George Mann - The Osiris Ritual

Those rooftops could lead him anywhere."

"Assuming he found what he wanted, of course." Newbury turned towards Purefoy. "How so?"

Purefoy gestured around the room, both of his arms outstretched. "Look at this place. He's turned the apartment upside-down looking for.. whatever it is that you think he's looking for. It could be I disturbed him before he found what he wanted." He shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps he'll return when he thinks it's safe. It depends very much on how much he needs what was here.

And, judging by the state of Blake, I'd say it seemed as if he needed it very much."

Newbury was impressed. "Good thinking, Purefoy. It's certainly a possibility." Newbury bent low and placed the letter-opener. neatly on the floor beside the body. He folded his handkerchief – which was now filthy with blood and coal – away into his trouser pocket. It wouldn't do to leave the murder weapon at the scene, wrapped in one of his personal, monogrammed items. Not that he feared the police would in any way consider him a suspect, but he didn't want to set them accidental y down the wrong path. He brushed himself down. "Come on, Purefoy. There's little else we can do here. We need to inform the police. Sir Charles and his men will be here like a shot." He turned and left the room, Purefoy following closely behind.

On the landing, Newbury stopped and looked back over his shoulder to ensure the reporter was following. "Before we take our leave I want to have a look at that rooftop, to see if Ashford left any traces behind in his haste." He ushered Purefoy out of the apartment and then clicked the door shut behind him, testing it to ensure it was secure. He didn't want any of the neighbours accidentally stumbling across such a terrible scene.

At the end of the landing, the window was open, just as Newbury had left it. A cold breeze was gusting in from outside. He could hear the sounds of distant traffic: horses, ground trains and carriages, all clattering along the busy thoroughfares of the city. Newbury brushed the netting aside and leaned out, taking another measure of the drop to the rooftop below.

"Here, hold this." Newbury slipped out of his topcoat and handed it to the reporter. Then, grasping hold of the edges of the wooden frame, he placed his knee on the windowsil and hauled himself up, propel ing himself through the opening and down to the roof below. He landed in a squat. Rising to his full height, he looked back to see Purefoy following suit. His topcoat was draped over the window frame. Newbury chuckled to himself. The young man was incorrigible. He supposed the coat would be lost, now, and he'd have to explain to Charles why it had been left behind at the scene. Thankful y, Newbury knew many of the inspectors at the Yard, and they in turn were aware of the services he had provided over the years in helping to bring a variety of criminals to justice.

Newbury regularly left traces of his presence behind him at crime scenes, but a mixture of police incompetence and Newbury's reputation meant that such matters were disregarded and he was seen as being above suspicion.

The light was fading now, and a wispy mist was beginning to settle on the rooftops. The moon was peeking out behind grey clouds: a bright, shimmering orb, hung low in the sky like a curious Chinese lantern. In the distance, airships soared lazily over the city. It was early evening, and soon enough the night would draw in. Newbury, feeling the bite of the cold, looked around, trying to spot any trace of the rogue agent. The roof terrace stretched away in both directions. It had once been grand, affording an admirable view of the urban spread of the capital, but it was clearly now in disuse. A row of large plant pots abutted the wall, the flowers inside them now choked by weeds and fumes from the steam engines that traversed the streets below. A small rail ran around the outer edges of the terrace, there, Newbury presumed, to prevent people from accidental y tumbling to their deaths. Two old wooden chairs, rotten through, had been abandoned in one corner, surrounded by the spent ends of expensive cigarettes that had been cast haphazardly from the window above. They were scattered, too, across the paving stones upon which Newbury now stood.

There were no signs that the terrace was ever used by the current inhabitants of the house.

Newbury, stooping low, examined the ground beneath the window, near to where he had landed. In the dusty mulch there was a clear footprint, where a large, booted foot had made an impression as its owner had dropped heavily from above.

Newbury moved to one side to al ow Purefoy to see. He pointed to the boot print. "There, look.

It's a fresh print. Someone definitely jumped down from this window, earlier this afternoon." He glanced surreptitiously at the reporter's shoes, just to be sure of his earlier judgement. Purefoy was wearing brogues, and his feet were at least two sizes smaller than of the man who had left the print.

Newbury smiled. Ashford, then. He had definitely come this way. Purefoy's story appeared to be credible. He could now, without doubt, place the rogue agent at the scene of Blake's murder. Not only that, but he was close to ruling out Purefoy's involvement in the matter. His instinct told him to trust the young man. He decided to, fol ow his gut.

Newbury scanned the surrounding rooftops. In the hazy light it was like a rich landscape, punctuated by innumerable chimneys, belching dark, foggy clouds into the sky. The horizon was like a microcosm of all of London: industrial buildings, terraces, slums and large mansions, all clustered together in an unlikely arrangement. Then, about two hundred yards away, on another, lower rooftop, Newbury saw his prey. Or rather, he saw two glowing, red pinpricks of light, emanating from where Ashford's eyes had once been. They were staring out – unwavering – from behind a large terracotta chimney pot. They were unmistakable, even in the fog and the gloom. The rest of the man was obscured by the shadows. "There he is!" Newbury exclaimed, pointing across to where the rogue agent was lurking.

Purefoy couldn't see. "What! Where?"

But Newbury wasn't waiting. He rushed to the edge of the terrace, looking across at the intervening gap between Arbury House and the building behind it. There was a gap of around six feet between the two rooftops, with no clear run-up, and only a small ledge on the other side of the iron railings from which to make the jump. Below, there was only darkness and swirling fog. If he missed his footing and pitched into that.. all that awaited him below was death, dashed across the uneven cobbles and lost amongst scattered piles of refuse and human waste.

He glanced back at the bizarre, red eyes of his enemy. They seemed to bore into him, urging him on. He had no time to consider. Grasping hold of the top of the railing, he swung one leg over, trying to avoid impaling himself on the rusty fleur-de-lys that crested the ironwork. He climbed down cautiously onto the ledge on the other side. There was little room to move, and his left foot slipped, causing him to grasp hold of the railing once again to maintain his balance. Crumbling brickwork shimmered down into the grey darkness. He didn't hear it strike the ground. His heart was hammering hard in his chest. He was sweating, too, feeling an intense, burning desire for the narcotic that sustained him. He gripped the railing, fighting the urge to climb back onto the relative safety of the roof behind him.

He heard Purefoy run over to stand beside him, on the other side of the railing. "Sir Maurice!

You're not going to.."

Newbury paid him no heed. If he thought too long about what he was about to do, he simply wouldn't do it. Keeping his head up, to avoid looking down at the sheer drop beneath him, Newbury examined the other rooftop. There was a smal, decorative stone lip that ran around the edge of the roof. At least, he mused, if he misjudged the jump, he'd have something to attempt to catch hold of.