The Osiris Ritual (10 page)

“Amelia, I have to go. I have to be somewhere. But I’ll be back soon, I promise.” Veronica’s voice was a gentle whisper. She had sat by her sister’s bed for over an hour, and it was only now that Amelia had begun to stir.

Amelia blinked up at her sleepily. “The missing girls?”

Veronica offered her a quizzical look. “Yes. . How did you. .? Have you started to remember the content of your visions?”

Amelia gave an almost imperceptible nod. “A little.” She propped herself up on her elbow, yawning. She looked suddenly serious. “Veronica, I’ve seen terrible things. Nightmarish things. A man with no face, looming out of the darkness. Horrible screeching sounds. And spinning. Always spinning, around and around, like I’m trapped on a carousel, unable to focus. I have no idea what it means.”

Veronica couldn’t bear to look Amelia in the eye. She studied her own hands instead, turning them over, following the map ot folds and tributaries described by her pale skin. “It may not mean anything, Amelia. It may be your mind attempting to heal itself, is all.”

Amelia clenched her fists dramatical y, gathering bundles of the bed sheets. When she spoke, her voice was hot with anger. “Not you, Veronica. I can’t stand it if you begin spouting their rhetoric, too. You know better than that. Tell me you don’t think that.”

Veronica placed a placatory hand on her sister’s arm. “I don’t think that, Amelia. Not for a minute. But I hate what your. . condition is doing to you.”

Amelia nodded, silently. Veronica knew that she hated it too.

“I really have to go now, sister. I’ll come back as soon as I’m able.”

Amelia smiled. “I know you will.”

Veronica placed Amelia’s hand carefully on the bed and got to her feet. “Take care, Amelia.”

Without looking back at the thin shadow of the woman who lay on the bed behind her, Veronica opened the door and stepped into the hal . Dr. Mason was nowhere to be seen, cal ed away, she presumed, to attend to another patient. It was probably for the best. Veronica couldn’t imagine dealing with the man now. Instead, she needed to throw herself into the case. Crying wouldn’t help her sister. And out there, somewhere, were missing girls that she could help. She needed to do that, for herself, and for Amelia.

Drawing her coat around her, Veronica set out. Whether she could count on Sir Maurice’s assistance or not, she would solve this case. And in the meantime, she would consider how best to aid her dying sister.

The police carriage pulled to a sharp halt. Newbury looked out of the window.

Albion House was once again bustling with people, but it was an entirely different sort of bustle than the one he had witnessed just a couple of evenings before. Gone was the impressive flock of lords and ladies, who had fluttered around on the front steps like preening birds, all dressed in their elaborate finery; replaced instead by an army of uniformed constables with grey, tired faces and expectant looks.

A large crowd of onlookers had gathered on the pavement outside of Lord Winthrop’s house, each of them attempting to catch a glimpse of whatever gruesome mystery was hidden behind the shuttered windows. The bobbies were doing their best to marshal this unruly crowd, keeping them back from the scene and ignoring their pleas for information. Newbury guessed there would be half a dozen reporters in the mob. He wondered if one of them was Purefoy.

Newbury edged forward in his seat, leaning over to open the carriage door, but before he could it swung open, as if by its own volition, and a man’s face peered in. He was wearing a full, black beard and his eyes were a shining sea-green. He looked official in his grey woollen suit and bowler hat. Newbury grinned: a wide, welcoming grin. “Inspector Foulkes. How unfortunate that we seem only to meet on occasions such as this.”

The man glanced at Newbury and nodded sul enly. “Indeed, Sir Maurice. Unfortunate is the word. My job would be so much easier if people would only desist from killing each other.” His moustache twitched. He glanced at Bainbridge. “Sir Charles, we haven’t touched anything inside.

What would be your preferred course of action?”

Bainbridge sighed. “I’d prefer to be back in my warm office shuffling papers. But I suppose we should get to it. We’ll go inside and take a look.” He climbed to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane and muttering beneath his breath. “This cold weather wil be the death of me.”

They stepped down from the carriage into the crisp London morning. The horses were sweating profusely, their breaths fogging in the cold air. Newbury looked up at the house. It seemed quiet; different, somehow. He supposed it was simply the lack of lights and noise coming from inside, the fact that last time he’d been here, it had seemed warm and inviting, ful of bustle and excitement.

