by George Mann
Winthrop's mummy — was known as 'the black Osiris'?"
"I believe so, if it is indeed him. Khemosiri has long been considered apocryphal, a footnote in the story of Thutmose I; a cautionary tale, if you will, to ensure adherence to the core belief system of rebirth in the afterlife." Renwick crossed the room to one of his tall bookcases, removed a dusty cat's skull from where it was resting in front of a neat row of books, and pulled down a leather-bound volume. He flicked through it purposefully, and then, finding the page he was looking for, crossed the room and handed it to Newbury. "Here. This is the only contemporary reference to Khemosiri that survives."
Newbury examined the page. It was a copy of a long document written in hieratic script. The accompanying footnote explained it was the record of the trial of a priest, found in the tomb of an Egyptian noble at the turn of the nineteenth century. Newbury handed the book back to Renwick. "What does it say?"
"It basically sets out the case against one of Thutmose's priests, who is accused of blasphemous behaviour, for attempting to extend his life in the physical world and avoid the judgement of Osiris. It claims he had perfected an 'Osiris Ritual', a means by which to effect this longevity, but all records of the actual ritual are lost." Renwick shrugged. "It seems this particular priest wasn't a true believer in the eternal resurrection of the spirit. Either that or he didn't want to give up all his earthly possessions."
Newbury smiled. "So what happened? What makes you think there is any connection between this story and the mummy lying in Winthrop's dining room?"
"Ah... well that's due to the punishments that were enacted upon the priest, and the description you gave me of the casket. The document here lists the horrifying sequence of measures that were carried out to ensure that the priest suffered a very full and real death, in both the physical world and the afterlife. He was essentially obliterated from history." Renwick looked up at the sound of the kettle whistling on the stove. He set the book down on the arm of Newbury's chair and made his way over to where he'd laid out a teacup and strainer. He continued talking as he worked.
"First of all, the man was stripped of his true name, and all records of this name were purged, from his house, his family, and his temple. They even, destroyed a royal stele that mentioned the priest by name. No stone was left unturned. Without a name, an Egyptian soul was not permitted to cross into the afterlife, you see. It was only after his death that others began to refer to the now nameless man as Khemosiri."
Renwick coughed loudly, fetched around for his pouch of tobacco — which he found amongst the flasks and vials on the workbench — and began rolling himself a cigarette. Then, after allowing the tea a sufficient time to brew, he handed Newbury his cup of Earl Grey, the cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. "Next he was sentenced to be mummified alive, his body preserved as a warning to those who may have been harbouring similar notions or persuasions."
Newbury shook his head. "You should see the expression on his face, Aldous. It's like nothing I've ever seen before. He must have suffered terribly."
"I don't doubt it." Renwick's face was grim. "Do you know what they did to people during the mummification process?"
"Yes, I'm quite well aware of the procedure." Newbury frowned. "I can imagine what they did to him. It's barbaric."
"Hmmm. Well, that wasn't the end of it. The list goes on. It was decreed that once the priest's name had been erased and the mummification process was complete, a curse was to be written upon the linen bandages that covered his body, and he was to be interred in a black and gold casket, which itself would be painted with wards and warnings. His tomb would then be hidden at an undisclosed location so that thieves would not accidentally stumble upon the cursed remains."
Newbury sat forward in his chair. "That matches the description of the mummy almost perfectly. I think you're right. I think you have our man. How the devil did you put your finger on it?"
Renwick grinned. His glass-fronted eye shimmered in the harsh electrical light of the orb. "A half-remembered tale, is all. Your letter provoked a memory. I found the book and, upon rereading the hieratic script, realised Khemosiri was your man."
"I wonder why Peterson didn't see it."
"What, at the British Museum! Newbury — as I mentioned, Khemosiri is a footnote, a reference in a long-forgotten document that most professionals would dismiss as naught but fiction. Only specialists such as you or I, with a deep interest in the occult, would place any value in such a story, and not for its historic significance, either."
Newbury looked doubtful. "What? You believe that Khemosiri really did find a means of extending life beyond the natural span of a man?"
