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  The Osiris Ritual

  A Newbury & Hobbes Investigation

  George Mann

  The Osiris Ritual copyright 2009 George Mann

  George Mann asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved

  First edition

  Proudly published in 2009 by

  Snowbooks Ltd.

  120 Pentonville Road

  London

  N1 9JN

  www.snowbooks.com

  www.whitemagazine.org

  ISBN: 978-1-906727-048

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  www.snowbooks.com/georgemann

  Printed and bound in the UK by J F Print Ltd., Sparkford, Somerset

  Scanned By CrazyAl 2010

  Dedication

  For Emily May Irene Mann

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks, as ever, must be extended to Emma Barnes and Liz Gorinsky for continued support. Also to Gordon Fletcher for superb pedantry, and to Jonas Eyles and Craig Caithness for goading him in the pub (and for making me feel better about losing every round of golf to them both). Mark Hodder kept me busy with inspirational reading matter, and Michael Rowley and Mark Newton debated the meaning of life over a number of excellent curries. Lou Anders shared in all of the highs and lows. And Fiona, James and Emily put up with me spending long hours locked away in the study when I really should have been doing something else.

  About the Author

  George Mann is the author of The Affinity Bridge, Ghosts of Manhattan and The Human Abstract, as well as numerous short stories, novellas and an original Doctor Who audiobook. He has edited a number of anthologies including The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction, The Solaris Book of New Fantasy and a retrospective collection of Sexton Blake stories, Sexton Blake, Detective. He lives near Grantham with his wife, son and daughter.

  Chapter One

  London, February 1902

  George Purefoy was running late.

  The young reporter hurtled down the street, his notebook clutched tightly in his hand, dodging out of the way of the other pedestrians, who eyed him warily as he raced by like some crazed animal, pursued by an invisible pack of hounds. His sand-coloured hair stung his eyes where it whipped across his face in the driving wind. His dinner suit was crumpled and now, to top things off, it had started to rain. The biggest assignment of his career to date, and things had already started to go terribly wrong.

  Purefoy skipped around a red post box, narrowly missed colliding with an elderly gentleman in a top hat, and finally flung himself — at speed — around a bend in the road. There, in the distance, was Albion House, the home of Lord Henry Winthrop. The street outside the house was bathed in bright yellow light from the glare in the windows, and even from here, a good hundred feet away, the noise of the party spilled out to form a cacophony of chatter in the otherwise quiet London evening.

  Purefoy, catching his breath, slowed his pace to a steady walk. He attempted to regain his composure, smoothing his jacket and straightening his tie. Rain pattered lightly on his face. Other guests were still arriving at the big house, and whilst he was most definitely late, it didn't look to Purefoy like he had missed the main event. At least he hoped not: his career as a reporter depended on it.

  Purefoy had made his way here, across town from the office, for the society event of the year, to cover the return of the explorer and philanthropist Lord Henry Winthrop from his expedition to Egypt, and more, to attend the grand unveiling of his greatest find: the mummified remains of an ancient Theban king. There had been a great deal of fanfare about the success of the expedition over the last few weeks, accompanied by wild claims from Winthrop that the mummy was a unique specimen; found still, wrapped in its finery, it was said to bear strange markings that were unfamiliar to any of the experts he had consulted at the British Museum. It was the talk of London, and tonight, Winthrop planned to unwrap the bindings of the long-dead king before a select audience of guests.

  Much to the chagrin of his fellow reporters, Purefoy had been offered the assignment to cover the event for The Times, following the success of his recent piece about the revenant plague and the government conspiracy to hide the fact that it was still spreading unchecked through the London slums. He'd set off in plenty of time, of course, first picking out his best suit and selecting a brand new notebook from his pile. But then the ground train he was on had shuddered to a halt a few streets away, and word had spread throughout the carriages that a spooked horse had caused a cart to overturn, spilling its cargo of rags and bones across the tracks up ahead. Knowing that he didn't have much further to go, and sure that waiting for the engineers to clear the tracks would cause him to miss the party, he had taken matters into his own hands and instead set out on foot. Now, uncomfortable, damp and late, he was starting to wonder whether the assignment itself was actually more of a curse than the blessing it had at first appeared to be.

