The Osiris Ritual

by George Mann

  Soon, darkness overcame her.

  —— Chapter Fifteen ——

  Newbury barrelled around the corner of Blake's drawing room, fully expecting to be confronted by a large man, clad in a thick black cloak, rifling through Blake's belongings. What he actually found, however, was a younger, more diminutive fellow, dressed in a brown corduroy jacket and slacks. The other man turned, startled, when he heard Newbury burst into the room.

  "Ah! Sir Maurice! Thank goodness you're here. I was about to send for the police."

  "Purefoy! What the devil..." Newbury lowered his guard, but only fractionally. He glanced at the corpse on the floor, spattered in blood, and then back at the young reporter.

  Purefoy looked sheepish. "I... I can explain!"

  Newbury regarded him. Could it really be that this young man was mixed up in these murders? He thought it unlikely. But Newbury had now found Purefoy hovering at the scene of two of the crimes. What was his connection to the dead men? Newbury couldn't, at this stage, discount his involvement. He hoped it was only a journalist's instinct that had led the reporter to the murder scenes. There were questions that needed Answers. "Mr. Purefoy, this is the second time I've encountered you in less than salubrious situations. I think it is time we had another of our little discussions." Purefoy nodded, a serious expression on his face. "So, tell me — how do you come to be in the apartment of a murdered man, searching through his belongings in such a manner?"

  Purefoy dropped the sheaf of papers he was holding onto the rosewood writing desk that stood against the far wall, and crossed the room, coming to stand before Newbury. Blake's belongings were scattered everywhere: everything from fine antiquities to old editions of The Times.

  "Did you make this mess?"

  "No! Not at all. It was like this when I entered the apartment. I found the place in this terrible mess. The killer was evidently searching for something, just like he had been at Lord Winthrop's place."

  Newbury sighed. "Hmmm. Let's just slow down a little, before you jump to that kind of conclusion."

  "What conclusion?" Purefoy looked a little bemused.

  "That the person who murdered Lord Winthrop is the same person responsible for... this." He grimaced as he glanced down at Blake's body, on the hearth before the fireplace just a few feet from where he was standing. He cleared his throat, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "So, tell me, what was the purpose of your visit?"

  "I came to interview Wilfred Blake — about the expedition, you understand. And Winthrop's murder. I wanted to see if he had any comments. If he felt his own life might have been in danger..." He trailed off as he realised the weight of his own words. He met Newbury's unwavering gaze. He sighed. "To be truthful, Sir Maurice, I hoped to discover whether Mr. Blake had any real notion of what had happened to Lord Winthrop."

  Newbury couldn't help but smile. Perhaps he had been right about the boy, perhaps he did have the necessary instincts to make it as an agent of the Crown. He resolved to find out. "So, carry on."

  "Well, I arrived around ten minutes ago. I had Blake's address from the offices of The Times. We'd interviewed him before, in relation to the Theban expedition. I made my way here by ground train from Westminster, and approached the building in plain view. Finding there was no commissionaire on the door, and that the door was open, I entered and made my way to Blake's apartment. Until that point I had no reason to suspect that anything was wrong." He paused for breath. The story was spilling out of him at a remarkable rate, and Newbury had to pay close attention to decipher the stream of gabbled words. "When I got here the door was slightly ajar. I knocked, but received no reply. I hesitated on the threshold, trying to discern the best course of action. It was then that I became aware of a banging sound from somewhere inside. I pushed on the door, and to my surprise a large chap, whose face was obscured by a thick black cloak, came charging out of the apartment, slammed into me, knocked me to the floor and hurtled away down the landing. I called out, but he didn't stop, and a moment later he slipped out through that open window and onto the rooftop beyond."

  Newbury noticed that Purefoy was holding his right arm awkwardly by his side. If his story was to be trusted then he must have been hurt in the fall, when Ashford had pushed him to the ground. "So, what, didn't you think of following him, or calling for the neighbours?"

  Purefoy didn't know where to look. "I..." Newbury could tell he was embarrassed to speak the truth. "I fear my reporter's instinct overtook me. That, and the fact I was concerned for Mr. Blake's wellbeing. I pushed my way into the apartment and found him, like this." He indicated Blake's corpse. "It was a shock. I'll admit that much."

  Newbury nodded thoughtfully. "Did you touch the body?"

  Purefoy shook his head resolutely. "No. Not at all. I even started out to find the police. But then I got to thinking. Who was the chap in the black cloak, and what was it exactly that he'd been looking for? I was taking a look through the items he'd strewn around the place when you burst in a few moments ago."

  Newbury sighed. It sounded like a believable tale, and his instinct was to trust the young reporter. Nevertheless, he couldn't discount the potential that Purefoy was somehow involved.

  Purefoy filled the silence that had grown between them. "So, Sir Maurice, do you have any understanding of who that man could have been? The man in the cloak, I mean?"

  Newbury nodded. "I do. I do indeed." Purefoy looked at him expectantly. "His name is William Ashford," Newbury said. "And he's a dangerous man."

  "A foreign agent?"

  Newbury frowned. "You could say that." His voice was grim.