Renwick laughed. "Of course not. I believe that he believed he had. And others believed him, too. The Pharaoh, of course, and the priests that committed him to such a terrible fate. But more than that. He was said to have a coterie of followers, others who subscribed to his beliefs, who aided him in his bizarre practices. When the military men purged his home, they found no records, no trace of the so-called 'Osiris Ritual'. No one knows for certain, but it's thought that his followers had secured his secrets, and that they were buried with him, hidden, somehow, inside his tomb. His followers planned to resurrect him, to give Khemosiri new life, just as the original Osiris had been brought back from the dead by his beloved Isis. But most of that is nothing but speculation and myth. We have no proof either way."
"Other than a corpse that proves that they did not achieve their goal."
Renwick laughed. "Quite so." He took a long draw on his cigarette, watching the smoke plume lazily around him as he exhaled. "That wasn't the point I was getting at, though."
Newbury nodded. "Indeed. I understood your reasoning. If there were others who believed in the ritual then, there may be others who believe in the ritual now."
Renwick's lips curled in a satisfied smile. "Exactly so. The man who killed Lord Winthrop may have been looking for the secrets of the ritual. I doubt very much that Winthrop himself had an understanding of what he'd found."
"No. He didn't." Newbury leaned back in the chair, resting his chin on his fist. It was impossible to second-guess Ashford's motives. He'd spent five years living a half-life in St. Petersburg, kept alive by the machines that Dr. Fabian had installed inside his broken body. Had he turned? Was he working for the Russian government? Or had he spent the time looking for ways to regain the life he'd once had, turning to the occult in desperation? Perhaps he thought this "Osiris Ritual" would somehow restore his body to its former state. Only finding him and bringing him in would provide Newbury with the answers.
Newbury looked across at Renwick. "Do you know of anyone else who might have a notion of this link? Between Winthrop's mummy and the tale of Khemosiri, I mean."
Renwick looked thoughtful. He considered his answer for a moment. "No. I might have named you, if the circumstances had been different. But I can think of no other, in London, at least, who would have access to the necessary texts. It's not the sort of thing one would happen across in an academic journal." He paused, rapping his knuckles on the workbench. "You might consider discussing the matter with Wilfred Blake, one of the men who aided Lord Winthrop during the expedition. I doubt he'll give you anything new, but I understand he has an appetite for all things mystical."
Newbury raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?" That certainly shed a different light on the man he'd seen arguing with Winthrop during the unrolling party. Perhaps his ironclad alibi wasn't as secure as it had at first appeared to the Yard? He'd taken the liberty of obtaining Blake's address, along with those of the other members of the expedition, from Charles the previous evening. He'd been considering paying Blake a visit that afternoon, and it now appeared he had another good reason to do so. He downed the remains of his tea and leaned forward, placing the empty cup and saucer on the workbench. "Thank you, Aldous. I believe you've been of great service to me today."
The other man chuckled, sprinkling the ash from the end of his cigarett
e carelessly onto the floor. "Never any trouble, old man." He sighed. "There is one thing you could do for me, though."
"Name it."
"Can I see it?"
Newbury smirked. "I'm sure it can be arranged. Just as soon as Winthrop's funerary arrangements are finalised."
Renwick nodded in appreciation.
Newbury stood, collecting his coat and hat. On an afterthought, he turned towards Renwick. "What of Aubrey Knox?"
Renwick seemed to freeze on the spot. He turned slowly to offer Newbury a wary look. "What of him?"
"He casts a long shadow, is all."
Renwick looked somewhat relieved. "Knox is gone, Newbury. He's not mixed up in this. If he were, I'd smell it."
Newbury gave one short nod of acknowledgement. "Thank you once again, Aldous. I can find my own way out."
Renwick was already fumbling with his tobacco pouch, intent on rollihg himself another cigarette. He didn't look up again as Newbury, bracing himself for the cold, clicked the inner door shut behind him and took his leave.
