The Osiris Ritual (9 page)

“So he got away? No one went after him?”

“Plenty of people went after him. But no one ever found him. He disappeared. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Her Majesty still had people looking for him now, all over the world. But poor old Ashford was buried a few days later, and I had to break the news to his wife. It was a sorry business indeed.”

“So why have I never heard of this before?”

“Because, Newbury, you were brought in to replace him. In many ways you’re the same sort of man: brilliant, dedicated, effective. But even the very best of men are fallible. Don’t think that I don’t know about your fondness for the laudanum, for a start.”

“Look, let’s not get into that now.”

Bainbridge took a long draw on his brandy. “The Queen is worried. Not because she doubts you, you understand; but because she’s seen it before. Knox left a bad taste in her mouth. In al our mouths. She’s concerned that, one day, you may drift too close to the line, that the allure of the occult is too strong, not just for you, but for any man.”

Newbury gripped the arms of his chair. “God damn it, Charles! That’s ridiculous. How can she equate me with a man like that? I have a mind to head back there now, to have it out of her myself!”

Bainbridge slammed his drink down on his desk with a bang. “Don’t be a fool, Newbury! Didn’t you hear what I said?

It’s precisely that sort of behaviour that Her Majesty is trying to avoid.” He stood, looking down at his friend. “Newbury, we’ve been friends for a long time. Listen to me when I tell you this. Stay away from this. It’ll do you no good. Ashford is dead, Knox is lost, and you, my friend, are one of the finest men I know. It wouldn’t do to mix yourself up in this business. The Queen has nothing to fear.

I’ve told her that myself. She’s simply trying to protect you.”

Newbury looked up at Bainbridge, resignation in his eyes. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Charles. Ashford isn’t dead, at least not in the way you think he is.”

“What?”

“The Queen told me herself, just this morning. It’s all starting to make a horrible sort of sense.

After what happened at the docks — after they found Ashford’s shredded remains —Dr. Fabian took the body to his laboratory and rebuilt him. He’s still alive, but he’s barely human. Her Majesty said he is à blunt instrument’ and ‘no longer a man in the way that I’d understand it’. He’s been living undercover in St. Petersburg for five years. Now, for some reason, he’s gone rogue. He’s probably somewhere in London as we speak. Her Majesty thinks he’s returned to wreak vengeance, that he’s probably half mad. She’s charged me with bringing him in.”

Bainbridge flushed red. He looked flustered. “My God. .” He grabbed for his glass and downed the rest of his brandy in one long gulp. “It seems that I don’t know everything, after all.”

“I’m beginning to think it’s an epidemic.” Newbury took a pul on his own brandy. “Do you think he’s come looking for Knox?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. Knox hasn’t been heard of for years. ‘There could be other reasons.”

“Such as?”

Bainbridge shrugged. “Al I know is that the Ashford I knew would never go rogue. Not without a damn good reason. Perhaps he’s on to something. Perhaps he’s following a trail. Or perhaps he really has lost his mind.”

Newbury nodded, slowly. “Perhaps. Being half-dead for five years, trapped in Russia without his family. No one could blame him.” He placed his empty tumbler on the edge of Bainbridge’s mahogany desk. “Wil you help me, Charles? I don’t even know where to begin.”

The Chief Inspector looked pained. “Newbury. . I can’t. I have no time. I’m about to head out to the scene of a murder. A high-profile one, too. A lord has been found dead in his home. I need to attend to it before I can think of anything else.”

Newbury smiled. “Of course. Can I ask — what are the circumstances?”

“It’s all rather rum. Lord Henry Winthrop, found dead in his drawing room at Albion House. He held an extravagant soiree on Tuesday evening, something to do with a mummy unrol ing. He’d just returned from an expedition to Egypt. It looks like a bungled robbery, according to the chaps on the scene. The burglar may have been disturbed by Winthrop: there’s not a great deal missing. We’re wondering if someone scoped the place out during the party and tried to come back the next day.”

Newbury was already on his feet. “Charles! I was there. Two nights ago, at the party. I spoke to Winthrop. My God. .”

“What! Then you could be of use to me on the scene. Can you talk me through what happened there?”

