The Osiris Ritual (18 page)

There were no signs that the terrace was ever used by the current inhabitants of the house.

Newbury, stooping low, examined the ground beneath the window, near to where he had landed. In the dusty mulch there was a clear footprint, where a large, booted foot had made an impression as its owner had dropped heavily from above.

Newbury moved to one side to al ow Purefoy to see. He pointed to the boot print. “There, look.

It’s a fresh print. Someone definitely jumped down from this window, earlier this afternoon.” He glanced surreptitiously at the reporter’s shoes, just to be sure of his earlier judgement. Purefoy was wearing brogues, and his feet were at least two sizes smaller than of the man who had left the print.

Newbury smiled. Ashford, then. He had definitely come this way. Purefoy’s story appeared to be credible. He could now, without doubt, place the rogue agent at the scene of Blake’s murder. Not only that, but he was close to ruling out Purefoy’s involvement in the matter. His instinct told him to trust the young man. He decided to, fol ow his gut.

Newbury scanned the surrounding rooftops. In the hazy light it was like a rich landscape, punctuated by innumerable chimneys, belching dark, foggy clouds into the sky. The horizon was like a microcosm of all of London: industrial buildings, terraces, slums and large mansions, all clustered together in an unlikely arrangement. Then, about two hundred yards away, on another, lower rooftop, Newbury saw his prey. Or rather, he saw two glowing, red pinpricks of light, emanating from where Ashford’s eyes had once been. They were staring out — unwavering — from behind a large terracotta chimney pot. They were unmistakable, even in the fog and the gloom. The rest of the man was obscured by the shadows. “There he is!” Newbury exclaimed, pointing across to where the rogue agent was lurking.

Purefoy couldn’t see. “What! Where?”

But Newbury wasn’t waiting. He rushed to the edge of the terrace, looking across at the intervening gap between Arbury House and the building behind it. There was a gap of around six feet between the two rooftops, with no clear run-up, and only a small ledge on the other side of the iron railings from which to make the jump. Below, there was only darkness and swirling fog. If he missed his footing and pitched into that. . all that awaited him below was death, dashed across the uneven cobbles and lost amongst scattered piles of refuse and human waste.

He glanced back at the bizarre, red eyes of his enemy. They seemed to bore into him, urging him on. He had no time to consider. Grasping hold of the top of the railing, he swung one leg over, trying to avoid impaling himself on the rusty fleur-de-lys that crested the ironwork. He climbed down cautiously onto the ledge on the other side. There was little room to move, and his left foot slipped, causing him to grasp hold of the railing once again to maintain his balance. Crumbling brickwork shimmered down into the grey darkness. He didn’t hear it strike the ground. His heart was hammering hard in his chest. He was sweating, too, feeling an intense, burning desire for the narcotic that sustained him. He gripped the railing, fighting the urge to climb back onto the relative safety of the roof behind him.

He heard Purefoy run over to stand beside him, on the other side of the railing. “Sir Maurice!

You’re not going to. .”

Newbury paid him no heed. If he thought too long about what he was about to do, he simply wouldn’t do it. Keeping his head up, to avoid looking down at the sheer drop beneath him, Newbury examined the other rooftop. There was a smal , decorative stone lip that ran around the edge of the roof. At least, he mused, if he misjudged the jump, he’d have something to attempt to catch hold of.

He had no idea how Ashford had got across the gap, or, indeed, why the man was stil lurking in the shadows when it was clear that he had been spotted. Perhaps he didn’t expect Newbury to successful y leap across the two rooftops to confront him. Whatever the case, this was the best opportunity Newbury had yet encountered to bring the man to justice, and he planned to do it before any more people died. Assuming, of course, that he wasn’t about to kil himself.

Coiling like a spring to get as much power into his legs as possible, Newbury pounced. He flung his arms out as he sailed across the alleyway, keeping his eyes fixed on the point where he intended to land. He almost made it, but a trailing foot caught the stone lip and sent him sprawling. He slammed down hard onto the other roof, only just managing to get his arms up in time to protect his head. His elbows smarted from the blow, and he’d knocked the wind out of himself. He lay on his front for a moment, breathless, before rolling onto his back and sitting up. He took a moment to regain his composure. Then, not wanting to provide Ashford with a chance of escape, he clambered to his hands and knees, and then to his feet, gasping as he finally managed to pull the cold, damp air down into his lungs. He turned, ful y expecting Ashford to be rushing him across the terrace. But he was stil there in the shadows, stil watching. Newbury could make no sense of the man’s motivations.

