The Osiris Ritual (2 page)

Purefoy shook his head.

“Why, they’re al the rage. Much better than those terrible British things we had last year. No, these truly are wondrous machines. Look here.” He waved at the device as it came closer, and Purefoy stood agape as Winthrop took a flute of champagne from the proffered tray. “Brass framework of unsightly cogs and things underneath, but a porcelain veneer over the top, designed to order. I had these ones made up in the style of the twelfth dynasty. Remarkable, aren’t they? Just like living statues.”

Purefoy accepted the glass of champagne from Winthrop and took a long sip. “Indeed they are.

Very impressive.” He watched as the bizarre creation made its way back through the crowd, returned the tray to its place on the table and climbed back on to its pedestal beside its fel ows. He studied it for a moment, unnerved by the manner in which it had so easily blended once again into the background, becoming nothing but another immobile exhibit. He repressed a shudder. Purefoy turned to Winthrop, who he realised had been talking at him for some time.

“. .and there is Lord and Lady Buchanan, talking to Sir David and his wife. Oh yes, and there’s Sir Maurice Newbury, examining some of the ushabti idols in that glass cabinet over there. Yes, perfect, I should say. You should meet Sir Maurice right away. Come on. I’m sure he’d be delighted to meet a man from The Times.”

Winthrop led him through the crowds towards a man who was standing alone beside one of the glass cases, examining the items on display inside. The man was wearing a thoughtful expression and the glass of champagne he was clutching in his left hand appeared to be untouched. He looked up, distractedly, as Winthrop and Purefoy approached, and smiled when he recognised his host. He came out from behind the cabinet, giving Purefoy the opportunity to see him properly. He was dressed in a fitted black suit with white shirt and bow tie. His hair was jet black and swept back from his forehead, and his emerald eyes glittered above a hawkish nose. Purefoy guessed he was in his mid-thirties, but could have been older. He extended his hand and Winthrop took it firmly.

“Lord Winthrop. A pleasure to see you again. I trust you are well, following your return from the Middle East?”

Winthrop nodded vigorously. “Wel enough, Sir Maurice, wel enough. I see you’ve been admiring my little collection.”

“Indeed. Quite a find you had out there in the desert, Henry. I’m particularly intrigued by the markings on this series of four ushabti figures. They seem very unusual —” He stopped, suddenly, looking up to see Purefoy standing off to one side, sipping at his champagne. “Oh. How terribly impolite of me.” He stepped over towards Purefoy and extended his hand. “Please, forgive me.. ?”

“Purefoy. George Purefoy.”

“Please forgive me, Mr. Purefoy. It’s just I get a little carried away when I find myself surrounded by such exquisite objects as these.”

Purefoy laughed at the man’s obvious embarrassment. In truth, it was Lord Winthrop’s faux pas for not introducing them, but Purefoy took it as a measure of the man that he accepted the error on himself. “Not at all, Sir Maurice. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Winthrop clapped his hands together with a hearty laugh. “Capital! Maurice — Purefoy here is a reporter with The Times. He’s going to be writing a piece about tonight’s little soiree for the morning edition.”

Newbury offered Purefoy a sly, knowing grin. “Indeed? And have you decided yet how you intend to approach your piece?”

Purefoy glanced awkwardly at Winthrop, who smiled at him expectantly. He cocked his head to one side in thought. “I don’t believe I have, as yet. I think it rather hinges on the centrepiece.” He paused, glancing around at the gathered crowd. “I’m sure it will be a spectacular revelation for us all.”

Winthrop stepped forward and clapped him — a little over-zealously — on the back. “Don’t doubt it, dear boy! Don’t doubt it for a minute. Now, I real y must attend to Lady Worthington over there. She looks a little lost amongst the canopic jars. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Sir Maurice, here.” He trailed off, his attention already across the other side of the room. Purefoy stepped aside to let him pass, and smiled as Winthrop’s exasperated voice boomed loudly behind him. “Lady Worthington. . Over here, my dear.”

Newbury leaned in towards Purefoy. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Lovely old chap, but quite lost in his own magnificence, if you know what I mean.”

Purefoy chuckled. “Precisely.”