“Of course. I may even be able to point you to a suspect. There was a heated exchange at the party between Winthrop and a man named Blake. Wilfred Blake. He left under a heavy cloud.”

“Good man! Come on, grab your coat. The carriage should be ready and waiting. Once we’ve got this nasty business out of the way I can help you with Ashford, assuming that he doesn’t show his hand in the meantime.” Bainbridge strode over to the coat stand in the corner and col ected his overcoat, gloves and cane. Newbury fol owed suit. He couldn’t help but wonder if, somehow, Winthrop’s death would prove to be connected to the mystery surrounding the screaming mummy.

But it was not enough of a distraction to quell the rising feeling of disquiet that gripped him, tightly, in the chest, every time he considered Bainbridge’s words: “The Queen is worried. . even the very best of men are fallible.”

He knew that feeling only too well himself.

Together, the two men set out for Albion House.

Veronica stood on the gravel path at the foot of the sanatorium building and tried to will herself to smile. It was mid-morning, and the journey to Wandsworth had been fraught with chaos. The progress of her hansom had been arrested at the scene of a terrible accident, in which a small, steam-powered vehicle had exploded, sprinkling the driver in a bloody mess across a residential square, leaving debris scattered over the road and frightened horses bolting in every conceivable direction. Many cabs, including her own, had been dragged halfway across the neighbourhood, and Veronica would not have been surprised to learn that these errant vehicles themselves had been the cause of further accidents. Thankfully, her driver had been quick to get his spooked horses under control, and had soon arranged for a swift detour to avoid the inevitable delays that awaited them in the other direction.

In truth, however, Veronica knew it was not this that had leftt her feeling so dejected. Sir Maurice had failed to make their appointment once again that morning, and whilst she knew that she shouldn’t blame him — wrapped up as he was in the whole “screaming mummy” affair — she couldn’t help but feel a little slighted that he should choose to spend his time worrying about a musty old corpse rather than aiding her with a serious investigation.

Then, of course, there was Amelia. Last time she had visited her younger sister, a week earlier, Veronica had found the experience almost unbearable. Amelia was growing weaker and frailer with every passing day. It was as if her sporadic seizures were somehow draining the life out of her, stealing her vitality, as if she was suffering from some kind of wasting disease that was slowly dragging her towards death. Veronica couldn’t bear to stand by and watch that happen. She cared for Amelia too much.

She stared up at the building. It looked foreboding, deserted. The airing courts were empty, and a thick, rolling mist lay heavy on the gardens. The clock tower disappeared into the milky sky above the entrance. She couldn’t put it off any longer. Sighing, Veronica walked decisively towards the sanatorium, her boots crunching noisily on the loose gravel.

Inside, the reception area was a remarkable counterpoint to the misty solitude of the sanatorium grounds. Here, there were signs of life in plenitude. A nurse sat behind the reception desk, a vacant expression on her face; a doctor strolled purposefully along the corridor, his shoes clicking on the tiled floor; the sounds of patients in their rooms, suffering from any number of terrible mental afflictions. Veronica always felt disconcerted by the sounds of the inmates. Their keening, shouting, wailing and babbling was a constant background noise, disturbing and inescapable. It left her feeling edgy, as if she was surrounded by fear, and it was this, if nothing else, that made her wish that Amelia could be found a more salubrious environment in which to heal. She was certain that her sister’s surroundings were adding to her slow decline. Veronica blamed her parents for that, for washing their hands of the “embarrassment”. They had insisted on having her committed. What she needed was love, and to be treated like a real person, not someone who needed to be hidden away from society, or else a puzzle that was proving difficult to solve.

Distracted, Veronica turned to see Dr. Mason, Amelia’s physician, approaching across the reception hal . He looked tired, worn down by his work. He was dressed in a smart black suit with a white collar, although he had evidently removed his tie and had forgotten to replace it. He was swarthy, with dark hair swept back from his forehead, in his fifties, and when he spoke his voice was filled with relief. “Miss Hobbes. I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve been trying unsuccessful y to reach your parents for a week now.”

Veronica frowned. “Dr. Mason, I do not pretend to fol ow their movements. I fear I am no better equipped to locate them than you. Perhaps they are visiting Father’s cousin, in Paris.” Her expression softened to one of concern. “Why? Is there news of Amelia?”

