The Osiris Curse

by Paul Crilley

  Octavia was rather surprised at his intensity. Temple was usually a very laid-back person. “Of course,” she said. “We got a good look at him.”

  “Good.” Temple exchanged a knowing look with Chase. “We’ll get you to work with a sketch artist. We can get his face out to all the ports.”

  Octavia frowned. “All the ports? That’s a bit much, isn’t it? He hasn’t done anything to warrant that kind of attention.”

  Temple stood up. “That factory—”

  “Temple,” said Chase. “They don’t need to know.”

  “No, but they deserve to know. They’re involved, however you may wish otherwise.” Temple turned to Tweed and Nightingale. “That factory was Nikola Tesla’s laboratory.”

  “Nikola Tesla?” Octavia looked at Tweed in amazement.

  “Has he been kidnapped?” asked Tweed. “Is that why the Ministry is going so mental?”

  “I wish he had been.” Temple sighed. “Tesla was shot and killed there last night.”

  “Nikola Tesla?” said Tweed.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Octavia could barely believe it. Nikola Tesla was…he was the father of the modern age, even more so than Babbage or Lovelace. He was responsible for almost every technological advance the British Empire had enjoyed over the past few decades. It was his inventions that enabled them to move information wirelessly between computing devices, his Tesla Towers that supplied power to the country, his inventions that drove the new turbines.

  “We didn’t see a body,” said Tweed.

  “It was there. Shoved up against a wall. But I’m afraid it gets worse. You see, Tesla had been given new orders. To develop weapons to protect the country against invasion. With all the trouble from the Tsar, and the rumblings from Germany, it was thought wise for him to turn his thoughts to defense.”

  Chase turned away from the window. “He was developing various weapons. One of them was a machine that could cause earthquakes. Another was a death ray that could be built along the coast to shoot enemy airships out of the sky.”

  “How close was he to perfecting these weapons?” asked Tweed.

  “He was in the prototype stage already,” said Temple. “All Tesla’s notes were taken. All his plans for these weapons.”

  “Do you think it’s the Russians again? The Tsar trying for revenge?”

  “We have no idea,” said Chase.

  “Can you think of anything else you might have seen?” pressed Temple. “Anything at all?”

  Octavia glanced at Tweed and raised her eyebrows. He frowned, then headed over to the desk and sketched something on a piece of paper.

  “We found this,” he said, handing it to Temple. “It was on a ring. The one called Sekhem dropped it.”

  Octavia frowned, wondering why Tweed wasn’t just giving Temple the actual ring. She was about to say something, but Tweed looked at her and shook his head slightly. She sighed and closed her mouth.

  “Egyptian,” said Temple, sounding surprised. He gave it to Chase, who inspected it with interest.

  “Where is the ring now?” asked Chase.

  “At my house. I didn’t want to carry it around with me.”

  “Why would the Egyptians want Tesla dead?” asked Octavia.

  “The same reason anyone would want him dead. To reduce the power of the British Empire,” said Temple.

  “There is someone else who knows about this symbol,” said Octavia. “An archeologist called Stackpole. Apparently, he found it out in Egypt. He’s been asking his colleagues at the museum to help him identify it.”

  “Interesting,” said Temple. “We’ll look into it.”

  “So what do you want us to do?” asked Octavia.

  Chase looked at her in surprise. “You? What do you mean?”

  “You’re training us up. On the orders of the Queen. We can help.”

  Chase laughed. “No. I think not. Whatever Her Majesty has planned for you it does not involve working on Secret Service missions. You’re both just children. What could you possibly do to help?”

  “We saved the Queen. And the prince. And stopped a world war,” said Tweed quietly.

  Chase waved this away. “As I’ve said before, a fluke. You will both return to your homes. Your training is on hiatus until this is all sorted out.”

  “But Wilberforce is my only lead to finding my mother,” protested Octavia.

  “Bad luck. Tesla’s plans are much more important. Your mother is not a mission parameter.”