Now, instead, it seemed cold and dreary, and Newbury knew that inside, al that awaited him was the stink of death and corruption. His mood darkened. Winthrop had been rather a buffoon of a fellow — a buffoon with a great deal of money to throw at his hobbies — but whatever had happened to him, in there, it was unlikely he deserved it.

Glancing back at Charles and Foulkes, Newbury mounted the steps and made his way up to the grand entrance. There was no butler to show him in, this time, but one of the uniformed officers pushed the door aside to let him pass. Newbury nodded his thanks and stepped into the porch.

Nothing there had been obviously disturbed. There were no signs of forced entry. The stained-glass panels of the inner frame were still perfectly intact, beautifully refracting the light.

He turned the handle on the inner door and pushed it open, stepping through into the grand hallway on the other side.

Immediately, it was clear that something devastating had occurred. Where there had previously been an arrangement of tall glass display cases, perfectly placed to allow people to move easily amongst them, there was now only a sea of glass: a shattered wave of splintered panes, broken frames and ancient artefacts, a landscape of devastation writ small. A few of the display cases were still standing, partially smashed, like buildings towering mournfully over the wreck of a city.

Newbury heard Bainbridge step through the door behind him, his cane clicking noisily on the tiles. There was a pause. “Good God! What a mess.”

“Hmmm.” Newbury rubbed a hand over his chin, thinking. He stepped further into the room.

“This is no bungled robbery, Charles. I’m sure of it. This destruction was systematic. Whoever did this was looking for something specific, and they created this chaotic scene to throw us off the scent.” He approached the nearest display case, his feet crunching on broken glass. “Look at this.” He beckoned Bainbridge over to examine one of the artefacts that was still in situ, a necklace resting on a small black stand. “Ancient gold, inlaid gemstones. . Charles, this piece is priceless. Why would they leave it here? Anyone —even the most common of thieves — would think to snatch this up on their way out of the door.” He glanced at the ruination by their feet. “There’s more of it there, too. A fortune’s worth of ancient treasure. Whoever did this left most of the valuables, but took the time to smash the displays, regardless. What were they looking for? What didn’t they want us to see?”

Bainbridge shrugged. “You tell me, Newbury. You were here. You saw the displays intact.”

Newbury shook his head. “I didn’t have time to look in any real detail. I remember noticing an unusual ushabti figure, over here. .” He stepped over a heap of broken panes towards another partially intact display case. “I only recall seeing it because the inscriptions were so out of the ordinary. Most of these things carry a particular passage from the Book of the Dead. This one was inscribed with something different, something I’d never seen before.” His voice was subdued, almost a whisper. He studied the remnants of the display. The smal statuette was gone. He looked up at Bainbridge. “It’s gone.”

Bainbridge shrugged. “It could be anywhere in that mess, Newbury. It doesn’t mean anything.”

He shook his head. “And I suppose that was the point of the exercise. It’s going to take us days to work out what’s missing. We’ll have to match the artefacts to Winthrop’s inventory, one-by-one, before we’ll have any idea of what the killer has taken. Assuming Winthrop even had an inventory.”

Newbury nodded, looking around himself at the mess. Behind him, he noticed al of the strange, Egyptian-like Automatons were still frozen in silent vigil on their pedestals behind the staircase. There was no sign of Winthrop’s body. He caught Bainbridge’s attention. “Where is Winthrop?”

“In the drawing room.” Bainbridge sighed. “Come on. Let’s get it out of the way. I’m told it’s not pretty.”

Newbury clambered out from the wreckage of the displays, being careful not to slice his hands on the broken glass. He fol owed Bainbridge silently across the hallway, towards the double doors that led to the drawing room.

The room was still shrouded in darkness, the heavy curtains pul ed across the windows, just as they had been the last time Newbury had visited the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Bainbridge coughed. There was a dry, musty odour, and Newbury realised immediately that the familiar smell originated from the exposed remains of the mummy, which was still laid out on the long table, just as it had been two nights before. Rolls of unravelled linen bandages surrounded it like a bed of ornamental reeds.

At first, Newbury couldn’t see where Winthrop’s corpse had keen left. There was nothing by the fireplace, or by the bookcase in the far wall. He frowned and looked over at Charles, who was staring, dumbfounded, at the empty casket of the mummy, which lay on the floor beside the table.

