The Osiris Ritual (7 page)

Newbury feigned ignorance. “Yes, indeed! But tel me, what happened to the poor girl? You didn’t make her reappear again afterwards? How did you pull it off? I do hope she hasn’t disappeared forever!”

Alfonso smiled, shaking his head. “Sir Maurice. I’m sure you don’t really expect me to give away my secrets, do you? I’ve worked for many, many years to develop my act. Many have tried to impersonate it. So far, none have succeeded. I intend to carry the secret to the grave.”

Veronica frowned. “But what of the girl?”

Alfonso laughed. “The girl? She’s probably on her way home by now. My assistant will have given her the fare for a cab.” He waved his cigarette. “Now, I’m afraid I really must press on. I have another show to prepare for the morrow, and the act rather takes it out of me.” He looked from Newbury to Veronica and back again. “I appreciate your kind words.”

Newbury nodded. “Of course.” He took Veronica’s arm as if to lead her from the room. Then, just as they were about to turn their backs on the magician, he paused. “How long do you intend to continue your run at the Archibald, Mr. Alfonso?”

“Another week, Sir Maurice. Then I’m taking the show north to Manchester.”

Newbury met his gaze. “Excellent. In that case, I’m sure we’l meet again. Good night.”

“Good night.”

The two investigators took their leave.

Outside, the fog had descended on the city like a thick, wool en blanket, smothering the streets and diffusing the light so that everything seemed to lose its definition, becoming hazy and soft around the edges. Newbury sniffed. The air was damp with the grey miasma. He adjusted his hat and scarf, and then offered Veronica his arm.

The two investigators stepped out onto the cobbled road, pausing to close the door behind them. The artists’ exit opened directly onto the street at the back of the theatre. They had taken advantage of the private door, slipping out in order to avoid the crush of people who, even now, would still be spilling out of the front of the theatre following the end of the show.

Newbury glanced from side to side. He could hear horses whinnying in the murky fog, somewhere off to the left. It was likely there were still a few hansom cabs patrolling the area, hoping to pick up fares as the theatregoers stumbled into the night and found themselves drunk and in need of transportation home.

He looked to Veronica, who was bracing herself against the cold. She shivered. “Well, ‘The Mysterious Alfonso’ wasn’t quite the wretch I had anticipated. What did you think?”

He shook his head to indicate the conversation was better left until they were safely out of earshot. “I think that, in places such as this, even the walls have eyes and ears. Let’s find ourselves a cab.”

Huddling against the chil , Veronica nodded her assent. They edged along the road, fol owing the curb to ensure that they didn’t wander too far off track in the thick, wintry fog.

There was a sob from somewhere just to the right of them. A woman’s sob, soft and stifled.

“Hello?” Veronica broke away from Newbury, trying to locate the source of the crying. “Hello?”

Newbury fol owed her. The sobbing sound came again. “Veronica. Over here.” He approached the shape that loomed out of the fog. It slowly resolved into the form of a young woman, leaning against the wal of the theatre, clearly distraught. He stepped closer, putting a hand on her arm. “My dear. Whatever is the matter?”

The woman looked up. Newbury almost started in surprise. She had a spill of long, dark hair and she was wearing a lilac dress. She was pretty, young, and her cheeks were stained with tears. It was the girl from the theatre, the woman who had disappeared during the show. She looked confused, her eyes searching Newbury’s face for the answer to some undisclosed question. When she spoke it was with another sob. “Where am I?”

Veronica, who had moved over to stand beside Newbury, offered her a concerned but quizzical look. “You’re outside the Archibald Theatre. You were there to see a show, a magician. Don’t you remember getting up to go on stage?”

The woman bit her bottom lip apologetical y and shook her head. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I’m. . I’m not sure. I don’t remember.” Her voice was a whimper.

Her accent was thick and telling; she was from the East End.

Newbury leaned closer, trying to catch the scent of gin on her breath. He wondered if she were simply drunk. She didn’t smel of alcohol, however. She seemed sober, but terribly confused.

And there was the hint of something else, some chemical he found difficult to place. He frowned. “Are you able to recall your name?”

She nodded. “Miss Annabel Myers.”

“And do you have an escort this evening, Miss Myers?”