“Of course,” Newbury looked momentarily troubled, “you won’t print that, wil you?”

Purefoy shook his head. “Indeed not, Sir Maurice. Your commentary is safe in my hands.”

Newbury laughed. “Excel ent to hear it!” He sipped at his champagne. “Now, have they given you any notion about what’s really going on in this room?”

Purefoy frowned. “I’m not sure that I quite understand.”

Newbury grinned. “I’ll take that as a no.” He beckoned Purefoy forward. “Stand here for a minute. Tell me what you see.”

Perplexed, Purefoy edged forward until he was standing beside the glass cabinet that Newbury had been studying a few moments earlier. Newbury gestured to the crush of people. “Out there.

What do you see?”

“I see a crowd of people, all dressed in their finery, here to see the unrolling of a four-thousand-year-old mummy from Thebes.”

Newbury laughed again. “I thought that’s what you’d say.” “Why, what do you see?”

“I see a crowd of people desperate to be seen, al dressed up for an ancient dead man. I see no one who is truly interested in whatever it is they’l find under those ancient bandages, or the items on display in the cases in this hallway. No one here gives a damn about Egypt or Winthrop’s expedition. London society is nothing but a game, Mr. Purefoy, and a dismal one at that. It’s about being seen, about showing one’s face at the appropriate functions. That’s why all of these people are here tonight, and that’s precisely why Winthrop invited them. He likes the pomp.”

“Then why are you here, Sir Maurice, if you find it all so tiresome?”

Newbury smiled. “Ah, now that’s a question. I could tel you that I’m here because I have an academic interest in the subject. Or that I’m very much intrigued by the reports I’ve seen filed at the British Museum about the expedition and exactly what it is they found out there in the hot sands. Or even that I enjoy the thril of seeing ancient artefacts uncovered for the first time in millennia. But in truth I’m sure I’m just as bad as the rest of them, here to drink my complimentary champagne and strut around before the gathered society commentators like a peacock.”

Purefoy chuckled. “Now I know you’re tel ing the truth.” Laughing, they both took another sip of their champagne. “Now, see those three chaps over there, standing together in a huddle?”

Purefoy strained to see over Newbury’s shoulder. “Ah, yes. I see.” Three middle-aged men in top hats and black coats were standing by the doorway into the drawing room, gesticulating passionately, deep in the middle of what looked like a heated debate.

“Well, their story is something entirely different. Those are the other members of Winthrop’s expedition. They were the men who helped him pul al of these wonderful things out of the ground, and I’ll wager they’re about to help him unwrap the old priest, too.”

“Priest? I thought it was a Pharaoh?”

“Hmmm. Well I suppose that makes it a little more sensational, doesn’t it?” Newbury raised an eyebrow. “It’s clear from looking at a handful of the items on display here that the character beneath those wrappings was never a king. And what is more, I’m inclined to believe that there is a very good reason why the tomb had lain undisturbed by grave robbers for so long. I’m sure there must be something about the nature of the burial that Winthrop is not tel ing us. Anyway, we’re about to find out. Here’s our host now. .”

Purefoy turned to see Winthrop taking up a position at the foot of the grand staircase. The man clapped his hands together loudly, three times, and a hush fel over the assembled crowd.

“Lords, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome. I hope your glasses are all suitably charged. We are about to begin the process of unrol ing the mummified remains of our Theban king. If you would care to take up a position in the drawing room, my associate Mr. Wilfred Blake,” at this, Winthrop gestured towards the group of three men that Newbury had pointed out earlier, “will be delighted to explain the process to you as we perform the task. We begin momentarily. Thank you.”

There was a brief smattering of applause, and then the room started to bustle once again as people began making their way towards the large, white double doors that led into the drawing room. Purefoy turned to Newbury, who swiftly downed the last vestiges of his champagne and beckoned the reporter towards the door. “Come on. Let’s make sure we get a good spot.”

Tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket, Purefoy found a smal side table to abandon his unfinished drink and fol owed Newbury around the rows of glass cabinets and on towards the drawing room. All the while, society veterans bearing dispassionate expressions milled around him, as though this next stage of the evening was something that they had to bear, like a burden, in order to carry on with their socialising and drinking. Newbury, on the other hand, seemed keen to get both himself and Purefoy to the forefront of things, and when they finally crossed the threshold into the large drawing room, it was little effort for them to establish a position near the head of the table.

