The Osiris Ritual (14 page)

Clearly Renwick was intent on exploring that boundary, and judging by the protective wards he had chiselled into the doors, walls and floor, he was taking no risks, either.

Renwick set the kettle to boil, and then turned and waved Newbury in the direction of a chair, which was covered in a heaped pile of papers. “Take a seat, man. You may be here for some time.”

Newbury smiled, and bending low, scooped the debris from the seat and placed it by the foot of the chair in a neat pile on the floor. He lowered himself into the chair, dropping his coat over the back and resting his hat on the white porcelain head of a phrenology bust that sat on a low table beside him. He watched Renwick as the other man crossed to his still, used a pair of tongs to remove the flask of bubbling pink liquid from the heat, and poured a measure of the stuff into a blue coffee cup, before returning the vessel to the flame. He blew gently on the hot liquid, and then took a long draw, swal owing it down with a hearty gasp. He placed the empty cup on the workbench beside him, and turned to Newbury. “Right. Your screaming mummy.”

Newbury chuckled. He had no idea what the pink concoction contained, but he was sure it had a large measure of alcohol in it, whatever else. He met Renwick’s strange, glowing gaze. “So tell me, what have you found?”

Renwick’s mechanical eye seemed to refocus on the Crown investigator. His other eye continued to twitch nervously. “I believe I know the identity of your mysterious dead man. A priest, who served the Pharaoh Thutmose I at Thebes, around fifteen hundred years before Christ.”

“Go on.”

“His name was Khemosiri, ‘the black Osiris’. You do know the story of Osiris, don’t you, Newbury?”

Newbury shrugged. “I have a rudimentary understanding of the myth. But go ahead —

enlighten me.” He sat back in the chair, intrigued, his fingers forming a steeple on his lap.

“Osiris was the king of the Land of the Dead. He stood in judgement over the dead, having supplanted the god Anubis as the overseer of the afterlife. To an Ancient Egyptian noble, the afterlife was everything: the chance to live forever beyond the physical world. Osiris was the god who straddled the two realms, who ultimately decided their fate. He enabled their resurrection after mummification.” Renwick paused as he col ected his tongs and poured himself another measure of the pink liquid. He nursed the coffee cup in his hands as he continued. “Osiris was unique in the Egyptian pantheon, however. The myth tells of how he was murdered by his brother, Set, first drowned and then cut into thirteen pieces and scattered throughout Egypt. Osiris’s wife, Isis, was able to find twelve of these parts, however, and with a singing spell she learned from her father she was able to effect a resurrection. The lovers enjoyed congress, in which their son, Horus, was conceived, and shortly after Osiris died once again and became king of the Land of the Dead.”

“Fascinating. A resurrection spel . And so the mummy —

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 pul ed down a leather-bound volume. He flicked through it purposeful y, 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 al 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. . wel 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 ful 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 wel 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 accidental y 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 al . 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 instal ed 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 al 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 cigarette 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, col ecting 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.

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. “Hel o?” 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 hal way 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.