they hurried around the side of the stage and Rushed their way through the double doors that led to the actors enclosure, where they had first met Alfonso, lounging idly in his dressing room. At the end of the long corridor, the door to the street was hanging open, banging noisily against the wall in the breeze. The hinges creaked and groaned with the strain. Outside, it was dark, and the swirling fog gave everything a murky, hazy appearance. Veronica ran to the threshold, peering out into the night. There was no sign of Knox, or the medicine bag.

Newbury was right. Somehow, the doctor had escaped.

Newbury slammed awake with a start. He was momentarily disorientated; he had no idea where he was. Slowly, the room began to resolve around him. A bookcase. A writing desk. A fireplace with a low flame, guttering in the grate. He felt dazed. He was in his drawing room.

After a moment, he realised there was someone standing beside him, calling his name. He looked round. It was Mrs. Bradshaw, her hands on her hips. He had the sense that she had been there for some time. “Good morning, Sir Maurice. Will you be taking breakfast today?” she asked in her dulcet, Scottish tones, when she noticed he was final y paying attention. She looked him up and down. “Whatever have you been up to for your suit to be in such a condition?” She said this with a weariness born of familiarity, of one accustomed to her employer’s more bizarre pursuits. She expected no answer. If she were concerned for his health, she showed no signs of it.

Newbury took stock of the situation. He was lounging in a Chesterfield, still wearing yesterday’s suit, which was torn at the knees and covered in grime from rolling around in alleyways, factory roofs and an Underground station. His elbows were scuffed, and his jacket was sliced across the front from the swipe of a sword blade. He had not yet attended to his toilet, either, meaning his face was still crusty with blood and oil. He realised he must have looked a pretty sight to his housekeeper.

There was a heavy weight on his chest. He looked down. A book. Meyer’s Treatise on Futurism.

Beside his chair, on an occasional table, was a near-empty glass of red wine. He knew what else had been in that glass, too. Sighing, Newbury looked up into the impenetrable face of Mrs. Bradshaw.

“What time do you make it, Mrs. Bradshaw?”

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Time for breakfast, I should say, sir.”

Newbury grinned. “Very well. I shall make haste to my rooms where I shall endeavour to make myself presentable. My thanks to you, Mrs. Bradshaw. I suspect I might have slept all day if it had not been for your timely interruption.”

The housekeeper smiled without saying another word, and quit the room. Newbury listened to the tread of her feet as she descended the stairs to the kitchen below. Then, heaving himself out of his chair, his bones creaking after hours spent in a less-than-ideal posture, he repaired to his rooms to wash and dress.

After washing and cleaning his wounds — which, Newbury was surprised to discover, were more plentiful than he had imagined — he had partaken of Mrs. Bradshaw’s excellent breakfast, before heading out to meet Miss Hobbes at the museum as they had arranged the previous evening.

As he trundled along in a hansom, Newbury considered the events of the theatre. After discovering that Knox had somehow managed to slip his bonds and escape the venue, Newbury, exasperated, had escorted Miss Hobbes to her Kensington home, where, after he had fil ed her in regarding the situation with Ashford, he had insisted she took the opportunity to gain an evening’s rest. There was very little else that could have been achieved that night, and not being aware of the ful extent of Knox’s plans, they were unable to predict his movements.

What was clear to Newbury was the fact that Knox had been hunting for the key to the Osiris Ritual. Winthrop’s and Blake’s deaths had been inconsequential to Knox; they were killed by virtue of the fact that they were in his way, regardless of the fact that they had been the ones to recover the artefacts he desired. That much was obvious. But had Knox been waiting for them to return from Egypt? Did he already have a notion of what the ritual involved? The girls had been going missing for weeks, if not months, before Winthrop’s death. Newbury could only assume that they were somehow central to the execution of the ritual, that the secretion or hormone Knox had been extracting from their brains was an ingredient of the process. But Knox had the contents of the ushabti figures, the outline for the ritual. Everything was supposition until Newbury could study those contents himself.

Al of this had led Newbury to two conclusions. Firstly, that Knox was planning to enact the ritual, and soon, in the hope of artificially extending his own life. Secondly, that Knox was entirely insane. Neither revelation fil ed him with comfort. Newbury knew that he had to stop him. He doubted very much whether Knox would have anything left to offer the Empire, even in captivity, but he also knew it was his duty to bring him in alive. There were questions that needed answering.

Newbury considered their encounter at the theatre. The experience of meeting his predecessor had shaken him, more than he cared to admit. The man was cold and calculating, yet there was a cool intelligence there, too, an understanding of the world and the way that it worked. He was charming, resourceful, a master manipulator. He knew how to twist things to his own ends. Newbury knew that he had al owed the rogue doctor to get under his skin.

And where did that leave Ashford? The man was still rogue, too, still loose in the city and working to his own set of directives, ignoring the imperatives of the Crown. Newbury’s mission had not changed, then. Ashford stil needed to be brought in, even if he wasn’t the vicious murderer that Newbury had originally mistaken him for.

That only left Miss Hobbes. What had she been trying to tell him down in that dank cellar? He thought he knew, of course, thought he understood the implication of her words.