The Osiris Ritual (28 page)

Veronica turned towards him, snapping him out of his reverie. “Sir Maurice, I thought we were heading to the London Docks?”

Newbury nodded, slowly. “We are. But first, I must make a brief stop.” Veronica frowned. “I believe I know where to find Ashford. I must talk with him.”

Veronica nodded, sagely. “Very well.” The moment stretched, and they stared at each other in silence, neither one of them wishing to be the first to look away. After a while, Newbury turned to glance out of the window. He had the terrible, dawning sense that everything was unravel ing around him.

Presently, the hansom trundled to a stop in the foggy wilderness of Bethnal Green. Newbury rose to his feet. “You wait here, Miss Hobbes. I shal return momentarily.” He clicked open the door and stepped down into the quiet street beyond. It was still early, and this peaceful residential street had not yet ful y awoken to the morning. Newbury took a , small cream-coloured card from inside his jacket pocket and unfolded it, revealing an address written in Miss Coulthard’s neat copperplate.

He checked the address against the house in front of him. It was similar, in many ways, to Newbury’s own residence: a small end-terrace house, with two prominent bay windows, one on either of the two floors; a small front yard, with potted plants; and a panel ed front door, painted in royal blue. A waist-high railing ran around the front and side of the yard. The mouth of a dimly lit alleyway separated the house from the next long terrace about six feet to the right.

It seemed to Newbury like rather an affluent dwelling for a widow on an agency pension.

Nevertheless, this was clearly the address that Miss Coulthard had discovered for him. Slowly, Newbury approached the building. For a moment he stood before the door, considering whether to rap the brass knocker. Then, changing his mind, he edged round to stand before the window, peering into the living room beyond. The room was lit brightly by a gas-lamp and was well stocked with furnishings: sideboard, two armchairs and a daybed. A large fireplace dominated the room, although its grate was cold and unlit. On the floor, a pretty woman in her late twenties, with strawberry blonde hair, was sitting with two children, playing a game with counters. A boy, of around eight years, and a girl, slightly younger, who were clearly brother and sister, and Newbury smiled as he watched their faces light up whilst they laughed and carolled with their mother. He didn’t turn his head as, in a low voice, he began to speak. “You’ll have to give yourself up soon, Ashford. Al of this running around is doing neither of us any good. I’m supposed to take you in myself, but I’m too busy with this blasted Knox business. I’m about to head to the London Docks to find him before he disappears again.” He turned his head slightly, to watch Ashford emerge from the shadows around the side of the building. The other man’s red eyes were piercing in the gloom. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”

Ashford lowered his hood, and once again, Newbury was appalled by the yellowed, rotting pallor of his skin and the disfigurements that Dr. Fabian’s machinery had inflicted upon him. His black cloak was now shredded and hanging loose around his shoulders, exposing the mechanical pump in his chest, and Newbury could see where his encounter with the train in the Underground had scorched the flesh at his elbows, revealing the brass joints underneath. The tubing that curled between his head and chest flexed as he moved.

Newbury pitied Ashford, then, not for what had become of him, but rather for the impact it had had on his life; left out in the cold, Ashford was separated from his wife and children by only a thin pane of glass. But that pane of glass represented a yawning chasm, a barrier that Ashford was forever unable to cross. It must have been torture, to stand watching his wife and children and be prevented from reaching out for them, from holding them, from being a husband and a father to them. But Newbury knew that, to those children, their father was dead, and this thing would stand before them only as a monster, a creature drawn from their darkest nightmares. Ashford knew it too. He had spared them that horror.

The former agent turned to regard the joyful scene inside the house. Newbury was unable to read any emotion on his grim visage, but he was now sure that, somewhere, it stil resided deep inside the man. “Thank you, Newbury.” Ashford’s voice chimed out in-his grating, metallic tone. “I will do the right thing.”

Newbury gave a curt nod, and then turned, making his way along the short path towards the waiting carriage, leaving Ashford alone to contemplate his nightmare. Just as he reached the railing, however, Newbury heard Ashford cal out behind him. “Newbury.” A brief pause. “Methuselah.”

Newbury turned, a quizzical expression on his face, but Ashford had already gone, melted away into the foggy morning.

