The Osiris Ritual (13 page)

The Scotswoman nodded with an exasperated sigh, and began noisily col ecting up the remaining bowls and plates without another word.

Laughing, Newbury sipped at his Earl Grey and made his way hastily to his room to prepare for the day ahead.

†

“Miss Hobbes. I daresay I did you a disservice yesterday, and I’m fearful I’m about to do it all over again.” Newbury was framed in the doorway that separated his and Miss Hobbes’s desks from the rest of the small office, still attired in his hat and coat. It was early, and he’d made his way directly to the museum after finishing his daily ablutions and dressing in his usual black suit. He offered his assistant an earnest look, awaiting her response.

“No need to apologise, Sir Maurice — I saw the morning edition of The Times. I gather you’re contending with an ancient curse now, amongst other things?” She offered Newbury a wry smile.

She was dressed in a smart grey frock with a matching jacket, and her hair was tied back from her pretty face.

Newbury laughed. “Wel , quite so. You know how these things go: a murder in the night, an ancient curse before breakfast. All in a day’s work.” Veronica grinned. “In all seriousness, however, I find myself terribly preoccupied by this Winthrop situation. I believe it somehow ties up with that missing agent I was intended to meet at the station the other morning.”

“So it’s not a curse then?” It was clear she was toying with him.

“Not in the supernatural sense of the word, no. But it feels somewhat like a curse, I assure you.”

He adjusted his collar ruefully. “I admit I’m finding it difficult to give my attention to anything else. I must attend to a small matter this morning off the Tottenham Court Road. Perhaps you could accompany me there, and then together we can go on to Soho and attempt to locate the lodgings of this ‘Mysterious Alfonso’ character?”

Veronica shook her head. Her expression grew serious. “I’m afraid there has been a further development since we last spoke. Another missing girl. ‘This time I’m convinced there’s a clear link between the disappearance and the theatre. The girl was last seen in attendance at the show, volunteering for the disappearing act. She hasn’t been seen since, and she failed to return home that evening. There’s little room for doubt.”

Newbury looked thoughtful. “Yes, I see your dilemma. But I must insist, Miss Hobbes, that you do not, under any circumstances, confront this man on your own.”

Veronica frowned. “Sir Maurice, I’m quite capable —”

“Yes, yes. I rather think it’s not a matter of capability, Miss Hobbes, but one of safety. Whilst you are in my employ, you are in my care. I understand how frustrating it must be to have to sit by and wait for me to deal with this damnable Ashford thing, but really, I must insist that you will not commit yourself to any dangerous course of action in my absence.”

Veronica had fire in her eyes, but she nodded in agreement. “I plan to visit the family of the missing girl this afternoon, to obtain a better understanding of the circumstances. I thought it wise to gather some further evidence, no matter how circumstantial, before we decide to tackle Alfonso himself, once again.”

Newbury smiled. “An excel ent plan, Miss Hobbes.” He paused. “Then perhaps, this evening, we could make an appointment to meet for dinner. .? You could fil me in on your findings and we could plan ahead to our next encounter with the dubious magician.”

“Very well.” Her lips curled into a smile. “Where shall we meet?”

“I’ll cal for you, at Kensington, around seven. Does that suit?”

“It does.”

“Excellent. Then for now, I’ll be on my way.” He lifted his hat from his head. “Until this evening, Miss Hobbes.”

“Until this evening, Sir Maurice.”

He turned as if to make an exit from the office. Then, recalling an errand, he stopped by the door and pulled a slip of cream-coloured paper from his pocket. He crossed to where Miss Coulthard was sitting behind a new, broad mahogany desk. She looked up from amongst unruly piles of paper.

“Sir Maurice?”

“Miss Coulthard. As busy as you are, I wonder if I may trouble you with one additional burden.”

He held the piece of paper out between two fingers with a smile. Miss Coulthard accepted it, the hesitation evident on her face. She unfolded it and examined the contents. On it was scrawled a woman’s name and the word “Cheapside” in Newbury’s loose hand. “I need you to find an address for this woman, as soon as possible. She may have moved location at any point in the last five years.

Can you do it?”

Miss Coulthard nodded. “Of course.”

Newbury grinned. “You real y are a treasure, Miss Coulthard. My thanks.” And with that, he bid her good morning and took his leave.