He heard a crash beside him, and, surprised, turned to see Purefoy landing neatly on his haunches and breaking into a forward rol to cushion his landing. He came up standing beside Newbury, a wide grin on his face. They looked at each other, something wordless passing between them. An understanding. And then Newbury set off, bolting across the rooftop towards the glowing lights that represented his murderous prey. Purefoy’s footsteps fel in behind him.

As he drew closer, Newbury watched the shape of Ashford resolve in the dim, foggy light. He made no attempt to conceal himself. He was dressed as Purefoy had claimed — as he had been when Newbury had last encountered him — in his flowing black cloak, hulking beside the towering chimney stack. His red eyes seemed to track Newbury’s progress across the rooftop. Newbury skidded around a skylight, and then realised, with shock, the reason why Ashford had not yet taken flight. He was rushing headlong towards the lip of another building. Newbury had misjudged the distance in the fog. Ashford was waiting on the next rooftop. It was too late to stop. He was already careening towards the drop, which yawned open before him like an ominous chasm. There was no railing this time, only the same decorative lip that had caused him to trip on the other side. He didn’t stop. Reaching the edge of the building he leapt up onto the lip and propel ed himself forward, flinging himself through the air so that he hurtled across the gap and landed at a run, stumbling slightly but managing to maintain his momentum. His arms wheeled as he tried to maintain his balance. He didn’t have time to congratulate himself for the manoeuvre, however, as something seemed to change with Ashford. As Newbury darted between the chimney stacks that peppered the roof, Ashford turned and began to flee.

Ashford’s legs seemed to drive him forward at a phenomenal speed. He was like a blur, as he shot towards the other end of the building. Newbury’s legs pumped hard at the ground as he attempted, ineffectually, to keep up.

There was a terrified cry from somewhere behind him. Newbury, torn, skidded to a halt, glancing back over his shoulder. He realised almost immediately what had happened. Purefoy hadn’t seen the gap between the two rooftops until it was too late, and had failed to clear the opening. A lump rose in Newbury’s throat. He was labouring for breath, not used to the exertion. Turning, he rushed back towards the alleyway. He knew he was allowing Ashford to get away, but if there was any chance. .

Newbury scanned the line of the building as he ran, but everything was shrouded in cloying, yellow fog. He called out. “Purefoy?”

There was no reply.

Newbury came to a halt a few feet from the drop. He searched the terrace around him. Empty.

There was no sign of the young man. The roofline opposite was also clear.

Purefoy, it seemed, was nowhere to be seen. Newbury, drawing ragged breath, could only fear the worst.

Hesitantly, Newbury approached the lip of the building. He couldn’t see any sign of the other man. He called out.

“Purefoy? Purefoy! Are you there?” He was panicking now. He didn’t know how he could live with the responsibility if the reporter had fallen to his death.

There was a grunt from down below, somewhere in the fog. Newbury knelt on the edge of the building and leaned over, searching, urgently, for the source of the sound. “Purefoy? Is that you?”

“Here. .” The voice trailed off, and Newbury heard the sounds of something soft and heavy banging against metal. There! He leaned over as far as he dared. An iron staircase resolved in the fog. It was an emergency stairwell, attached to the side of the building. And, dangling from it, twisting and turning, clutching on by only one hand, was Purefoy. He seemed dazed, as if he may have caught a blow to the head in the fall. Blood was smeared in a long line across his cheek.

Newbury knew the situation was precarious. One slip and the reporter would be dead. He cal ed out to him.

“Purefoy! Focus. Use your other hand. Hold on!” Purefoy seemed to respond to this. He eased himself around so that he was facing the brickwork, and swung his left arm up, trying to catch hold of the ironwork. His hand, however, did not seem able to find purchase, and he slipped, dangerously, crying out as he lurched awkwardly from side to side. Newbury feared the motion would cause him to lose his grip altogether as he swung wildly over the alleyway below. “Stay there.

I’m coming for you.”

