Mann, George - The Osiris Ritual

by Mann, George

  Purefoy smiled. "Well, I think that's enough excitement for me, Sir Maurice. And I have an article to write for the morning edition." He glanced at his pocket watch. "I think I should be on my way."

  Newbury nodded. "Very well, Mr. Purefoy. I suspect I shall do the same. It's been a pleasure to meet you. I'll look out for your article in The Times." He extended his hand, and Purefoy took it firmly.

  "Likewise, Sir Maurice. I do hope we meet again." Newbury smiled. "Good evening then." He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Purefoy, an empty notebook in his pocket and a head swimming with images of the screaming dead man, straightened his jacket, took one last look around the thronging crowd and made his way slowly towards the exit and the street outside.

  It was still raining. He hunched against the downpour, and set off for home. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Two

  The station concourse was bustling with people. Newbury watched as they rushed from pillar to post: men dressed In black and grey business suits and long, billowing coats, brandishing hats and folded umbrellas; ladies standing in little huddles under the shelter of the impressive roof, attempting to avoid the inclement weather that was gusting in through the open doors, spattering the marble floor with fat droplets of rain.

  Newbury stood on the platform, a copy of The Times tucked neatly under his left arm. He tapped his foot impatiently. Around him, the air was infused with the sharp tang of oil, heated by the machinations of wheels and gears as trains screeched in and out of the station. Engines sighed easily at other, nearby platforms, their carriages slowly disgorging passengers onto the concourse. Steam hissed from pressure valves, fogging in the cold, damp air. He'd been there for thirty minutes, waiting for his quarry, and to his dismay had discovered a distinct lack of Interesting distractions.

  Whilst waiting, Newbury had been considering the events of the previous evening, mulling over the details of the things he'd seen, trying to ascertain what it was, specifically, that had made him uneasy about Winthrop's unrolling of the Theban mummy. It was certainly more than the revelation that the man had been mummified alive — much more than that — although the scene had indeed left him with a sharp sense of disquiet. And more also than the sheer lack of respect shown to both the dead man and the intricate craftsmanship of his casket. Newbury had been appalled by the manner in which Winthrop had attacked the unrolling like a stage performance, but this in itself was nothing new or surprising; he'd seen any number of such events in the past, and had chosen to attend the party fully cognisant of what he expected to see. No, it had more to do with the unfamiliarity of the decoration — the black and gold casket, the strange hieroglyphs — coupled with the manner in which the man had died. There was more to the dead man's story than was immediately obvious.

  Newbury had pondered on this for a short time, before instead deciding that it was really far too early to be contemplating anything other than breakfast. Now, his stomach growling, he was growing impatient, keen to be done with his task. He checked his pocket watch. It was nearly half past seven. The train would be arriving soon.

  He had made his way to Waterloo Station that morning to meet another agent, a man who was returning to London after spending a number of years undercover in St. Petersburg. He had no idea what this agent looked like, or, indeed, the man's real name. All he'd been offered was a codename, "Caspian", a carriage number, 3b, and instructions to meet the man from the train and escort him immediately to the palace. It was certainly on of the more sedate tasks he had been required to carry out on behalf of the Crown, and he wondered briefly why one of Her Majesty's footmen couldn't have performed the task to equally adequate effect. Yet, he admitted to himself begrudgingly, he was intrigued to discover more about the mysterious man. It was certainly no surprise to him to learn that Her Majesty had been managing agents abroad, in territories outside those of the Empire, but he had no notion of why the man's identity had to be protected in such a way, at least from another agent. Not only that, but it perplexed him why the man would choose to travel so far by rail, rather than airship. It must have added days, if not weeks to his journey, mostly spent in cramped, noisy accommodation. Perhaps that was what the man had grown used to in Russia, living undercover and shrugging off the veneer of wealth. He wondered how difficult the agent would find it to readjust to life back in London after so many years away, steeped in the routines and society of another culture. Of course, the thought was entirely redundant. He knew nothing of the man.

  He looked around, sighed, and then took his copy of The Times from underneath his arm. He shook it open and gave the headlines a cursory glance. Smiling, he realised what he had failed to spot earlier that morning when he had scooped the paper up off the silver tray in his hallway. The main headline read: THE MYSTERY OF THE SCREAMING MUMMY, and the article beneath it was attributed to Mr. G. Purefoy. The front page! Newbury chuckled to himself. Purefoy had done well.

  He gave the article a brief scan. The slightly sensational tone of the piece grated against his more literary sensibilities, but he could tell immediately that it was an excellent example of the journalistic art. It was insightful and made mention of many of the same observations that Newbury himself had noted during the course of the evening. He was impressed by Purefoy. The boy would make a good agent, one day. He appeared to have an eye for detail. Newbury resolved to mention it to the Queen next time he had cause to request an audience. Not that he had time to take on an apprentice.

  He looked up from the page to see the train screeching into the station. He folded the paper away under his arm once more, and watched as the enormous green engine juddered to a halt before the buffers, the carriages clacking together noisily as the train slowly came to rest. He edged along the platform as the thin wooden doors of the carriages began to swing open, spilling passengers onto the concourse. The agent would be waiting for him in the appointed compartment.

