George Mann - The Osiris Ritual

She kicked, testing the floor, and she noticed that there was something at her feet. She reached down, as best she could in the confined space. Cloth. Bundles of heavy cloth. She frowned in the darkness. And then, with rising panic, she realised what they were: the rags had been soaked with chloroform. There was no mistaking the sickly-sweet perfume of the drug. She didn't have long before the fumes would overwhelm her.

Something creaked beneath the box, and Veronica felt it judder. She fell awkwardly to one side.

The box began to move.

She could feel it rol ing downwards, further underground. It must have been on castors, triggered by the introduction of her weight. This was clearly the mechanism that Alfonso had used to cause the women to disappear during his act. The chloroform explained why the girls who were later freed were left dazed and disorientated. And the girls who weren't freed.. Veronica tried not to think of that.

She had no idea what to do. She was trapped beneath the stage, trapped in a narrow wooden box that was creeping inexorably towards an unknown destination, where Alfonso was likely waiting for her, his motives still unclear. This time, there was no one to save her. She cursed herself for not listening to Sir Maurice. Nobody knew she was there. She had to face facts. Her time was running out. If she didn't find a way out soon, she'd likely die in the casket, or worse. She cal ed out, knowing it was a useless endeavour. The only person there to hear her was her captor.

The floral scent of the chloroform became overbearing. Veronica felt her senses fogging. She knew she had to fight it, knew that whatever happened, she couldn't al ow herself to be overcome.

She had no idea what Alfonso may have in store for her if she did. She gasped for breath. But her fate, under the circumstances, was inevitable. The casket continued its slow descent.

Soon, darkness overcame her.

Newbury barrel ed around the corner of Blake's drawing room, ful y 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 fel ow, 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 real y 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 kil er 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 cal ed 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 fal, 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 wel being. 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 thoughtful y. "Did you touch the body?"

Purefoy shook his head resolutely. "No. Not at al. 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."