  Purefoy quickened his step and made his way along the street towards the party. Grand houses loomed over him from both sides of the wide street. This was a London as unfamiliar to him as the slums he usually found himself writing about. The people who lived in these enormous mansions moved in circles entirely outside of his experience, and he found himself feeling not a little nervous at the prospect of having to hold his own with a crowd of such gentlemen, lords and ladies. Nevertheless, he was certainly anxious to see what Lord Winthrop had brought back with him from the Middle East, and more specifically to bear witness to the unrolling of the Pharaoh himself.

  He stopped at the bottom of the steps to let a lady in a billowing, cream-coloured dress — who had just stepped out of a private carriage — enter the party before him. She offered him a gracious smile as he stepped to one side to allow her to pass. He eyed the butler by the front door as the man checked the lady's invitation and showed her inside. Judging by the standard of the servants, Purefoy was starting to feel a little underdressed. He checked his suit again, conscious that he was more than a little crumpled and damp. Sighing, he patted his pockets and located the invitation card. Then, warily, he mounted the steps and presented the card to the older, balding man, who looked Purefoy up and down and raised an eyebrow before examining the card he'd been handed. There was a brief pause.

  "Ah, yes sir. With the Times. Won't you come this way?" It was as if the man's entire demeanour had changed upon seeing the invitation. Purefoy gave him a quizzical look. He couldn't tell whether the butler had altered his previously haughty attitude because of his respect for the newspaper, or because, upon realising that Purefoy was a reporter, he had somehow lowered his expectations. Either way, he supposed it didn't matter all that much. He followed the butler in through the grand porch, which was impressively decorated with a series of stained-glass panels and Minton tiles, and stepped through the inner door that the butler held open for him on the other side. A moment later he was standing in the grand hallway, where the party was already in full swing.

  Purefoy gazed on in amazement. It was like nothing he'd seen before, in all of his life. An enormous staircase dominated the space, its sweeping banisters curving up to form a large gallery that looked down upon the bustling hall. Glass cabinets had been erected at regular intervals all around the tiled floor, filled with the most wondrous gilded treasures from the tomb of the mummified king. People milled around these cabinets, cooing appreciatively, drinks in hand, courting one another with sidelong glances and averted gazes. Purefoy almost laughed out loud. It was like every cliché he could have imagined, and more sumptuous and extravagant than even those. The women floated around in the most magnificent dresses of coloured si
lk, brandishing their drinks like weapons. The men looked austere in their formal attire, and clustered together in little groups, talking in hushed tones. This, Purefoy thought to himself, is all of London society, here together in one room. He didn't know whether to be giddy or appalled at the thought.

  Feeling a little lost, Purefoy cast around for anyone he recognised. There were faces he'd seen in portraits and photographs, but no one it would be proper for him to approach at a party, at least without a formal introduction. Up on the gallery, he noted Lord Winthrop himself was resting against the balustrade, surveying the scene below. He was sporting a wide grin. When he spotted Purefoy looking, he offered the reporter a little wave, and then pushed himself away from his perch and began making his way along the landing towards the stairs.

  Purefoy had met Lord Winthrop only once before, the prior week, when the lord had visited the offices of The Times to discuss an exclusive on the story with the editor. He seemed like a gregarious sort of chap, with a welcoming manner, but Purefoy was not so naive as to miss the fact that the only reason Winthrop was making a beeline towards him through the party was because his inflated ego compelled him to entertain the reporter who would be providing a write-up of his event for the morning edition. He smiled and held out his hand as the lord approached him, the other guests turning to see who their host had decided to grace with his presence.