  Dodging the sudden press of people who were clamouring to take their leave of the platform, Newbury paced alongside the row of carriages until he located the correct number. It was a first class carriage, near to the front of the train. He could see little through the grimy windows, which had obviously been spattered with mud and dirt during the course of the journey. Dark shapes moved around inside as people attempted to find thy quickest route off the train. First waiting for a young lady in a flowing yellow dress to step down onto the platform, Newbury mounted the step and hauled himself up into the carriage.

  The lobby area was small, and the carriage itself was divided Into three separate compartments that branched off from a long passageway, each of them with their own windows and interior doors. The carriage was panelled in a dark wood, and whilst it appeared comfortable enough, there was a sour odour in the air that Newbury found difficult to place. Bringing the back of his hand to his face to stifle the smell, he shuffled along the passageway, glancing in at an empty compartment as he passed by. He assumed this was the room that had been occupied by the lady in the yellow dress. He wondered what she had made of the smell.

  Beside the empty compartment was another, identical room, although the blinds had been lowered over the windows and glass-panelled door. Newbury double-checked the small brass plate beside the door handle. The legend read: 3b. He rapped his knuckles loudly on the wooden frame. There was no reply. He tried again, and this time didn't wait for a reply before turning the handle and pushing the door open to step inside.

  "Hello?"

  The small room appeared to be empty, save for two long, leather seats that faced each other across the compartment, and the overhead racks for storing luggage. Both were vacant.

  Newbury glanced from side to side, wrinkling his nose. The smell he'd encountered upon entering the carriage was much stronger here, a lingering stench like foetid, rotten meat. It made him gag involuntarily and reach for the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He used it to cover his mouth and nose. It did little to disguise the overwhelming smell. H
e wondered what could have caused such a foul odour. It was as if a dead animal had been left in the compartment to rot, or had only just been removed upon arrival at the station, its musty stink still circulating in the stale air.

  Newbury edged further into the small room, looking for any obvious sign that he had somehow missed the man he had come to the station to meet. There were no notes or items left behind for him to collect. He wondered if the man had already found his way off the train and was waiting for him on the platform. That would be a distinct break with procedure, but the man had been working alone in Russia for a number of years. He could hardly be expected to follow protocol to the letter. Whatever the case, if Newbury did find the man waiting for him on the platform, he hoped that he wouldn't have to spend long in his company if he were carrying with him the article that had generated such an offensive smell.

  Shrugging his shoulders and coughing into his handkerchief, Newbury stepped out into the passageway and clicked the door shut behind him. He was relieved to get a measure of fresh air, although the foul stench had left a thick, cloying taste at the back of his throat. Sputtering, he made his way back to the lobby area, hopped down to the platform and glanced from side in search of the other agent. The concourse was nearly empty. A few stragglers were still edging their way towards the station exit, porters humping luggage behind them as they drifted towards the row of waiting cabs on the other side of the doors. Rain was drumming loudly on the roof overhead.

  No figure stood on the platform awaiting Newbury. He paced up and down, growing increasingly infuriated. There was no sign of the man known as "Caspian"; no note left in the compartment, no luggage, and no clues as to what may have become of him. Her Majesty would not be amused. Newbury could only assume he'd somehow missed the man, and that he'd set out to make his own way back to the palace.

  Frowning, but resigned to abandoning his abortive mission, Newbury quit the platform and made his way briskly along the concourse. The rain was still blowing into the station on a fierce wind, and he cursed himself for forgetting his umbrella. Using his copy of The Times to shield his head from the worst of the weather, he dashed out into the street in search of a hansom cab, intent on making his way to his office at the British Museum. There, he would construct a brief missive to the Queen, detailing the bizarre circumstances of his morning and seeking clarity on what his next move should be, if any. And then, he promised himself, he would finally make time for breakfast.

  Chapter Three

  "Morning, Watkins."

  "Good morning, sir."

  Newbury, still damp from being caught in the shower outside Waterloo Station, nodded politely to the doorman as he made his way up the steps at the front of the British Museum.

  The building was a magnificent edifice of grey stone, redolent of a classical Greek structure, with towering Corinthian columns and bizarre effigies carved in relief along the roofline in long, decorative friezes. The dreary morning didn't show the wonderful architecture off to its best, Newbury thought, as he looked up to note with dismay that the sky was almost as grey as the building itself. It was going to rain again shortly.

  Watkins held the door open for him, and Newbury smiled as he slipped inside.

  It was still too early for the public to be milling around the exhibits, and the place felt deserted as he crossed the lobby, his shoes clicking loudly on the polished marble floor. He'd abandoned his copy of The Times in the back of the cab, but his fingers were still stained with streaks of dark ink that had run when he'd used the newspaper as a shield against the rain. He'd have to wash and dry off before he prepared his note for the Queen. He coughed, still hacking on the grotesque smell that seemed to have lodged in his nostrils and throat following his bizarre experience on the train. He hoped a pot of Earl Grey would help to clear the disgusting scent.

  Newbury made his way to the private staircase that led down towards the bowels of the enormous building, where his office was located, hidden amongst the dusty stacks of the archives and the administration offices of the museum managers.