Newbury coughed, absently, as he helped Miss Hobbes to dismount from the hansom a short while later at the London Docks. The sun had done its work and burned away much of the morning fog, transforming it into thin wreaths of mist that still clung, determinedly, to the masts of the innumerable vessels that cluttered the harbour. The docks were teeming with boats of al shapes and sizes, from steamships, to yachts, to schooners, and the quayside, in turn, was bustling with life.

Veronica wrinkled her nose. The docks had a distinctive aroma that was all their own. Laughing, Newbury paid the cabbie his fare and sent him on his way. He held his arm out for Veronica. “I suggest, my dear Miss Hobbes, that we begin with the major shipping lines. See if we can’t discover the intended destination of the doctor.”

The offices of the shipping companies were, as one, small and pokey; dimly lit, and without substantial furnishings. The Crown investigators were forced to wait in line whilst merchants, businessmen and explorers all arranged passage to a vast array of destinations, exotic locales from China to the Continent, from India to Africa, booking berths on the large steamers that were due to sail that week. Hours passed, and innumerable interviews with office clerks — who were each so alike that Newbury considered they could have been stamped out of the same mould — yielded nothing. There was no trail. No person matching Knox’s name or description had booked passage on a vessel sailing that day, or indeed any day that week. Newbury, frustrated, feared they had already lost Knox, that perhaps his assumption back at Purefoy’s apartment had been incorrect, or worse, that Knox had fooled him, leaving a false trail to throw him off the scent. Had the ace of cups meant something else entirely? He was wracked with doubt.

Together, Newbury and Veronica agreed to walk the quayside in search of inspiration. Newbury was not hopeful that he would find it. That sense of impending chaos was stil bearing down on him, still growing in force and magnitude. He had the notion that he was at the centre of a vast maelstrom, standing in the eye of the storm, looking out as everything went to pieces around him.

Purefoy was dead, and Knox was free. Perhaps he needed help from Charles after all.

They strolled along the water’s edge, avoiding crates of stinking fish; fine silks from the East, spices, tobacco and any number of other goods being unloaded from the vessels that had moored along the quayside. Newbury scanned the faces in the crowds as they walked, until those faces became nothing but an indistinct human blur. So many people. If Knox had come here, Newbury understood why he had chosen the place. It would be easy to lose oneself amongst this vast cornucopia of nationalities and noise. Easy to adopt a false identity or to slip down a side street, or even to stow away aboard one of the great ships that towered over the harbour like behemoths in the morning light.

His only clue, now, was that last, cryptic word that Ashford had muttered to him, before he’d slipped away into the darkness. Methuselah. Newbury turned it over and over in his mind.

Methuselah. He knew the relevance of the word, the implication. He had studied the biblical texts as a schoolboy. It was clearly a reference to Knox, to Knox’s plans. Methuselah was a watchword for longevity. He was the son of Enoch, who had lived for countless years in the early days of the Christian myth, his life supernaturally extended by the will of God. Newbury was not a religious man, and did not consider the Bible as literal truth, yet he knew there were more things in this world than those he could see, hear or touch, had even witnessed them himself on occasion. The supernatural realm was hidden only by a thin veil. Or so experience suggested. The line between science and the occult was thin and intangible. “Methuselah.” He mouthed the word, speaking it aloud, trying to wring the meaning from it. He had come to a stop before a small, makeshift stall, behind which a burly man was selling cockles by the jar.

Veronica, who had been staring out across the water, turned when she heard him speak.

“Methuselah?”

Newbury nodded. “Yes, yes.” He sighed. “The last word that Ashford spoke to me before we parted company.”

Veronica’s eyes widened. “Methuselah. . Ashford said that to you?”

“Indeed. Clearly he was referring to Knox.”

“Yes! Sir Maurice, I believe he was. But look!” He followed the line of her finger towards a small boat, bobbing gently with the lap of the water against the harbour wall. It was a bizarre craft, a submersible, capable, Newbury assumed, of spending extended periods beneath the water. It had the look of a small ironclad about it: all metal plates and reinforced glass portholes, with a tall funnel that would remain above water when the vessel dived, providing a source of air for the inhabitants.