  “A mission parameter?” said Tweed. “Do you even hear yourself speak? That’s a human being you’re talking about. A real person.”

  “I know,” said Chase coldly. “But when weighed against the potential deaths of thousands should our enemies construct even one of those weapons, a single person just isn’t that important.”

  “You can’t just weigh up a person’s worth!” said Tweed angrily. “What if someone does that to you?”

  Chase arched an eyebrow at him. “Fortunately, I’m important enough that my worth will most likely outweigh whoever I’m measured against.”

  “Not if I’m the one doing the measuring,” said Tweed darkly.

  Octavia put a hand on Tweed’s arm. “Let’s go,” she said softly. There was no point in staying here. They’d get no help from Chase.

  “Make sure you go home,” called out Chase as they stepped into the corridor. “Play with your toys or whatever it is that children do.”

  They left the house and headed for Tweed’s steamcoach. Octavia glanced over her shoulder and saw Temple watching them, framed by warm light from inside the library. He shrugged apologetically.

  Octavia climbed into the passenger side of the coach. “What’s our next move?” she asked as Tweed pumped the bellows.

  “You heard the man. We return to our homes like good little children and let the grown-ups do their work.”

  Octavia looked at him in astonishment. Tweed tried to hold his serious face for as long as he could, then he broke into a grin and elbowed her rather painfully in the ribs. “Only kidding. What do you think we do? We track down Molock and get your mother back.”

  He started the steamcoach and turned it so they were facing the house. “Promise me one thing,” he said, watching Temple and Chase deep in conversation.

  “Anything.”

  “If I ever start talking like that—weighing up a person’s worth like…like pieces in some great game…” He turned and looked deep into her eyes. “You tell me, yes? I don’t want to end up like Chase.”

  “You won’t,” said Octavia, slightly unsettled at Tweed’s serious turn.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’ve got me,” she said, and broke into a brilliant smile. “Now come on. Let’s go see what these hieroglyphs mean.”

  Tweed’s gaze lingered, watching Chase through the window of the library. His lip curled in disgust, then the steamcoach lurched forward, throwing up two streams of gravel behind them.

  Professor Bainbridge opened the door to Octavia’s polite knock. She couldn’t help noticing he looked slightly disappointed to see them.

  “Forgive me. I was hoping it was Dr. Stackpole.”

  “He hasn’t arrived yet?”

  It was two hours since they’d left Ravenstone Lodge. She and Tweed had stopped to eat some lunch before coming to the museum, and Octavia had spent the time trying to make sure Tweed didn’t wallow in his anger. That kind of thing wasn’t healthy.

  Bainbridge ushered them in. A woman of about sixty was seated in front of Bainbridge’s desk. She stood up and smiled politely as Octavia and Tweed entered.

  “Hello. I’m Professor Rowe,” she said, shaking hands with them both. “You must be the youngsters who brought the ring to the professor. I wonder, may I see it?”

  Tweed took the ring out and handed it over. Octavia was suddenly glad he hadn’t given it to Chase. Professor Rowe sat down and examined
it by the desk lamp.

  “Ah, yes. This makes much more sense.”

  Bainbridge scurried over and sat down next to her. “It means something?”

  “Indeed. You see, Stackpole didn’t have the complete drawing. He couldn’t have seen this. But look here. The actual ring is shaped like an eye. The eye adds something to the meaning. It is part of the picture.”

  “So what does it tell you?” asked Tweed.

  “Well, this symbol here of the man on his knees. That is a stylized hieroglyph for death. But these lines here? I think they are meant to represent the Sekhem Scepter—a symbol of power from ancient Egypt. The Sekhem Scepter encapsulates the concept of strength and might. In fact, the word sekhem itself was often used in relation to divine beings. The Egyptians even used it to refer to their gods. There is a rather terrifying goddess called Sekhmet, and the god Osiris was also known as the Great Sekhem.” She smiled. “Which leads us to the shape of the ring.” She traced the shape with her finger. “An eye.”