Dr. Mason looked pained. It was evidently bad news. “Your sister is gravely ill, Miss Hobbes. I fear you must prepare yourself.. ”

Veronica gave an involuntary, wracking sob. Prepare herself. . Then things had become even more desperate for Amelia. Quickly, she gathered her composure, but her voice was thin and reedy when she spoke. “How long?”

Dr. Mason shook his head. “I cannot answer that, Miss Hobbes. Two or three months would be my estimate, judging by the rate of her deterioration.”

Veronica realised she was clenching her fists so hard that her fingernails were biting into the flesh of her palms. “Is there nothing you can do?”

The doctor looked shame-faced. “I can make her comfortable.” He wouldn’t meet her eye.

Veronica blinked away stinging tears. “Where is she?”

“This way. I’ll take you to her.” He set off along the corridor, and Veronica trailed behind him.

She dabbed at her eyes, attempting to regain her composure.

A few moments later, after following the doctor through a seemingly endless warren of blank, sterile passageways, they stopped before a door. “She’s in there. She may be asleep.” He turned, glancing back the way they had come. “I’l give you some time alone. Try not to tire her too much.

And do your best to stay buoyant.” He coughed once into his fist and then, smoothing the front of his suit, he left her there, standing outside the door. In a moment his echoing footsteps had dissolved into the ever-present cacophony of voices.

Steadying herself, Veronica reached for the handle and pushed the door open, stepping into the room. It was small, with space for only a single bed, a chair, and a bedside table. It was lit only by a single lamp, and the curtains were drawn shut over the window.

On the bed her sister lay slumped, almost entirely subsumed by the pil ows and blankets. Her raven-black hair spilled out all around her face, and she looked painfully thin, emaciated by her inability to eat. Her eyes were sunken pits, and her face was gaunt. She was only nineteen years old, but could easily have passed for a woman twice her age. To Veronica, though, she was still beautiful.

She offered her brightest smile as Amelia turned to look at her, startled by the sound of the door clicking back into place.

“Sister, don’t think I don’t realise what people see when they look at me.” She offered Veronica a hard stare. “I’m dying. Degenerating. And the doctors don’t understand why. I’ve seen myself in the mirror.” Her face softened. “You don’t have to hide your dismay.”

Veronica crossed to her bedside. “I don’t hide anything from you, Amelia.”

“Then why are you standing there trying to pretend that everything is normal?”

“You know why.”

Amelia shrugged. “I’m not scared, Veronica. It’s nothing new. People die every day. It’s the same for us all. Life is simply one long fight towards death. I’ve come to realise that all we learn from life, all we truly learn, is how to die with dignity. I intend to do just that.”

“My God, Amelia…”

“Do you believe in God, sister? I mean really, truly believe in him?”

Veronica hesitated. Her voice was a breathless whisper. “I. . no. I don’t. At least not in the way you mean. I —”

“It’s alright,” Amelia cut in, her voice faltering. She turned her head on the pillow so that she was looking at the panelled door. “Neither do I. I don’t have the capacity to imagine an afterlife.”

Veronica sucked in her breath. “Amelia, that’s a terribly stark view of life.”

“It’s a terribly honest view.”

“And that’s what you want? For everything to end?” Veronica couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice.

Amelia tried to sit up. She turned to meet her sister’s gaze. “No! That’s not what I want. Quite the opposite. I want to live. I’m not ready for it all to end. Not yet. But all the same, I recognise the end is near.”

Veronica shook her head. “Don’t you dare stop fighting this, Amelia!”

Amelia smiled and allowed herself to sink back into the folds of the pillows. “Veronica, I have no intention of giving up without a fight. Now,” she beckoned her sister closer, “wil you come here and let me look at you properly? I want to hear all of your news.”

Veronica stifled another sob. She knew she needed to be strong for Amelia. Later, when she was at home, in the darkness. Then she could al ow herself to cry.

She propped herself on the edge of the bed, taking up her sister’s hand, and realising, surprised, that in the intervening seconds Amelia had drifted off into unconsciousness. Sighing, she brushed Amelia’s long, dark hair away from her forehead, and watched her breathing, an overwhelming sense of sadness in her heart.