—— Chapter Thirteen ——
Arbury House, Regent's Park, was exactly the kind of respectable, middle-class address that Newbury expected a successful bachelor such as Wilfred Blake to keep. It was a large, austere building, a Georgian edifice: square, with tall sash windows and a feature entrance. It was, Newbury considered, a fine example of the less ostentatious architecture of a time that had now passed. These days, it was difficult to avoid the horrors of the neo-gothic, and one risked facing gargoyles and other grotesques at every turn.
Clearing his throat, Newbury examined the row of brass address plaques on the wall, and then rapped the knocker with three sharp bursts. He stepped back onto the street, awaiting the attention of the doorman.
To the casual passer-by, Arbury House had the air of a large townhouse about it, but on closer inspection it became apparent that the house was in fact divided into a number of smaller —but no less desirable — apartments. Wilfred Blake, Newbury gleaned from the address plaques, had taken up residence in apartment number six.
Newbury waited for a moment longer, and then stepped forward and rapped the knocker again. This time he called out. "Hello?" There was no response. "Hello?" Shrugging to himself, Newbury tried the handle. It turned. He pushed the door open, surprised by the weight of it, and stepped inside, clicking it carefully shut behind him.
If the exterior of the house had seemed impressive, the hallway proved even more so. The foyer was expansive and well lit by a series of large sash windows in the south wall. The afternoon light spilled through these in long, lazy shafts, picking out the dust motes that swirled chaotically in the air. The floor was tiled in black and white Minton, and a huge staircase curled up to the next floor, and beyond. It was startlingly quiet, save for the barely audible strains of someone playing a violin elsewhere in the building. There was no sign of any doorman.
Newbury searched around. He could see the stairway to the basement levels, and doors to apartments one to five. Blake's residence was obviously on the first floor. He took to the stairs, admiring the portraits that lined the wall as he climbed. The people represented there were obviously members of the owner's family, going back, he guessed, over a hundred years. Their baleful faces watched him as his footsteps rang out on the marble steps.
The first floor landing was a mirror image of the hallway below. The staircase continued up to a second floor, and a series of doors, all painted royal blue, suggested that the floor plan of the apartments on this level matched precisely those of the apartments beneath. Newbury crossed the landing towards the door marked with a brass number "6". A few feet from the door, however, he stopped short. From the angle of his approach he could see that the door had been left slightly ajar. Stepping carefully across the landing, walking on the balls of his feet to ensure that his footsteps were not heard, Newbury edged closer to the door. He stopped just before the threshold, hovering in the hallway. The door stood open by just a couple of inches, but it was enough to cause Newbury to hesitate. Why would Blake have left the door open in such a manner? More likely, an intruder wanted to ensure a quick getaway without the need to fumble with a lock. He put his head close to the opening and listened. There were sounds of someone moving around inside: papers being shuffled, drawers being opened.
What if someone had broken into Blake's apartment? Newbury realised he would have to tread carefully. He was unarmed and alone, and he hadn't told anyone where he was going that afternoon. If he found himself in a difficult spot, he'd only have his wits to get him out of it.
There was a gust of sharp, cold air from along the hallway, and Newbury stepped back from the door, glancing to his left. Along the landing, past the row of doors that led to the other apartments on this floor, was a large window. This window, he assumed, looked out over the back of the house and the streets below. The netting that covered the window was billowing luxuriously in the breeze. Someone had lifted the sash.
Taking care not to make any sounds, Newbury walked to the end of the landing and examined the window frame and ledge, holding the netting back from the frame with his right hand. It was far too cold for someone to have opened the window for air. He ran his other hand around the frame, looking for signs that it may have been forced from the outside. It didn't appear to have been forced, and the catch was perfectly intact.