Newbury stood, surveying the scene beneath him. The fog was thick here, and it obscured his view. He knew the iron stairwell would have a small platform, just to the right of where Purefoy was hanging, and knew also that it couldn’t be far below the lip of the building itself. But it was difficult to see. Past Purefoy, he could make out the indistinct shape of a railing, but little else. He’d have to take it on faith. Edging along the lip of the factory, he drew a deep breath. If he missed, they would likely both wind up dead in the gutter below. He hadn’t planned on this when he’d decided to visit Wilfred Blake that morning, and he wondered, absently, what Veronica would say if she could see him now.

Newbury judged he was standing above the metal platform. Purefoy had once again disappeared into the syrupy miasma. Below, all Newbury could see was a swirl of grey. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t put it off any longer, and he couldn’t let Purefoy fal to his death. He closed his eyes, flexed his shoulders, and jumped into nothing.

His feet clattered against the metal rungs, but the platform was higher than he’d imagined and it was this that nearly toppled him over the side of the railing as he fought to get his balance.

Frantically, he scrabbled to get a grip, grasping hold of the iron bars as he slipped and slid on the slick metal. Finding his feet, he heaved a brief sigh of relief, and then rushed immediately to the left-hand side of the platform and sank to his knees, searching for Purefoy between the metal bars.

The reporter was still there, clinging on for his life. Newbury thrust his arm through the grate, and reached down to grasp Purefoy by the wrist. The reporter’s other arm was still dangling uselessly by his side, and he seemed unable to gain enough leverage to swing it up to try for a better hold.

“Here! Use my arm. Pull yourself up.”

Purefoy stared back at him with panicked eyes. He was breathing quickly, and the strain was starting to show. Newbury tried to keep him focused on the task at hand. “Don’t look down. No!

Purefoy! Keep your eyes on me.” Newbury heaved, trying to give the boy a better chance of grabbing hold of the stairwell with his other hand. Purefoy struggled, his feet kicking frantically as they sought something solid upon which to gain purchase. Instead, the result was to pul alarmingly on Newbury’s arm as Purefoy swung out wildly, and Newbury felt his shoulder burning as he took the other’s weight, his arm fully extended, his face pressed uncomfortably against the hard metal bars.

“Oh God!” Purefoy exclaimed in terror as Newbury’s grip slipped and loosened, and he slid a little further towards the alleyway below.

“I have you.” Newbury fixed his gaze on the other man. “I have you. Now pay attention. You need to get your other arm up here, right now!” Newbury was gasping for breath and struggling to gain leverage. The instructions registered with the young man, however, and, with Newbury still hanging on to him by his left wrist, he managed to get a grip on the iron frame with his right hand.

“Good. Good! Now, I’m going to let go and reach over to grasp hold of your collar. We’ll heave you over the top. Hold on!”

Newbury waited a moment to be sure that Purefoy was not going to fall, and then scrabbled to his feet, leaned over the rail and used both hands to grab fistfuls of the boy’s jacket. “On my mark.

One, two, three.. ” He grunted as he lifted the reporter up, bodily, by his clothes. Purefoy was quick to get his feet into position, jamming them through the bars of the rail to support himself. A moment later, he swung over the top of the railing and col apsed beside Newbury on the cold platform, both of them struggling for breath. He stared with wide eyes at the drop beneath him. His eyes passed wordless thanks to the Crown investigator.

Newbury patted him on the shoulder. “You need to thank your tailor, dear boy.” He wheezed as he tried to regain his breath. “That’s an excellent jacket you have there.”

They both laughed out loud, relieved, as they rubbed their aching joints. After a few moments, still gasping, Purefoy turned to Newbury. “Ashford?”

Newbury shrugged. “I’m in no doubt that he got away. Once I’ve regained my strength I’ll head up there to take a look, see if here are any other clues that may help us to pick up his trail.”

Purefoy looked sheepish. “I. .”

Newbury interjected. “Best left unsaid. It’s not necessary. Not at all.”

Purefoy nodded gratefully.

After a moment, Newbury, who had been slumped on the platform, his back to the railing, climbed to his feet and regarded the building before him. Here, the metal stairs became a short ladder that terminated just below the lip of the roof. He shook his head, cursing that he hadn’t noticed the ladder from above. Taking hold of the rungs, he levered himself up, leaving Purefoy where he was, stil panting and nursing his sore arms on the platform below. It was a short climb to the roof, and he was soon able to pull himself over again. He made a mental note of where the ladder was, scuffing the gravel with the edge of his shoe in case he needed to find it again in the fog.