  “The Eye of Horus?” asked Bainbridge.

  Rowe shook her head. “It is not as intricate as the Horus symbol. No, this indicates the god Osiris.” She looked at them, pleased. “This is what puzzled me. Why the hieroglyphs inside the ring made no sense. But taken together, all three have a meaning.”

  “Do tell,” said Octavia.

  “This is my educated guess. The eye represents Osiris. The kneeling figure, death. But not just death. Taken in connection with the Sekhem Scepter, which represents power, strength, even wrath, I take it to mean, ‘the wrath of Osiris.’ The terrible vengeance of those who wear the ring. Basically, it tells all that if you get in the way of the owner of the ring you will face the curse of Osiris, the wrath of the mighty god.

  “But why have that on a ring?” asked Octavia.

  “Perhaps some group is using it as a means of identification. The followers of Egyptian lore always have a fascination with these types of things.”

  “A secret society?” said Tweed doubtfully.

  “Indeed.”

  “Like the Freemasons?”

  “More likely a group of rich socialites trying to make themselves seem important. But we’ll only know for sure when Stackpole arrives.”

  Bainbridge frowned and checked his watch. “I wonder where he is. He was most keen for this meeting. I don’t see what could have kept him away.”

  “Do you have his address?” asked Octavia. “We can go and see what’s keeping him. Perhaps he just misremembered the time.”

  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” said Bainbridge. “Just be careful. As I mentioned before, he’s a bit paranoid.” Bainbridge scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Octavia.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Belgravia,” said Tweed doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

  Octavia held up the piece of paper. “10 Wilton Crescent, Belgravia. Third floor.”

  “But…” Tweed gestured around them at the up market, multistory houses. “If he can afford to live in Belgravia, why not fund his own archeological dig? He must be loaded.”

  Belgravia, and the areas surrounding it in Knightsbridge, were amongst the most sought-after addresses in the city. Definitely not the kind of place a lowly archeologist should be able to afford.

  “Perhaps he rents,” said Octavia doubtfully, heading toward the semicircle of five-story houses that curved around an expansive central garden.

  “You think that would be any cheaper?”

  “No, probably not.”

  They hurried along the cleared sidewalk, ignoring the suspicious glares they received from any of the residents of the area brave enough to be out in the cold weather.

  Octavia shivered. “What I wouldn't give for some sun right now. I'm tired of all this grey.”

  “It's not grey,” Tweed pointed out. “It's white.”

  “You know what I mean. The clouds, the rain. I want some blue sky, some heat. Some sand.”

  Tweed sniffed derisively. “Why? Horrible stuff. Gets everywhere. Even into sealed boxes. I had a theory once, when I was younger. About sand. Want to hear it?”

  “What if I say no?”

  “I'll tell you anyway, but I'll be slightly resentful with you for the rest of the day.”

  Octavia sighed. “Go ahead.”

  “I used to think that sand was some sort of…otherworldly life form. Like something H. G. Wells would write about. Think about it. Sand travels across the oceans to every single land mass. It uses the native life forms to then move even farther inland, traveling to strategic areas, ready for the big day when the attack would come.”

  “The attack?” said Octavia.

  “That's right.”

  “By sand.”

  Tweed held up a finger. “Ah. No. Alien sand. See, there's a difference.”

  “Of course there is. Remind me again why you don't have many friends?”

  Tweed stopped in front of number 10, the door identical to all the other doors in the long semicircle of joined houses. Tweed tried the door. It opened into a dim, carpeted passage. He could smell bleach and tobacco.

  It wasn't like a tenement house, where a set of stone steps were hidden away behind a grubby door. These richly carpeted stairs headed up from the central atrium where Tweed and Octavia currently stood. The decorative banister curled around the walls all the way to the top floor.

  They climbed up to the third level, stopping at the landing in front of a black, glossy door. Octavia knocked.

  No answer. Tweed reached over her shoulder and knocked harder.