There was a wooden deck, surrounded by a short rail, and a sealable hatch for climbing down into the habitable space below. An extendable periscope jutted rudely from the deck. Submersibles such as this were rare, and Newbury had only seen one or two of them in his lifetime. Presently, this one sat afloat in the harbour, sandwiched between two larger boats, and was tied to a mooring post on the quayside nearby. On the side of the vessel, in smal , black letters was the legend: METHUSELAH.

Newbury turned to Veronica. “You don’t think. .”

Veronica nodded. “It makes sense. It must be Knox’s ship.”

Newbury couldn’t prevent himself from grinning. “So that’s how he intends to get away.

Underwater. Come on!” He ran along the harbour edge, careful not to trip or lose his footing.

Veronica followed close on his heels.

The prow of the vessel was around three feet from the edge of the harbour. Murky river water sloshed in the space between. Glancing back over his shoulder to ensure Veronica was still following behind, Newbury readied himself and then sprang from the edge of the harbour towards the small deck of the Methuselah. He landed with a dul thud. Turning, he held his arms out towards Veronica, wil ing her to jump. “Come on! That bang may have alerted him. We need to move quickly.”

Veronica regarded the jump with trepidation. Then, shrugging, she fixed her eyes on Newbury, bent her knees and leapt forward. In her haste she nearly overshot, but Newbury was able to catch her firmly, staggering back a few paces before setting her down beside him. Their faces were only inches apart. He could hear her ragged breath. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

There was a choking sound from deep beneath them, fol owed by a long, mechanical purr. The Methuselah began to gently vibrate. Newbury’s and Veronica’s eyes met. “He’s started the engines.

He must have heard us. We need to move, fast. If he dives, we’re done for. We need to get inside.”

Newbury moved quickly. He shot around the deck, searching out the hatch that would al ow them both access to the decks below. It was nothing but a round hole in the decking, covered by a thick metal lip and a rubber seal. Crouching, Newbury ran his fingers around the edge of it until he had located the catch. He pulled it free, and the metal plate eased open on a creaking hinge, revealing a steel ladder that disappeared into the shadowy depths below.

Veronica stepped forward. “I’ll go first.”

Newbury shook his head. “No, Miss Hobbes. I’ll go first.” His voice was firm.

Swinging himself down, his feet catching on the metal rungs, he began his swift descent of the ladder. Moments later, Veronica fol owed suit, pul ing the hatch closed behind her. Their feet echoed in the confined space as they climbed.

Below, they found themselves in a smal antechamber, which branched off in three different directions. The decor was functional, at best; the walls and doorways consisted of grey, featureless steel. Everything was quiet, aside from the gentle slapping of the water against the sides of the boat.

There was a light, pleasant aroma, such as that of burning incense, lavender and rosemary.

Newbury looked around for something he could use as a weapon, but could find nothing. Giving up on that idea, he decided to fol ow his instincts. “This way.” He whispered to Veronica, nodding towards the prow of the vessel. Cautiously, they edged their way through the smal opening, careful to ensure that their footsteps did not immediately give away their position. Newbury kept his back to the wal . They crept further into the depths of the ship.

The smal passageway terminated in an open doorway. Newbury peered through the opening.

On the other side of the bulkhead was the main cabin. It was a relatively small space, with a single bunk, a square table fixed to one wal , and another open hatchway, which he supposed led through to the control pit. The room was sparsely furnished, but nevertheless cluttered with books, jars and strange artefacts, in much the same manner as Newbury’s Chelsea study, but filled also with the paraphernalia of normal life: clothes, a top hat, a pocket watch laid out on the table. The bedclothes were ruffled, slept in. This place, this boat — not only was it Knox’s means of escape, it appeared also to be his home.

The scene on the floor told an even more bizarre tale. A large pentagram had been marked out with string, pinned to the floor within a large circle. Between each of the five points of the star lay a curled, aged fragment of papyrus, each of them covered in an inky black scrawl. These, Newbury presumed, were the contents of the ushabti figures that Knox had fought so hard to obtain. The last words of Khemosiri. The instructions for how to perform the Osiris Ritual.