“Yes.” She gave another sob. “My brother, Jimmy. He should be around here. . somewhere.”

She looked from side to side, but it was difficult to make out anything in the cloying fog.

Veronica smiled, warmly. “Miss Myers. Do you have an address we could see you too? I suspect that, even if your brother is searching for you now, he won’t get far in this fog. If we were to see you to your home, I’m sure he would be relieved to find you there upon his return.”

The woman stifled her tears. “Yes.” And then, more resolute: “Yes, that sounds like a good idea.

I live at my father’s house at twenty-six Nelson Street, Shoreditch.” She looked down at the palm of her hand, which she held up towards Veronica. Resting there was a smattering of small coins. “I think someone handed me this for my fare. I’m sorry. .” She hung her head. “I’m so confused.”

“Put your money away, Miss Myers. I’ll fetch us a cab.” “Thank you. .?”

“Sir Maurice Newbury. And this is my associate, Miss Veronica Hobbes.”

“Thank you, sir.” Miss Myers looked utterly bemused. “Don’t mention it. Miss Hobbes, I shal return momentarily with a cab.” Newbury made his way towards the sound of horses, somewhere up ahead of them by the side of the road. Behind him, the two women were soon enveloped by the thick, tubercular blanket of smog.

The house in Shoreditch had been everything that Newbury had been expecting: run down, dirty: a pile of red bricks leaning awkwardly against its neighbour for support. The cab ride had proved uneventful, and Miss Myers had been- able to tell them very little about Alfonso and the method by which he had caused her to disappear on stage. Her memory of the event was erratic and impressionistic, and all she kept telling Newbury and Veronica was that she was terribly confused, and remembered feeling as though she had somehow been squeezed into a box that was too smal to contain her. The next thing she remembered was being found by the two investigators in the street, with the vague recol ection that someone had pressed money into her hand and turned her out into the foggy street.

Newbury had waited in the cab whilst Veronica had shown Miss Myers to her door, and then they had set out for Kensington, so that Newbury could escort Veronica home to her rooms just off the High Street. With all this talk of missing girls, and the continuing threat of the revenants prowling the streets, Newbury was keen to ensure his assistant made it back to her home in safety. That, and the fact he was keen to discuss his impressions of the evening’s events with her.

He glanced up at her, watching as the motion of the cab caused her to rock from side to side in her seat. “So, to answer your question, Miss Hobbes: I think our ‘Mysterious Alfonso’ was every bit of the wretch you anticipated him to be.”

Veronica frowned. “So you believe him to be guilty, then?”

Newbury shrugged. “Al the evidence suggests not. The girl was found to be fine — if a little confused and disorientated by her experience — and he had provided her with the cab fare home as he suggested. But I do feel there is more to the man than meets the eye. I’d like to know what sort of trick he’s using to pull off that disappearing act, and what’s more, why it should leave the volunteer feeling so lost and unwel . I have a suspicion she was rendered unconscious, probably with some kind of chemical compound. It certainly bears more investigation.”

Veronica nodded. “Indeed. I wonder if it is the process itself that is causing the girls to go missing. By that I mean — do they stumble out of there disorientated and with no memory of the preceding events, and then wind up getting themselves lost, or worse?”

Newbury looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps some of them are simply rendered unconscious during the process, and then don’t wake up at al ? But we must also consider the possibility that Alfonso, or whatever his real name is, may not be to blame. There is always coincidence to consider.”

Veronica raised an eyebrow in a parody of Newbury. “Mmmm. Coincidence indeed.”

Newbury laughed. “Yes, you have me there, my dear Miss Hobbes.” He glanced out of the window. Kensington loomed out of the fog. “Shall we talk further in the morning?”

Veronica nodded. “I’ll wait for you at the office.” The cab juddered to a halt as the driver reined in the horses. Veronica got to her feet. “Did Peterson have any thoughts on your mysterious screaming mummy, by the way?”

“Very few. He suggested it was probably some sort of elaborate punishment, that the poor chap was probably mummified alive for some terrible crime he’d committed. Other than that, the markings are unlike anything he’s seen before.”

Veronica smiled. “Well, I’m sure tomorrow will bring with it some fresh ideas.” She clicked open the cab door and moved to step out.