  “Yes, because he obviously didn't hear me, what with me being so weak and dainty, and all feminine-like.”

  “Don't be absurd, Songbird,” said Tweed. “I'd never think that of you. Feminine. Really.” Tweed shook his head and stepped in front of her to hide his grin. He tried the door and was rather surprised when it swung silently open.

  Tweed felt his stomach sink. That was never a good sign, was it?

  They both stepped into the room.

  “Oh,” said Tweed softly. “Oh dear.”

  The sitting room was a mess. It had been ransacked: books pulled from shelves and tossed carelessly across the floor, chairs and couches upended and ripped apart, the stuffing yanked free like the innards of a dying animal. Every available drawer had been pulled from its place, the contents strewn across the floor. Paintings and photographs had been torn from the walls, their backings removed in the search.

  Tweed pulled Octavia into the room and closed the door behind them.

  That was when he saw the body.

  It had been hidden behind the door when it stood open. A man, Stackpole presumably, tied to a chair. He was shirtless, his wrinkled skin a mess of cuts and bruises. The carpet beneath his feet was stained with dark blood.

  Tweed stepped forward, his eyes taking everything in, just as Barnaby had taught him. Fingers, broken. Those he still had, that was. Four of them had been cut off at the knuckle. He glanced around and saw them on the sideboard, arranged in a neat line, all of them resting upright, like pillars of stone.

  “Tortured,” he said.

  “No, really?” said Octavia.

  Tweed raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Sorry. A bit nervous. Get sarcastic when I'm nervous.”

  “Doesn't look like he talked, though,” said Tweed.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The place wouldn't be such a mess if he'd talked before he died.” He leaned closer. The man's jaw had been broken. His eyes, staring sightlessly straight ahead, were ruptured, the whites filled with blood. There was a gaping wound across his neck. Tweed pointed to it.

  “Killing blow. Out of frustration, more than anything else. Stackpole wouldn't tell them what they wanted to know, so his killer lashed out. See how the cut is uneven, off center? The killer let his emotions get the better of him.”

  “And what is it they wanted to know?”

  Tweed turned away from the man. “I w
ould assume they were looking for this ancient map everyone's talking about. Or his research, maybe.” Tweed glanced around the room. He knew he shouldn't be feeling so elated, so alive, but he couldn't help it. The excitement was rising inside, the boredom of the past months burned away by mystery.

  “You could try looking a bit less pleased about it,” said Octavia shortly. “That's a human being there. He has family, friends.”

  “I know that,” said Tweed defensively. “And we're going to catch whoever it was who did it.”

  “Are we now?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “How are we going to do that? We have no idea what's going on here.”

  He glanced around the room, ignoring her question. “I suppose there's no chance of us finding anything, but we should at least take a look.”

  They spent the next half an hour searching through papers and books, beneath the couches, under the bed, even inside the cupboards. But there was nothing to find.

  Tweed eventually gave up. He stood with his hands on his hips and stared around the room in frustration. Nothing. Not a single thing.

  He was about to call Octavia from the bedroom when he heard a noise.

  It came from outside the door. A slight scraping sound. He pressed himself up against the wall and listened. The sound didn't come again. His imagination? A tenant heading downstairs?

  Tweed reached out and gripped the doorknob, turning it slowly. He carefully pulled the door open, peering out into the landing.

  The blank, gold face of a pharaoh stared back at him.

  Tweed blinked in surprise. It looked like the kind of face you always saw associated with Egypt. The gold face with the striped headdress. Except, the mask didn't cover the person's face completely. The lower half was visible, a mouth that was set in angry lines.

  All these observations flashed through his mind in the second after he opened the door. He didn't have a chance to do anything else because the figure brought up a curved knife up and thrust it at him.

  Tweed swung the door shut, putting it between himself and the knife. The blade thudded into the wood. The strange figure tried to pull it free, but Tweed yanked the door open again. The man's grip slipped. He let go of the knife and Tweed kicked him hard in the stomach.