Newbury fol owed his gaze.

Winthrop’s body had been carefully placed inside the shell of the casket, his arms folded across his chest in an obscene parody of the mummy’s burial pose. His throat had been slit, and blood had pooled behind his head, forming an oily, congealing puddle of red. His mouth was set in a terrible rictus grin.

Newbury crouched down beside the wooden coffin. “Someone has a ghastly sense of humour, Charles.”

“I’l say. Poor sod. We mustn’t let the press get hold of this.”

“Quite.” Newbury reached down and turned Winthrop’s head slightly from side to side. The gash across his throat yawned open like a second mouth with the movement. There was blood everywhere; matted in Winthrop’s beard and hair, soaked into his clothes. Gritty arterial spray had spattered the floor around the coffin, too. It had been a quick, effective murder. Not the sort of thing Newbury would expect to see as the result of a burglary. “Charles. Have you seen the precision with which his throat has been cut? This is not the sort of wound one would expect from your average ruffian. This is not a bungled robbery. It’s an execution. And it’s very much in the style of one of Her Majesty’s agents.”

“No, Newbury. I absolutely refuse to believe it. Why would Ashford do such a thing? What possible motivation could he have for murdering Winthrop in such a manner?”

Newbury stood, wiping the blood from his fingers with his handkerchief. “I have no idea. But it’s clear from what Her Majesty said that Ashford is disturbed. And you’ve received the same basic training in the combative arts as I have, Charles. You know as well as I do that this is a textbook assassination.”

Bainbridge shook his head, the distaste evident on his face. “I don’t like it, Newbury. Ashford was a good man. And the grotesque way in which this body has been posed. .”

“It’s been a long time, Charles, and a lot of water has passed under the bridge. Ashford has been in Russia for five years, living hand to mouth. We have no idea what he’s been through, what vile practices he’s learned. He isn’t the man you once knew. From what I gather, he isn’t even a man at all. For all we know, someone else could be guiding his hand. He may have defected.”

“Still, Newbury, we have to consider all of our options. There remains Blake, and the —”

There was a loud crash from out in the hall, the sound of glass shattering on marble. Both men rushed to the door, Bainbridge hefting his cane, ready to take on the intruder.

A young man was standing amongst the wreckage of the display cabinets, a sheepish expression on his face. His hair was wand-coloured, his eyes a bright, shining blue. He was dressed in a brown suit and tie, and he was clutching a notebook in his left hand. Bainbridge started forward, but Newbury put a hand on his arm to hold him back.

“It’s alright, Charles. This is Mr. George Purefoy, a young reporter from The Times.”

“Good afternoon, Sir Maurice.” Purefoy grinned. He stepped out from amongst the pile of debris and came towards the two men, his hand extended.

Bainbridge lowered his cane. “What is the meaning of this? This is the scene of a crime, Mr.

Purefoy. You have no right to be here. I consider this a case of trespass.”

Purefoy dropped his hand. “Ah. . wel , I. .”

Newbury stepped forward. “Mr. Purefoy, how did you happen to find your way onto these premises?”

Purefoy clearly didn’t know where to look. “An open window around the back.” He glanced at the floor.

Newbury raised an eyebrow. He looked at Charles. “Perhaps that’s the entrance used by our murderer? We should take a look.”

“Murderer? So it is murder, then?”

Newbury smiled. “Do you think, Mr. Purefoy, that the Chief Inspector and I would be here if it were not?”

“I’m not sure what to think, to be truthful, Sir Maurice. Would you care to elaborate on your role in the matter? As I understand it you’re an academic with an office at the British Museum?”

Newbury laughed. “You’re bold, Mr. Purefoy. I’ll give you that. And if you don’t want Sir Charles here to have you charged with trespass, I recommend you be on your way forthwith.”

Purefoy nodded. “I think I have enough for the time being.”

Bainbridge coughed into his fist. “And I suggest you think careful y before you commit any of it to print, young man. I don’t want to hear any of this liberal nonsense about ‘the people having a right to know’. This, Mr. Purefoy, is a murder investigation, and I expect you to respect that before you go rattling off, your nonsense for the front page. It’s difficult enough as it is to catch a villain these days, without having the details splashed all over the morning edition.” It was evident that Bainbridge was feeling flustered by the appearance of the young man.