Purefoy took a moment to examine his surroundings. The curtains had been pul ed shut against the twilight, and the room was dimly lit by an array of flickering gas lamps, casting everything in a warm, yellow glow. Dark wooden bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with musty old tomes that Purefoy couldn’t distinguish from one another in the half-light. People were forming a wide circle around a long, central table, whispering to each other in subdued voices. Purefoy savoured the moment as he took his place beside Newbury.

The item that dominated the room, of course, was the funeral casket of the Ancient Egyptian; laid out on the table, the large wooden coffin was shaped in the rough form of its occupant and was a truly wonderful sight to behold. Every inch of it was covered in the most intricate patterns and designs, and it was clear to Purefoy that the craftsmen who had tooled the object had been masters of their art, all the more impressive for the fact they had lived around four thousand years in the past. Gold leaf shimmered in the warm light of the gas lamps, whilst blue ink and inlaid precious stones finished the effect. Hieroglyphs were etched in long black columns over the torso and legs of the casket, and on top of these, other, more unusual symbols had been painted in splashes of red, obliterating much of the original script. The red ink had faded somewhat, however, so it was clear the markings were historical and had not been affected by Winthrop and his men during the course of the expedition.

Purefoy leaned in to examine the face that had been carved into the wooden lid. The eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, giving away nothing about the casket’s occupant. It was so heavily stylised that he was unable to get any real impression of what the person had truly looked like in life.

Newbury leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Have you ever been to one of these things before?”

Purefoy shook his head.

“Well I hope you’re not squeamish. Fascinating stuff, though. Truly fascinating. I think we’re in for a surprise.” He raised his eyebrow once again and offered Purefoy a confident smile.

Purefoy glanced around. The other guests were huddling in behind them now, clutching drinks, their faces gleaming in the wan light. Purefoy folded his arms behind his back, and waited.

A moment later a hush rippled through the gathered throng of people as the four members of the expedition filed into the room. They had each shed their suit jackets and hats, rolled up their shirtsleeves and donned leather gloves and smocks. Winthrop and Blake were first to step up to the table, whilst the other two men cleared a space for them, asking the audience to stand back to make room. Winthrop was carrying some sort of bizarre contraption, which a moment later was proven to be a mechanical visual aid, like a pair of spectacles attached to a wire framework that fitted neatly over his head. Lenses clicked down before his eyes, and he fiddled with a tool on either side of the device to adjust their focus. Thus prepared, Winthrop approached the casket, whilst Blake skirted around to the head of the table, readying himself to address the audience. He cleared his throat, and the susurrating voices of the crowd gave way to silence.

“I advise those of you with weak hearts or fragile constitutions to momentarily avert your eyes.

Our first task will be to free the lid from the casket, and whilst we expect to find only another, smaller casket inside, we have no way of knowing how accurate our assumptions may be.” His voice was thin and nasal, and he delivered his speech with an impeccable precision. Purefoy looked him up and down. The man was slim, drawn and clean-shaven, quite the opposite of the burly Winthrop. His blond hair was brushed back from his forehead in a neat side parting and his eyes were a piercing blue. “There are many things about the burial of this ancient king that are inconsistent with other contemporary burials in the same region.” Blake stepped nearer to the casket and waved his hand to indicate the splashes of red paint that had been hastily daubed across the engraved hieroglyphs.

“For example, we have no understanding of the nature of these red markings, but suspect them to be a magic ward of some type, a warning to anyone in the afterlife who may happen upon the spirit of the person contained within the casket. Of course, any such concerns are moot — nothing but superstitious nonsense — but it nevertheless serves to suggest that there may be more irregularities contained within the casket.” He gave a dramatic pause. “None of our assumptions can be trusted.

We hope to discover more as we proceed.”

Newbury glanced over his shoulder at Purefoy with an unreadable look on his face.

Blake approached the casket, taking his place opposite Winthrop, who had moved around to the other side of the table. They both placed their hands on the lid of the casket, and together they proceeded to test the seal.