  A few minutes later, having passed along a network of winding corridors, he came to the door to his office. He straightened the front of his jacket and pushed on the handle. The door swung open to reveal a small room, lit by a series of hissing gas lamps. He stepped inside, clicked the door shut behind him and began shrugging off his damp jacket to hang on the coat stand in the corner.

  "Ah, Sir Maurice. I trust you had a pleasant evening?"

  Newbury turned to see his secretary, Miss Coulthard, emerging from the adjoining room, where he and his assistant Miss Veronica Hobbes kept their desks. Miss Coulthard was a diminutive woman in her early thirties, with dark, brown hair tied up in a tight bun. She was dressed in a long grey dress and matching woollen cardigan. She was not conventionally pretty, but she was one of the most reliable people that Newbury knew, and he admired her for her dedication and resolve.

  "Pleasant enough, thank you, Miss Coulthard. An interesting diversion." He draped his jacket on the coat stand and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, leaving dirty smears of ink on his white shirt. "I fear this morning has been entirely less successful, however." He raised an eyebrow with a sigh.

  Miss Coulthard gave him an appraising look. "Tea?"

  Newbury laughed. "It's almost as if you can read my mind, Miss Coulthard. Thank you. Tea would be delightful." He turned as if to head into the other room, and then stopped by the edge of Miss Coulthard's desk. "May I enquire as to the health of your brother, Miss Coulthard? Is he making a smooth recovery?"

  Miss Coulthard nodded. "As expected, Sir Maurice. The doctor says he'll need a few more weeks to get his strength back, but his memory is returning, slowly but surely."

  Newbury smiled. "Delighted to hear it." He regarded his hands. "Ah, excuse me for a moment." He crossed to the sink in the corner of the room and, taking up a cake of soap, began at scrubbing away the newsprint stains. Then, grabbing a towel from the rack beside the sink, he made his way to the adjoining room, leaving Miss Coulthard to set to work with the kettle.

  Newbury hovered on the threshold for a moment, watching his assistant at her desk as he dried his hands. She was lost in a stack of papers, a look of concentration furrowing her brow, And if she was aware of his presence she was choosing not to let It distract her from her task.

  Miss Veronica Hobbes had been working with him for over three months now, and had already saved his life on more than one occasion, both physically and, he considered, emotionally too. She was a most excellent woman; full of the energy and spirit of the modern age, an embodiment of progress, of equality, and of the future. She was pretty, too; brunette, in her early twenties, and full of life. Her features were well proportioned and feminine, and her eyes were a deep, arresting blue. She had a sharp mind, and an even sharper tongue.

  Newbury cleared his throat. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes. I see you're still hard at work on that mystery of yours."

  Veronica looked up, offered him a warm smile, and then returned to her reading. She spoke whilst her eyes followed the lines on the page before her. "Indeed. I believe that I'm making good progress, too. I have a potential suspect."

  "Excellent. I look forward to hearing all about it. Just as soon as we have tea, and I've dashed off a short missive to Her Majesty."

  At this Veronica looked up again, leaning back in her chair to regard him. She seemed to see him properly for the first time. "You're damp, Sir Maurice. I take it this morning's outing did not progress as planned?"

  Newbury shook his head. "Quite so. In fact, I'd go as far as saying it was an unmitigated disaster. The gentleman I was tasked with escorting to the palace did not arrive for our rendezvous. The circumstances were most peculiar. But I won't go into it now. I'm much more interested in hearing your news." He dropped the towel on the edge of his desk and moved around to find his chair. "Now, where did I put those note cards...?" He fumbled with the many piles of paper that cluttered his desk.

 
; Veronica laughed. She opened her draw and withdrew a sheaf of small white note cards. "Here. Take one of these." Newbury smiled and accepted the proffered stationery. "My thanks." He lowered himself into his chair, took up a pen and inkwell, and began to write:

  Majesty,

  Agent by codename "Caspian" did not attend rendezvous as expected. Please advise if further action is required.

  Yours,

  Newbury

  He gave the note a cursory glance, considering whether he shouId elaborate on the strange circumstances and the disturbing smell he had found lingering in the appointed compartment. He decided against the idea. After all, it was clear that Her Majesty knew more about the situation than he did, and he knew that she would just as soon summon him to the palace if she had any cause for concern. He resolved not to make any plans for the following morning. He'd likely have to cancel them, anyway, when the summons from the palace arrived. He folded the card into an envelope, which he retrieved from a tray on his desk. Then, still holding it in his hand, he leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the wall.

  "I take it you've seen this morning's edition of The Times, Sir Maurice?"

  Newbury grinned, blinking away his reverie. "Yes, indeed I have. I've just washed half of it down the sink." Veronica frowned, not catching his meaning. He chose not to elaborate. "I met the reporter at Winthrop's place, actually. Decent sort of chap. The piece was a little sensational for my liking, though."

  "It certainly sounds as if it was an interesting evening, whatever the case. Are you planning to involve yourself in the mystery? Of the screaming mummy, I mean." Veronica delivered this with her usual, casual aplomb, but it was clear to Newbury that she was fishing for something. He smiled.