Aldous Renwick’s bookshop was, upon first appearances, not unlike any of the other small emporiums that were to be found amongst the winding side streets that branched off the Tottenham Court Road. It sat nestled between a smal general store and a haberdashery shop, its windows piled high with gaudy works of modern fiction, bound in leather or bright paper wraps. It was a cold, crisp morning, and Renwick had placed a small table outside of the door, a smattering of penny papers and cheap mystery stories on display, their covers fluttering in the light breeze. The legend above the door read simply: BOOKS.

Newbury had discovered the place many years ago, when engaged in the hunt for a rare Venetian treatise on the occult. A mutual acquaintance had tipped him off that Renwick may be able to source such a work, so, after due consideration, he had paid the man a visit. Renwick had found the book, too, along with many other archaic tomes in the intervening years, and although Newbury had paid dearly for them, he appreciated the discreet manner in which the man carried out his business. Renwick was one of the most learned men that Newbury knew, with a particular knowledge of esoteric literature, and as such Newbury had found numerous occasions to pay him a visit over the years. Today, it appeared, was one such occasion.

Stopping momentarily to glance at the cover of a tattered copy of the Union Jack, Newbury turned the doorknob with a gloved hand, al owing the door to creak open loudly on its hinges. He stepped over the threshold. Inside, the shop was filled with a cornucopia of books and periodicals, al piled high in huge stacks or pressed tightly onto bulging shelves of dark, heavy wood. There appeared to be no method in the way in which the various volumes had been scattered, chaotically, around the room, but Newbury had every suspicion that Renwick would be able to swiftly put his hand on any title that a given customer might request. Newbury, smiling, mused that the interior of the shop was ordered somewhat as erratically as its owner’s mind, and that, in all probability, one was a close reflection of the other.

Newbury looked around for the man he had come to see.

The shop was devoid of life. There was a musty odour about the place, that Newbury immediately identified as that of old books, and he filled his lungs with it, enjoying the familiarity of it. He cal ed out. “Aldous? Are you there? It’s Newbury here. I received your note this morning and came forthwith.”

There was a banging sound from somewhere behind one of the bookcases. Newbury approached it, warily. Sure enough, there was a dul , repetitive thudding sound, like the turning-over of an engine, which seemed to be coming from the other side of the wall. “Aldous?”

The banging ceased, momentarily, and then was followed by a muffled shout, coming from the same direction. “I’ll be out in a moment, Newbury. Bear with me.” The voice was sharp and high-pitched. Newbury smiled. The banging returned, and whilst the other man kept him waiting, Newbury turned his attention to the spines of the nearest stack of books. Many of the titles were old, but distinctive and in excel ent condition. There was everything from a monograph on the nature of steam power in the horticultural industry, to Dickens novels, to bound col ections of Blackwood’s Magazine, and more. It was a bibliophile’s dream, but Newbury knew that, in reality, Renwick’s real treasures lay in the back room, beyond sight of the casual book-buyer.

A moment later Newbury became aware of the sound of another man coughing, fitful y, and then the door behind the counter — previously concealed behind a col age of gaudy posters —

swung open and Aldous Renwick stalked in, his hand outstretched in greeting.

Aldous Renwick was one of the most unusual characters that Newbury had the pleasure of calling a friend. He bore all the hallmarks of a caricature. He was rough around the edges: unshaven, with a wiry, bristly chin, a wisp of chaotic white hair, and yellowed fingers from the excessive smoking of cigarettes. He had a tendency to wear a worn leather smock over a stained white shirt, open at the collar, and his left eye had been replaced by a remarkable mechanical device that whirred and clicked disturbingly when he looked around. It was not as elegant as something designed by Dr. Fabian, but then Renwick was only a civilian, after all, and clearly valued function over the aesthetic. Newbury had no idea if the false eye was elective, or the result of some earlier, undisclosed adventure. Whatever the case, Newbury had long wondered over the sanity of his friend, and was as yet undecided as to whether the man was actually mad, or simply had a degree too much insight into the darker side of the human psyche.

He came forward to meet Renwick, clasping his outstretched hand in his own. “Good to see you, Aldous. How the devil are you?”

The bookseller chuckled, his good eye twitching with an alarming nervous tic. “A darn site better than Lord Henry Winthrop, from what I gather!”