  "Mr. Purefoy! A pleasure. Are you enjoying the party?" Lord Winthrop was a tall, stocky man with broad shoulders, a long, greying beard and a receding hairline. He carried his weight around his jowls and his waist, and his voice was friendly but with an overbearing boom.

  Purefoy smiled. "Alas, I've only this moment arrived. An accident in the road meant I had to finish my journey on foot. I trust I haven't missed the main event?"

  Winthrop patted Purefoy easily on the shoulder. "Not at all, my good man. Not at all. It's been four thousand years since the Theban was confined to his bandages. I'd say there is no imperative to rush, wouldn't you? Now, let's get you a drink..." Chuckling, Winthrop gestured towards the row of statues situated along the back wall, to either side of the huge staircase. Purefoy watched, fascinated, as one of the statues stepped down from its perch, collected a tray of drinks from a nearby table, and made its way jerkily towards them. Purefoy had assumed the statues were part of the display, items brought back from the expedition by Winthrop and his team. The one coming towards them looked every bit the part: a flawless, life-size replica of an Ancient Egyptian statue, replete with carved headdress and blank, staring eyes.

  Winthrop laughed when he saw the young reporter's expression. "Dear boy, haven't you seen one of these new Ottoman automaton devices?"

  Purefoy shook his head.

  "Why, they're all the rage. Much better than those terrible British things we had last year. No, these truly are wondrous machines. Look here." He waved at the device as it came closer, and Purefoy stood agape as Winthrop took a flute of champagne from the proffered tray. "Brass framework of unsightly cogs and things underneath, but a porcelain veneer over the top, designed to order. I had these ones made up in the style of the twelfth dynasty. Remarkable, aren't they? Just like living statues."

  Purefoy accepted the glass of champagne from Winthrop and took a long sip. "Indeed they are. Very impressive." He watched as the bizarre creation made its way back through the crowd, returned the tray to its place on the table and climbed back on to its pedestal beside its fellows. He studied it for a moment, unnerved by the manner in which it had so easily blended once again into the background, becoming nothing but another immobile exhibit. He repressed a shudder. Purefoy turned to Winthrop, who he realised had been talking at him for some time.

  "...and there is Lord and Lady Buchanan, talking to Sir David and his wife. Oh yes, and there's Sir Maurice Newbury, examining some of the ushabti idols in that glass cabinet over there. Yes, perfect, I should say. You should meet Sir Maurice right away. Come on. I'm sure he'd be delighted to meet a man from The Times."

  Winthrop led him through the crowds towards a man who was standing alone beside one of the glass cases, examining the items on display inside. The man was wearing a thoughtful expression and the glass of champagne he was clutching in his left hand appeared to be untouched. He looked up, distractedly, as Winthrop and Purefoy approached, and smiled when he recognised his host. He came out from behind the cabinet, giving Purefoy the opportunity to see him properly. He was dressed in a fitted black suit with white shirt and bow tie. His hair was jet black and swept back from his forehead, and his emerald eyes glittered above a hawkish nose. Purefoy guessed he was in his mid-thirties, but could have been older. He extended his hand and Winthrop took it firmly.

  "Lord Winthrop. A pleasure to see you again. I trust you are well, following your return from the Middle East?"

  Winthrop nodded vigorously. "Well enough, Sir Maurice, well enough. I see you've been admiring my little collection."

  "Indeed. Quite a find you had out there in the desert, Henry. I'm particularly intrigued by the markings on this series of four ushabti figures. They seem very unusual —" He stopped, suddenly, looking up to see Purefoy standing off to one side, sipping at his champagne. "Oh. How terribly impolite of me." He stepped over towards Purefoy and extended his hand. "Please, forgive me...?"

  "Purefoy. George Purefoy."

  "Please forgive me, Mr. Purefoy. It's just I get a little carried away when I find myself surrounded by such exquisite objects as these."