Holding on to his hat so as not to lose it to a sudden gust, Newbury leaned out over the window ledge. To his surprise, the drop on the other side was only a few feet, terminating on a small roof terrace that must have been accessible from one or more of the apartments themselves. Beyond that, the building was buttressed by a number of other, single-storey buildings, with only a network of thin alleyways between them. If someone planned to use this window as an escape route — or, indeed, a makeshift entrance — it would not have been difficult to get away over the rooftops and from there, down into the relative anonymity of the backstreets of Regent's Park. He considered climbing down to take a better look. He glanced back in the direction of Blake's apartment. He was conscious of the fact that there was still someone poking around inside, and it wouldn't do to let them get away unchallenged. The window could wait. The likelihood was that whoever was in the apartment — assuming it wasn't Blake himself — was responsible for opening the window anyway.
Newbury crept back to the door to apartment number six. Steeling himself, he gently pushed on the open door, hoping that the creak of the hinges wouldn't betray his presence to the person inside. He realised he was holding his breath as he tried not to make a sound. The door caught a little on the deep pile of the wine-coloured carpet on the other side, but Newbury was able to side-step into the hallway beyond.
The apartment appeared to be well furnished and clean. The hallway comprised a long corridor, with three doors stemming off it and a small table just behind the door, its surface covered with a scattering of unopened letters. The first thing that struck Newbury, however, was the rank stench. An all-pervasive odour of rotten meat and decay filled the hallway, assaulting his nostrils and causing bile to rise in his throat. He knew immediately the source of that smell. Ashford. He must be the one in the other room.
Newbury edged along the hallway, staying close to the wall. He could see into the room at the far end of the corridor, which appeared to be a kitchen. He paused, listening for sounds of movement. Just as before, it was clear that someone was rifling through Blake's belongings, in the room just behind where Newbury was standing, his back to the wall. It must have been the drawing room.
Newbury moved across the hall, switching sides so that he was facing the door into the drawing room, his back protectively to the wall on the other side. He shuffled a little closer, until he could see through the open doorway into the room beyond. From the angle he'd achieved, he had a fairly good view of the back half of the room. There was a large, cold fireplace, stark in its simplicity, a large mirror in a gilt frame over the hearth, a busy mantelpiece covered in phot
ographs and statuettes, and the corpse of Wilfred Blake, sprawled messily on the floor. Newbury almost gasped aloud. Blake was still dressed in his evening wear, a black suit and white shirt. But the white shirt was spattered with a spray of dark, arterial blood, turning it a dirty crimson. More of it had pooled on the floor beneath his head, matting the back of his hair. His face was turned so that Newbury could see the gaping, silent mouth and the milky eyes which had rolled back in their sockets. His throat had been cut, roughly, with a blunt blade. His body was surrounded by scattered papers and Ancient Egyptian artefacts which had been cast unceremoniously to the floor during the killer's frantic search. This time, Newbury mused, there hadn't been time for ceremony. Blake, unlike Winthrop, hadn't even been given that honour.
Newbury felt his ire rising. The person on the other side of the wall — Ashford, he was sure — was pacing back and forth. Newbury knew from his brief encounter with Ashford that he was a big powerhouse of a man, but Newbury had the element of surprise. He hoped that would be enough. He had no idea what Dr. Fabian may have done to upgrade Ashford's rebuilt body, but he was certain he was about to find out.
Quietly, Newbury removed his hat, placing it on the floor beside him. He flexed his neck and shoulder muscles. Then, before he allowed himself time to reconsider, he pushed away from the wall, propelling himself forward into the drawing room to face Ashford, and, quite possibly, the fight of his life.
—— Chapter Fourteen ——
The streets of Soho were, as was typical at this time in the afternoon, bustling with people, as Veronica made her way from the bus stop towards the Archibald Theatre. She was dressed in a smart mauve jacket, with matching culottes and a white blouse. Her hair was pinned back beneath a small mauve hat that completed her professional ensemble. She'd come directly from the home of Miss Rebecca Irlam, the most recent of the missing girls, where she'd spent the last two hours consoling the girl's mother and digging around for any information that may help to put her on the trail of the girl's abductor. As anticipated, the details were sketchy, but everything the girl's mother had told her matched what was written in the police report, of which Veronica had managed to obtain a copy from one of Sir Charles's young protégés. Sometimes, being an attractive young woman had its advantages.