Newbury sighed. “Well, I don’t think I can contest that.” He met the other’s gaze. “I received your note.”

Renwick studied him, his strange mechanical eye whirring in its socket. It protruded from the empty cavity with the look of a magnifying glass, not unlike the sort of tool used by jewellers to examine precious stones. But this device, Newbury k new, was wired directly into Renwick’s brain.

Absently, he wondered if this had been the cause of his nervous tic, or worse, his generally neurotic demeanour. A glass plate fixed into the end of the device turned slowly as the mechanical eye drew its focus, and deep inside, down in the dark depths of Renwick’s skul , a pinprick of orange light wavered and blinked as information was transmitted to his visual cortex. Al of this had been explained to Newbury, of course, some time ago, but it never failed to both fascinate and unnerve him, on every occasion he spent time in Renwick’s company.

“The note. Yes. Lots to discuss.” Renwick wheezed noisily and raised his fingers to his lips, as if expecting to find a cigarette smouldering there. He looked disappointed when he realised there was not. He looked back at Newbury. “Tea?”

“Yes. .” He hesitated. “Well, actual y — it depends. What exactly do you mean when you say

‘tea’?”

Renwick laughed; a dry, crackling laugh. “Don’t worry, old friend. I know you too well by now to offer up any of my usual concoctions. I have a tin of Earl Grey in the back room. Let me finish up in the workshop and I’l set a kettle on the stove.”

Newbury grinned. “My thanks, Aldous.”

The other man rubbed his hands on the front of his apron. He nodded. “I’ll just lock up the shop.

You go on, through here. .” He turned and pushed on the concealed door, which swung open once again, and ushered Newbury through to the back room.

Newbury stepped over the threshold, taking care not to miss his footing on the step down. The large room on the other side of the door was cast in a dim half-light, the only illumination coming from a flaming Bunsen burner and a strange glass orb in one corner, which flickered with a violent storm of bright electrical currents. On the workbench in the middle of the room, a series of bulbous glass flasks and connecting rods had been set up, and an unusual pink liquid was bubbling over the Bunsen’s flame, the vapours being siphoned off into another nearby flask. The dul thudding noise continued, and Newbury realised that the device responsible for the sound —a large iron box on the floor, with two protruding levers, a trail of thick cables and an unmarked dial — was a generator of some description, powering the electrical orb in the corner. Aside from this, other bizarre, assorted props were heaped in piles upon the floor or stacked haphazardly on the shelves that lined every inch of available wall space: unusual masks, vials filled with unaccountable specimens, strange African idols and assorted components from any number of mechanical devices. Newbury smiled. It reminded him somewhat of his Chelsea study, although here there was a far greater selection, in far greater disarray. Yet it was the other contents of Renwick’s shelves that held the real attraction for him. Here, in the back of this small shop, was perhaps the finest collection of occult and esoteric literature ever amassed under one roof. The library far diminished Newbury’s own, not insignificant, col ection. He’d spent hours here before, browsing the shelves, amazed at the rare editions that Renwick had somehow been able to amass. There were copies of an ancient Hermetic treatise thought lost in the sacking of the library at Alexandria, rare Venetian tracts on summoning evil spirits, and details of arcane rituals attributed to the lost druidic tribes of Prussia. It was a delight to behold, and one of the best-kept secrets in the Empire. Unlike the more sedate tomes that lined the shelves in the front of the shop, of course, these exquisite volumes were not for sale. But, as Newbury had learned over the years, Renwick was a genial fellow, and for the right person asking the right question, he could be a marvellous repository of rare and unusual knowledge.

Renwick stepped through into the room and clicked the door shut behind him. He looked around absently for a moment, and then crossed the room, pushing past Newbury unceremoniously, and set to work putting a kettle on the smal stove.

Newbury examined the back of the door, which was carved with all manner of intricate runes and wards. He recognised a number of them. The six-fingered hand in a circle was intended to prevent witches crossing the threshold. He shook his head. The room, like Renwick, was the embodiment of a contradiction. The juxtaposition of the progressive science — the generator, the electrical orb, the artificial eye — seemed to sit il beside the more supernatural preoccupations that seemed to concern the man. Science and the occult. In truth, Newbury had no real notion of where one stopped and the other began.