“Oh, and Miss Hobbes?”

She turned to look over her shoulder, framed for a moment in the open doorway of the cab.

Newbury couldn’t help but feel stirred by her beauty. He felt the impulse to reach out to her, but fought it back.

“Yes?”

“Assure me you won’t place yourself in any unnecessary danger.”

She nodded. “Good night, Sir Maurice.”

“Good night, Miss Hobbes.”

The door snicked shut behind her, and a moment later Newbury rocked back in his seat as the cab rolled away towards Chelsea, and home.

Morning brought with it a laudanum fog that would have proved debilitating, if not for Mrs.

Bradshaw’s revitalising breakfast of bacon, eggs and Earl Grey tea. Newbury, wrapped in his blue velvet dressing gown, sat heavily at the table, wincing at the sunlight that was streaming in through the dining room window. Outside, a frost had settled, clearing the fog, and people were already beginning to bustle along the streets, their carriages creaking loudly, their animals yapping and chirping, their steam engines firing noisily as they careened along in ground trains and other, stranger, steam-powered vehicles. The last two months had seen a proliferation of new devices: bizarre, single-person carriages that barrelled along at great speed, bowling everyone and everything over in their wake. They were smaller than a hansom, but far larger than a bicycle; squat, fat little things on four wooden wheels, into which the driver lowered himself, leaving his head and shoulders exposed to the elements. Newbury was a huge supporter of progress, but he didn’t believe the city was ready for the coming transport revolution that these new devices seemed to foreshadow. Aside from that, they were damn ugly, and a nuisance, too. Perhaps Veronica was right, after all. Perhaps there was a very real need to slow things down, to stop the world from rushing too hastily towards the future. Or perhaps he was just feeling dour and hung-over.

He’d been taking more risks recently, with the laudanum, and he knew he was playing a dangerous game. He’d even visited an opium den, just over a week ago, a place at the back of a coffee house, known to its clientele as “Johnny Chang’s”. It was a nauseating place, full of Chinese sailors and fal en gentlemen, but the heady aroma of the opium and the promise of relief at the end of the pipe had proved too tempting, and he had allowed himself to wallow there for most of an afternoon, buried in a sea of silk cushions. Chasing the dragon was something new to him. Until that point a week ago, he had experimented only with laudanum, measuring it out into glasses of red wine and imbibing it in the comfort of his own home. But the ritual of the pipe was exotic, bewildering and, somehow, more appealing. He planned to purchase one of the devices for use in his apartments. He preferred to indulge himself in private.

Newbury understood that others could not appreciate his craving for the opiates, that both Charles and Veronica saw it as a weakness to be overcome. But to Newbury it was much more than that, more than just the need for a physiological intoxication. It helped him to think, to see the world from a different perspective. It was during his opium hazes that he often found the solution to a case, or made a connection where previously he had seen none. The drug allowed him to retreat into the crevices of his own mind, and what he found there was often illuminating. It lifted the shades of perception, opened his eyes to things that others would deem impossible. It enabled him to trust his instincts. Without the opium, he feared he would not be half the detective he was, and that troubled him beyond regard for his physical wel being. So he continued to indulge, keeping his practices hidden from the world. The opium was at the epicentre of a maelstrom of need and desire.

It was fuel for his mind, but poison for his body.

For a moment, Newbury considered going back to bed. He allowed himself to entertain that fantasy for a few minutes, knowing full well that it was never truly an option. He had to meet with Veronica for a start and besides, he was fully expecting to receive a summons to the palace to discuss the missing agent, “Caspian”, and whether or not Her Majesty had any intention of pursuing the matter further.

Regardless, his mind was also exercised by the mystery surrounding the Theban mummy. He’d spent the evening reading through his library of occult tomes, searching out any references to irregular mummification practices in Ancient Egypt, but had found nothing that could help him to identify what it was that Winthrop had uncovered in Thebes. Unperturbed, he had dashed off a note to Aldous Renwick, a long-time correspondent and a master of occult literature, describing the circumstances and asking his friend to examine his own library on the off-chance that he might be able to throw up something different. For the time being, both of Newbury’s mysteries had stuttered to a halt. Whilst he waited on others, he would do al he could to help Veronica bring her own matter to a close.