George Mann - The Osiris Ritual

"Ashford is.. not the man he once was," was all Newbury offered in reply. In truth, he still had no real notion of where the foul smell originated. He presumed it must have something to do with the dubious work that Dr. Fabian had carried out on the man.

Purefoy looked curious. "What did he want, with Winthrop and Blake? What is he looking for?"

Newbury was unsure how much to tel him. He hadn't yet decided to what degree the reporter was involved in the murders, and besides, for al Newbury's theorising, much of his information was nothing but supposition. "Something to do with the expedition. Something they found. It's al connected with that screaming mummy we saw back at Winthrop's party. There were secrets buried with that ancient priest. Secrets that Ashford appears anxious to get his hands on."

Purefoy nodded. "So what next?"

Newbury glanced down at the contorted cadaver on the floor. "Next we examine the body."

"Turn up that gas jet over there, Purefoy. It's too dark in here. Oh, and see if you can find some brandy."

Purefoy looked perplexed. "Do you intend to use it to clean the wound?"

Newbury looked up from the body. His face was serious.' "No. I intend to drink it." Purefoy chuckled and set about his tasks.

Newbury was kneeling by the corpse. It was a bloody mess. The man's throat had been entirely gouged out, ripped open with a blunt instrument, such as an old penknife or letter-opener. It was different from Winthrop's murder, executed with less finesse, but just as effective. Newbury was convinced that whoever had committed the murder had a hand in both deaths. The motivation was clearly the same: the victims had something the kil er wanted.

He walked through what he supposed had happened in his mind's eye. Winthrop had been grabbed from behind, his throat slashed rudely from right to left. His body had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor and left there to bleed out on the oil cloth. His formerly white dress shirt was now stained a deep crimson, and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, as if searching for an absent god. They were developing a milky, glazed appearance, and Newbury, shuddering, reached over and closed the lids with his fingertips. It was a dubious kind of rest, but Newbury could not stand the cold, accusing glare any longer. He couldn't help thinking that he should have somehow warned the man earlier. He resolved to take it up with Charles. The other members of the expedition had to be protected.

Newbury rocked back on his haunches. The problem, he mused, was not in identifying the nature of the killer, for he was already convinced that Ashford was the culprit, but in tracking the man. Ashford knew how to disappear. That much was clear to Newbury. His quarry had spent years living undercover in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. An agent could not live through an experience like that without gleaning at least a handful of new tricks. Even putting that to one side, Ashford had once been an agent for the British Crown, and as such, he had received at least the same measure of training as Newbury himself. If Ashford chose not to show his hand, Newbury knew that he could be in for a very long game of cat and mouse indeed.

He glanced over his shoulder, looking to the door. He hoped that brandy would come soon. His skin was starting to crawl and he was beginning to sweat: symptoms, he knew, of his addiction.

Hopefully, the alcohol would help to take the edge off, for a short while, at least. He listened out for Purefoy. He couldn't hear the boy. For a moment he almost panicked, thinking that he may have allowed Purefoy the perfect opportunity to slip away, but a moment later the reporter reappeared from the hallway, bearing a large tumbler and a wide grin. "Here you are, sir. I hope that helps take the edge off." Newbury looked at him suspiciously. He couldn't possibly know.. could he? Newbury accepted the glass, regardless. He didn't have time to concern himself with the matter.

Purefoy leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees and examining the corpse with inexpert eyes. "So, what of the body?"

Newbury followed his gaze. He could see no real harm in making Purefoy aware of the details.

He'd given the young man plenty of opportunities to trip himself up, and so far he had only managed to reward Newbury's faith in him. He was perceptive and inquisitive, and could prove to be a great asset in helping to bring Ashford to justice. He continued to stare at the body whilst he talked.

"Assuming that none of this is going to end up in the morning edition.." He paused, waiting for Purefoy to nod his agreement before continuing. He indicated Blake's devastated throat. "His throat has been cut from behind, the perpetrator using his left hand to slash from right to left. It was a brutal murder, and the killer showed no respect for his victim. Nevertheless, it was an efficient execution. Whoever it was wanted Blake dead, and he achieved that goal swiftly and without emotion. It's not unlike Lord Winthrop's death, in many respects, aside from the ceremony. The killer had time to place Winthrop's body where it would have maximum effect – a calling card, if you wil. Here, he had no such luxury and was forced to leave Blake's body where it fell." He took a long draw of his brandy, feeling the warmth of it spreading, most welcome, throughout his body. "I don't believe the killer came here specifically to murder Blake. I think Blake is almost irrelevant to the equation. The kil er – Ashford – wanted something that Blake had, and Blake, unfortunately, just found himself in the way."

Purefoy looked taken aback. "My God…"

Newbury empathised with the sentiment. "Quite. Quite so."

Newbury sunk another measure of his brandy, and then placed the empty glass on the mantelpiece. He glanced around. Items were strewn al over the place. He didn't know where to start. If Purefoy's testimony was to be believed, the reporter had disturbed Ashford mid-search, and whatever he was trying to find could stil be there, buried somewhere under the mess.

He leaned on the fire surround, considering his next move. The grate beneath was cold, well stocked with coal. But something about it struck a sharp note of discord. There! Buried in the coals to the far right of the grate was something small and metallic. He stooped closer to see. It was long and thin, the pommel and guard of a small silver blade. Purefoy moved round to stand beside him.

"What is it?"

Newbury smiled. "The murder weapon." He reached into his breast pocket and produced a white, monogrammed handkerchief. "The killer has abandoned the knife in the fireplace."

Purefoy crouched down to take a closer look. "Yes. Yes, you're right!"

Newbury pinched the handkerchief between his fingers and reached down, withdrawing the blade from where it jutted inconspicuously between the coals. It was covered in blood and gritty, black dust. It was about five inches long, from its tip to its hilt, and fashioned from fine silver.

Newbury turned it over in his hand and regarded it careful y. "It's an antique. A letter-opener." He glanced over at Blake's desk, but the leather writing surface was so buried in Ashford's mess that he was unable to tel if that was where it had come from. "I think Ashford must have simply grabbed the first thing to hand. It shows incredible resourcefulness. Not as though that's any consolation for poor old Blake, here."

"Do you think the police will find fingerprints? Something to help us confirm the identity of the killer?"

Newbury shrugged. "I don't suppose we wil, no. Ashford's too clever for that. And besides, he knows we're on to him. He'l have to try a different tactic, now. Fingerprints won't help us find him."

Newbury looked thoughtful. "I wonder where he was going when he bolted through that window?