  Purefoy laughed at the man's obvious embarrassment. In truth, it was Lord Winthrop's faux pas for not introducing them, but Purefoy took it as a measure of the man that he accepted the error on himself. "Not at all, Sir Maurice. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  Winthrop clapped his hands together with a hearty laugh. "Capital! Maurice — Purefoy here is a reporter with The Times. He's going to be writing a piece about tonight's little soiree for the morning edition."

  Newbury offered Purefoy a sly, knowing grin. "Indeed? And have you decided yet how you intend to approach your piece?"

  Purefoy glanced awkwardly at Winthrop, who smiled at him expectantly. He cocked his head to one side in thought. "I don't believe I have, as yet. I think it rather hinges on the centrepiece." He paused, glancing around at the gathered crowd. "I'm sure it will be a spectacular revelation for us all."

  Winthrop stepped forward and clapped him — a little over-zealously — on the back. "Don't doubt it, dear boy! Don't doubt it for a minute. Now, I really must attend to Lady Worthington over there. She looks a little lost amongst the canopic jars. I'll leave you in the capable hands of Sir Maurice, here." He trailed off, his attention already across the other side of the room. Purefoy stepped aside to let him pass, and smiled as Winthrop's exasperated voice boomed loudly behind him. "Lady Worthington... Over here, my dear."

  Newbury leaned in towards Purefoy. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Lovely old chap, but quite lost in his own magnificence, if you know what I mean."

  Purefoy chuckled. "Precisely."

  "Of course," Newbury looked momentarily troubled, "you won't print that, will you?"

  Purefoy shook his head. "Indeed not, Sir Maurice. Your commentary is safe in my hands."

  Newbury laughed. "Excellent to hear it!" He sipped at his champagne. "Now, have they given you any notion about what's really going on in this room?"

  Purefoy frowned. "I'm not sure that I quite understand."

  Newbury grinned. "I'll take that as a no." He beckoned Purefoy forward. "Stand here for a minute. Tell me what you see."

  Perplexed, Purefoy edged forward until he was standing beside the glass cabinet that Newbury had been studying a few moments earlier. Newbury gestured to the crush of people. "Out there. What do you see?"

  "I see a crowd of people, all dressed in their finery, here to see the unrolling of a four-thousand-year-old mummy from Thebes."

  Newbury laughed again. "I thought that's what you'd say." "Why, what do you see?"


  "I see a crowd of people desperate to be seen, all dressed up for an ancient dead man. I see no one who is truly interested in whatever it is they'll find under those ancient bandages, or the items on display in the cases in this hallway. No one here gives a damn about Egypt or Winthrop's expedition. London society is nothing but a game, Mr. Purefoy, and a dismal one at that. It's about being seen, about showing one's face at the appropriate functions. That's why all of these people are here tonight, and that's precisely why Winthrop invited them. He likes the pomp."

  "Then why are you here, Sir Maurice, if you find it all so tiresome?"

  Newbury smiled. "Ah, now that's a question. I could tell you that I'm here because I have an academic interest in the subject. Or that I'm very much intrigued by the reports I've seen filed at the British Museum about the expedition and exactly what it is they found out there in the hot sands. Or even that I enjoy the thrill of seeing ancient artefacts uncovered for the first time in millennia. But in truth I'm sure I'm just as bad as the rest of them, here to drink my complimentary champagne and strut around before the gathered society commentators like a peacock."

  Purefoy chuckled. "Now I know you're telling the truth." Laughing, they both took another sip of their champagne. "Now, see those three chaps over there, standing together in a huddle?"

  Purefoy strained to see over Newbury's shoulder. "Ah, yes. I see." Three middle-aged men in top hats and black coats were standing by the doorway into the drawing room, gesticulating passionately, deep in the middle of what looked like a heated debate.

  "Well, their story is something entirely different. Those are the other members of Winthrop's expedition. They were the men who helped him pull all of these wonderful things out of the ground, and I'll wager they're about to help him unwrap the old priest, too."