  "And what of the stench? He carries a rank odour if ever I encountered one."

  "Ashford is... not the man he once was," was all Newbury offered in reply. In truth, he still had no real notion of where the foul smell originated. He presumed it must have something to do with the dubious work that Dr. Fabian had carried out on the man.

  Purefoy looked curious. "What did he want, with Winthrop and Blake? What is he looking for?"

  Newbury was unsure how much to tell him. He hadn't yet decided to what degree the reporter was involved in the murders, and besides, for all Newbury's theorising, much of his information was nothing but supposition. "Something to do with the expedition. Something they found. It's all connected with that screaming mummy we saw back at Winthrop's party. There were secrets buried with that ancient priest. Secrets that Ashford appears anxious to get his hands on."

  Purefoy nodded. "So what next?"

  Newbury glanced down at the contorted cadaver on the floor. "Next we examine the body."

  "Turn up that gas jet over there, Purefoy. It's too dark in here. Oh, and see if you can find some brandy."

  Purefoy looked perplexed. "Do you intend to use it to clean the wound?"

  Newbury looked up from the body. His face was serious.' "No. I intend to drink it." Purefoy chuckled and set about his tasks.

  Newbury was kneeling by the corpse. It was a bloody mess. The man's throat had been entirely gouged out, ripped open with a blunt instrument, such as an old penknife or letter-opener. It was different from Winthrop's murder, executed with less finesse, but just as effective. Newbury was convinced that whoever had committed the murder had a hand in both deaths. The motivation was clearly the same: the victims had something the killer wanted.

  He walked through what he supposed had happened in his mind's eye. Winthrop had been grabbed from behind, his throat slashed rudely from right to left. His body had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor and left there to bleed out on the oil cloth. His formerly white dress shirt was now stained a deep crimson, and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, as if searching for an absent god. They were developing a milky, glazed appearance, and Newbury, shuddering, reached over and closed the lids with his fingertips. It was a dubious kind of rest, but Newbury could not stand the cold, accusing glare any longer. He couldn't help thinking that he should have somehow warned the man earlier. He resolved to take it up with
Charles. The other members of the expedition had to be protected.

  Newbury rocked back on his haunches. The problem, he mused, was not in identifying the nature of the killer, for he was already convinced that Ashford was the culprit, but in tracking the man. Ashford knew how to disappear. That much was clear to Newbury. His quarry had spent years living undercover in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. An agent could not live through an experience like that without gleaning at least a handful of new tricks. Even putting that to one side, Ashford had once been an agent for the British Crown, and as such, he had received at least the same measure of training as Newbury himself. If Ashford chose not to show his hand, Newbury knew that he could be in for a very long game of cat and mouse indeed.

  He glanced over his shoulder, looking to the door. He hoped that brandy would come soon. His skin was starting to crawl and he was beginning to sweat: symptoms, he knew, of his addiction. Hopefully, the alcohol would help to take the edge off, for a short while, at least. He listened out for Purefoy. He couldn't hear the boy. For a moment he almost panicked, thinking that he may have allowed Purefoy the perfect opportunity to slip away, but a moment later the reporter reappeared from the hallway, bearing a large tumbler and a wide grin. "Here you are, sir. I hope that helps take the edge off." Newbury looked at him suspiciously. He couldn't possibly know...could he? Newbury accepted the glass, regardless. He didn't have time to concern himself with the matter.

  Purefoy leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees and examining the corpse with inexpert eyes. "So, what of the body?"

  Newbury followed his gaze. He could see no real harm in making Purefoy aware of the details. He'd given the young man plenty of opportunities to trip himself up, and so far he had only managed to reward Newbury's faith in him. He was perceptive and inquisitive, and could prove to be a great asset in helping to bring Ashford to justice. He continued to stare at the body whilst he talked. "Assuming that none of this is going to end up in the morning edition..." He paused, waiting for Purefoy to nod his agreement before continuing. He indicated Blake's devastated throat. "His throat has been cut from behind, the perpetrator using his left hand to slash from right to left. It was a brutal murder, and the killer showed no respect for his victim. Nevertheless, it was an efficient execution. Whoever it was wanted Blake dead, and he achieved that goal swiftly and without emotion. It's not unlike Lord Winthrop's death, in many respects, aside from the ceremony. The killer had time to place Winthrop's body where it would have maximum effect — a calling card, if you will. Here, he had no such luxury and was forced to leave Blake's body where it fell." He took a long draw of his brandy, feeling the warmth of it spreading, most welcome, throughout his body. "I don't believe the killer came here specifically to murder Blake. I think Blake is almost irrelevant to the equation. The killer — Ashford — wanted something that Blake had, and Blake, unfortunately, just found himself in the way."

  Purefoy looked taken aback. "My God..."

  Newbury empathised with the sentiment. "Quite. Quite so."

  Newbury sunk another measure of his brandy, and then placed the empty glass on the mantelpiece. He glanced around. Items were strewn all over the place. He didn't know where to start. If Purefoy's testimony was to be believed, the reporter had disturbed Ashford mid-search, and whatever he was trying to find could still be there, buried somewhere under the mess.

  He leaned on the fire surround, considering his next move. The grate beneath was cold, well stocked with coal. But something about it struck a sharp note of discord. There! Buried in the coals to the far right of the grate was something small and metallic. He stooped closer to see. It was long and thin, the pommel and guard of a small silver blade. Purefoy moved round to stand beside him. "What is it?"

  Newbury smiled. "The murder weapon." He reached into his breast pocket and produced a white, monogrammed handkerchief. "The killer has abandoned the knife in the fireplace."

  Purefoy crouched down to take a closer look. "Yes. Yes, you're right!"

  Newbury pinched the handkerchief between his fingers and reached down, withdrawing the blade from where it jutted inconspicuously between the coals. It was covered in blood and gritty, black dust. It was about five inches long, from its tip to its hilt, and fashioned from fine silver. Newbury turned it over in his hand and regarded it carefully. "It's an antique. A letter-opener." He glanced over at Blake's desk, but the leather writing surface was so buried in Ashford's mess that he was unable to tell if that was where it had come from. "I think Ashford must have simply grabbed the first thing to hand. It shows incredible resourcefulness. Not as though that's any consolation for poor old Blake, here."

  "Do you think the police will find fingerprints? Something to help us confirm the identity of the killer?"

  Newbury shrugged. "I don't suppose we will, no. Ashford's too clever for that. And besides, he knows we're on to him. He'll have to try a different tactic, now. Fingerprints won't help us find him." Newbury looked thoughtful. "I wonder where he was going when he bolted through that window? Those rooftops could lead him anywhere."

  "Assuming he found what he wanted, of course." Newbury turned towards Purefoy. "How so?"

  Purefoy gestured around the room, both of his arms outstretched. "Look at this place. He's turned the apartment upside-down looking for... whatever it is that you think he's looking for. It could be I disturbed him before he found what he wanted." He shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps he'll return when he thinks it's safe. It depends very much on how much he needs what was here. And, judging by the state of Blake, I'd say it seemed as if he needed it very much."

  Newbury was impressed. "Good thinking, Purefoy. It's certainly a possibility." Newbury bent low and placed the letter-opener .neatly on the floor beside the body. He folded his handkerchief — which was now filthy with blood and coal — away into his trouser pocket. It wouldn't do to leave the murder weapon at the scene, wrapped in one of his personal, monogrammed items. Not that he feared the police would in any way consider him a suspect, but he didn't want to set them accidentally down the wrong path. He brushed himself down. "Come on, Purefoy. There's little else we can do here. We need to inform the police. Sir Charles and his men will be here like a shot." He turned and left the room, Purefoy following closely behind.

  On the landing, Newbury stopped and looked back over his shoulder to ensure the reporter was following. "Before we take our leave I want to have a look at that rooftop, to see if Ashford left any traces behind in his haste." He ushered Purefoy out of the apartment and then clicked the door shut behind him, testing it to ensure it was secure. He didn't want any of the neighbours accidentally stumbling across such a terrible scene.

  At the end of the landing, the window was open, just as Newbury had left it. A cold breeze was gusting in from outside. He could hear the sounds of distant traffic: horses, ground trains and carriages, all clattering along the busy thoroughfares of the city. Newbury brushed the netting aside and leaned out, taking another measure of the drop to the rooftop below.

  "Here, hold this." Newbury slipped out of his topcoat and handed it to the reporter. Then, grasping hold of the edges of the wooden frame, he placed his knee on the windowsill and hauled himself up, propelling himself through the opening and down to the roof below. He landed in a squat. Rising to his full height, he looked back to see Purefoy following suit. His topcoat was draped over the window frame. Newbury chuckled to himself. The young man was incorrigible. He supposed the coat would be lost, now, and he'd have to explain to Charles why it had been left behind at the scene. Thankfully, Newbury knew many of the inspectors at the Yard, and they in turn were aware of the services he had provided over the years in helping to bring a variety of criminals to justice. Newbury regularly left traces of his presence behind him at crime scenes, but a mixture of police incompetence and Newbury's reputation meant that such matters were disregarded and he was seen as being above suspicion.

  The light was fading now, and a wispy mist was beginnin
g to settle on the rooftops. The moon was peeking out behind grey clouds: a bright, shimmering orb, hung low in the sky like a curious Chinese lantern. In the distance, airships soared lazily over the city. It was early evening, and soon enough the night would draw in. Newbury, feeling the bite of the cold, looked around, trying to spot any trace of the rogue agent. The roof terrace stretched away in both directions. It had once been grand, affording an admirable view of the urban spread of the capital, but it was clearly now in disuse. A row of large plant pots abutted the wall, the flowers inside them now choked by weeds and fumes from the steam engines that traversed the streets below. A small rail ran around the outer edges of the terrace, there, Newbury presumed, to prevent people from accidentally tumbling to their deaths. Two old wooden chairs, rotten through, had been abandoned in one corner, surrounded by the spent ends of expensive cigarettes that had been cast haphazardly from the window above. They were scattered, too, across the paving stones upon which Newbury now stood. 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 allow 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, follow his gut.